An Oral History of Seattle Japanese Garden, Story No. 2: Sacrifice and Simplicity
This post is the second of the Toro no Akari blog series, an oral history of the Seattle Japanese Garden as told from the perspective of those who know its every inch most intimately: the gardeners. The series reveals a little-known history of stewardship and mentoring—of alighting each other’s paths as a toro lantern would—that’s continued for over sixty years.
In this interview, we hear from Mark Akai, who contributed his innumerable skills to the garden over a fifty-year span—including as an advisory board member. He reflects on how his personal relationships shaped his career, which, in turn, shaped the garden itself. The conversation has been edited for length and clarity.
Dick Yamasaki, Juki Iida, Mickey Hibi, Mark Akai. 1972. (Photo courtesy of the Elisabeth C. Miller Library, University of Washington Botanic Gardens)
My First Time in The Garden
I started out on the crew as a teenager. One day, I asked Dick about some pruners to cut things. “Okay, I'll give you pruners,” he said. “You can use them once you pick up after everybody cutting.”
Well, needless to say, for the first several years, I never cut a single branch or anything with a pair of pruners. They were in my pocket the entire time.
My father and Dick’s dad were raised in Seattle; they eventually shared ownership of three different hotels here in Seattle. Which, of course, changed during the internment process.
Before the construction began, Dick asked my dad about working here in the garden. My dad said, “Take the job; it's worth it; you may have good or bad come out of it. But that's life.”
You see, Bill Yorozu, who was to be the general contractor for the garden build, was indirectly related to his wife Fumi—whom my father introduced to Dick back in 1935—and let’s just say there was contention.
My father, a U.S. military linguist, was an influential man. Soon after, Dick overcame his hesitation and began a lifelong relationship with the garden. When the military transferred our family to Japan, we visited many gardens, introducing me to a lifetime of involvement with the military—and gardening.
The Fateful Walkthrough
Juki Iida returns to Seattle in 1972 (Photo courtesy of the Elisabeth C. Miller Library, University of Washington Botanic Gardens)
Back in 1972, I think it was, Professor Iida came back to Seattle, and we walked through the garden. While he and Dick (Yamasaki, the longtime consultant) spoke in Japanese, I followed them around carrying the recorder. My job was to ensure they had a recording of the talk in the garden.
We started from the front entry and walked along the shoreline. Things are mentioned of the original path, which didn’t get installed, and why much of this work or that project hadn’t been done because there was no money.
“Both men assumed Professor Iida assumed he would be back every year for several years to build the garden. And that won’t be the end of all construction, either. But things worked out very differently.”
Professor Iida looks at the stones and says he did this stone setting back when they built the garden. That was more than a decade earlier. They did the initial build in something like six or seven months. Both men assumed Professor Iida assumed he would be back every year for several years to build the garden. And that won't be the end of all construction, either. But things worked out very differently.
Sometime during that walk, Professor Iida shifted his tone. He went up to different pine trees and maple trees and showed Dick how to get these to spread out more and how to prune differently. In those years, we didn't have access to the proper Japanese scissors that we do now. All the American-made pruners in those days were anvil pruners, which would destroy things.
So what we used to prune the way Professor Iida showed Dick was a Victoria Knox grafting knife. Yes, a knife made by the Swiss Army Knife company. It’s good we can laugh about it now. This is one of many creative responses to the struggle to maintain the Japanese Garden over the years that most people do not know about.
Dick Yamasaki’s Personal Sacrifices
Before this visit, Dick had begun coming in on his own time. I remember the first year I was there; it was 1972. He paid us, the crew, but he didn't get one dollar from the University of Washington, Unit 86, or any of the groups.
Professor Iida was very perturbed about the state of maintenance. Dick held his tongue, but eventually, he had to say, “This is not under my control. It’s up to the University of Washington now.”
From that point on, it was a whole decade of Dick coming in with a crew just on his own volition.
And it took until the end of his time as the consultant, well into the 1980s, before he was offered an honorary membership in Unit 86—a remnant of the discriminatory by-laws in place at the Unit’s inception, I imagine.
When The Student Became The Teacher
In 1989 or so, Jim Thomas became the head gardener. Dick told Jim, “I'm gonna send Mark; he could teach you everything he knows. And we'll go for a couple of weeks.” But I came into the garden to teach the entire wintertime.
Jim didn't start out as a gardener. He started out as a teacher. And as a student teacher, he was at Ballard High School, where I was a sophomore. Our paths first crossed back then, and now here I was.
One of the reasons that Dick chose me to do the training was because Dick was slanted—to say it nicely—against Caucasians. It’s understandable when you realize he and his family lost everything during the internment. They had greenhouses. Everything was destroyed. All their vehicles were destroyed. They eventually got their land back in their house, but that's only because the neighbor took a risk and cared for it in their absence.
“You have to think of not today, but what it’s going to be five years from today; you have to really envision it.”
And so, I think that's one of the reasons Dick chose me, who was also new enough not to have bad habits I could pass on, to do the training. Dick had also seen how well Jim listened at this point, too, so the investment of time must have seemed worthwhile.
Jim was a very fast learner. I showed him everything I knew about pruning. He came in with an understanding of the nursery stock and how things grew. Jim could look at a plant, see how it is today, and imagine how it would turn out differently in the future depending on what stuff you leave in.
“The key thing I learned from the little bit I was was with Professor Iida and with Dick,” I said, “was that you have to think of not today, but what it’s going to be five years from today; you have to really envision it.” Jim did a great job of this.
Starting with this training, I think Jim turned Dick around quite a bit. And it goes beyond gardening. Jim’s thoughtfulness taught Dick a new way of thinking about everything.
What’s Little Known About Japanese Gardens
Japanese Gardens look fantastic even when older and in slight disrepair when the framework is there. The feeling you get when you’re in these gardens is incredible. And it seems so simple. But offering this experience requires an enormous amount of effort.
It takes a lot out of a person to make gardens simple.
My colleague Stuart Burns told me he was once hired to clean moss. That was his job eight hours a day. And you know that that takes dedication. The same goes for maintaining this garden: simplicity is high-maintenance. Professor Iida mentioned in 1972 the importance of maintaining the first three to five feet from the path's edge. Visitors can still see simplicity; their imagination can extend into the spaces beyond, which you’ll care for when you can.
“It takes a lot out of a person to make gardens simple.”
Again, that seems like such simple advice. But it takes many years of training and deep dedication to respond to constant change and fluctuating resources. This is one of the most misunderstood aspects of a “great” Japanese garden.
Visit the Oral History Page for other interviews.