Don Wakamatsu's grandparents' story puts new spin on life, baseball

HOOD RIVER, Ore. — Ruth Wakamatsu stands in the middle of a fruit orchard and giggles through old stories. She is 91 but could pass for 75, except for a slow gait. Her mouth defies her body's aches, however. She's as gabby as a play-by-play announcer.

She points at various trees and remembers how her grandson, Don, now the Mariners' rookie manager, used to pick them and munch on apples, cherries, pears and peaches.

"He used to like to eat a lot!" the grandmother says, laughing.

She motions to follow her toward the house — "an old, junky house," she cautions — one so frail you fear a good gust from this windy town could make it fly toward snow-capped Mount Hood standing in the distance. Moss covers its roof. It has age-stained, white hardboard siding that turns darker and dirtier each day. It lies sequestered in this 12-acre orchard, resting on a hill above the river, seemingly playing hide-and-seek from the world.

The most dramatic thing you can say about it is fittingly modest: It's theirs. Ponder what James and Ruth Wakamatsu survived, however, and you realize the victory of simple living.

They didn't so much buy their house as they willed themselves to own it. Ruth folds the Mariners blanket that her deaf, 93-year-old husband uses to stay warm, and mentions that the family lived in a shed 20 feet away until they could afford to build their three-bedroom, one-bathroom home. Then, as casually as possible, she points at two living-room walls and reveals the most stunning aspect of this old, junky house.

"Those two," she says, right index finger wagging, "they're the ones."

They're the walls made from the lumber of an internment camp's barracks. They're the walls that imprisoned Japanese families from 1942 to 1945. They're the walls that gave the Wakamatsus shelter once they were free.

And now, more than 60 years later, their grandson is the first Asian-American manager in major-league baseball.

How poetic. How profound.

How insignificant?

"I think we just looked at it as a piece of lumber cheap enough to build a place to live," Ruth says, shrugging. "My husband had to build it himself. He couldn't afford a carpenter."

Breaking the silence

Don Wakamatsu always loved visiting his grandparents. As children, he and his brother, Jeff, zipped through the property on a four-wheeler. On hot summer days, they would sneak into the shed, climb into the chest freezer and search for ice cream.

Don was born in Hood River, and though his parents moved the family to Hayward, Calif., he considers it home. Even now, at 46, he visits during the offseason to see his grandparents and go fishing.

In recent years, he's added another objective for his trips: to learn who he is.

He understands the basics. His folks taught him to appreciate his diverse heritage. His father, Leland, is the son of James and Ruth. His mother, Sandra, is Irish. Leland and Sandra were high-school sweethearts and lived four miles apart in the hilly town of about 6,000 near the Columbia Gorge.

The parents taught their son the family's two greatest traits: hard work and humility. Leland was an ironworker; Sandra was a dental assistant. They followed the example of James, who worked in a hardboard mill, and Ruth, who worked at a fruit-packing plant. Considering the long hours of labor his family logged, it's not surprising that Don became known for arriving at the ballpark at 5 a.m. during spring training.

As a kid, Don relished the opportunity to roam between the two dissimilar households of his Japanese and Irish grandparents.

"I'd eat rice at one house and bacon and eggs at the other," he recalled, laughing.

He never felt different. He turned his multicultural upbringing into an asset, displaying a rare ability to relate to everyone. Besides being a great athlete with professional baseball aspirations, Don had a reputation as the friendliest guy in the room.

"He's been that way all his life," said his father, Leland. "Even when he was a boy, he'd love to be around old people and talk up a storm."

The family never discussed their internment along with other Japanese Americans during World War II. Leland's parents didn't bring it up to him, so he didn't bring it up to his children. The silence ended sometime in the late 1980s when a 20-something Don observed his father's reaction to opening a government check.

Leland, who was born in the Tule Lake internment camp in California, realized it was a reparations check. He flipped it to the side and muttered something in disgust. It piqued Don's curiosity.

"If you didn't live it, you have to do some digging to find out what happened," Don said. "I didn't learn about internment in history class, that's for sure."

Still, he tiptoed around the topic until about five years ago. He befriended baseball historian Kerry Nakagawa and learned about Japanese Americans who played baseball in the internment camps.

Don knew his education wouldn't be complete until he questioned his grandparents about it.

So he cornered his grandmother two years ago. After a few hours of listening, he left with anger, pride and compassion coursing through him.

"I still don't know why"

Ruth sits on the couch and wrestles with the past. James lounges on a recliner about five feet away, watching "The Sopranos" on television, reading the captions and dozing off at times. In awkward moments of our conversation, we gaze at the screen and grin through the silence.

It must've been a similar experience for Don.

There's no easy way to discuss oppression. It's an enduring, penetrating humiliation. Ruth can flash through the memories without much trouble, but ask her about emotions, and she tightens up. She watches TV. She laughs. She asks if you want more tea.

"I still don't know why they evacuated us," she says softly. "None of the explanations make a whole lot of sense."

In 1942, during World War II, the Wakamatsus were kidnapped from their Hood River home, put on a train downtown and shipped to a camp in Portland. The crime: being Japanese. They were among the more than 100,000 Japanese Americans detained after the attack on Pearl Harbor.

It began a three-year vagabond voyage. From Portland, they went to California. From California, they went to Arkansas. From Arkansas, they went to Colorado.

Ruth sits next to her daughter, Judy Wols, as she recounts the terrifying time. Judy was 2 when they were interned.

"We were given a cot and an army blanket for each one in the family," Ruth says. "There were potbelly stoves in the middle of the place. Every time the bell rang, we knew we could go to the mess hall to have our meals."

She remembers the barbed-wire fences and the guards who spied on them from a tower. She remembers the crammed shower room and the shoddy dentistry.

"The only thing the dentist did was pull teeth," she says. "They never did fillings or anything. If you needed some major dental work, you weren't going to get it."

For a while, Ruth washed dishes to make $12 a month and help the family afford snacks and meals in the mess hall. James worked as a carpenter. Ask Judy if she can recall anything from that era, and she shakes her head no.

"It was not a place for kids," Ruth said. "No place to play. Just barracks."

Counting the extended family, nine family members were interned. When they were released in 1945, some of them stayed in Colorado. James and Ruth were eager to take their kids back to Hood River. Ruth had lived there her whole life. James was from Orting in Pierce County, the place his parents settled after leaving Japan, but they moved to Hood River soon after.

After internment, they wanted to return to their home. Only it wasn't theirs anymore. Their property had been leased to another family. So they stayed with a friend, in a picker's cabin, and picked apples for a year until their land was given back. That complication was merely the tip of their strife.

"It's kind of hard to talk about because the Caucasian people didn't want us to come back," Ruth said. "My sister-in-law and I went shopping downtown, got a cart, filled it up with food, and a man said, 'We're not trading with you.'

"There was no place to get a haircut. We did all of our hair-cutting for the men at home. The Caucasians didn't want us to come back to Hood River, really."

It was the worst time of their lives, only Ruth minimized it. To this day, she's unwilling to succumb to all the pain.

"Not too bad," she says of the 1940s. "We had some real nice friends."

"It brings pride to you"

Don remains amazed at what his family survived. After that talk with his grandmother, he sifted through some old photos from that period and took them back to his home in Texas. He wants to ensure the memories, no matter how painful, last.

He never wants to forget the lessons he's learned from their struggle: the true meaning of toughness, the strength required to persist in life, the ability to forgive.

"It's a phenomenal legacy," he said. "It brings pride to you. They're such hardworking people who saved their money and lived the same lives, really, that they would have despite the living conditions and uncertainty they endured for three years. It teaches you to not take things for granted and to earn your keep.

"What they went through, it's like being in prison. Maybe even a prison sentence would've been better. At least you know when you're going to get to leave. They didn't know when or if they'd ever get to go home again."

For many first-time major-league managers, the pressure of representing something greater would be overwhelming. The job is hard enough. They would stuff the "first Asian-American skipper" label into a corner and declare their preference to simply be like any other manager.

Not Don. He wants to be both a baseball man and a symbol.

"When he tried to become a professional player, I don't think it was as easy as it is now," said his mother, Sandra. "Many years ago, someone told him he would only be successful if he changed his last name."

He didn't change it, of course. Now, there's a Wakamatsu right next to Piniella, La Russa, Torre and the rest of the more common last names of managers.

More than that, however, Wakamatsu has a platform to educate others about internment. The first students: his three children.

"They're the haves," he said. "They get all the iPods and cellphones and flat-screen TVs. They probably don't get told 'no' enough. But the haves need to have some awareness. They need to know life isn't always full of luxury and fun."

A celebrity in Seattle

Back in Hood River, Ruth says proudly that she has been married to James for 68 years. She never imagined there would be a day when one of their kin became a celebrity. She knew Don was a good ballplayer and had become a promising coach, but to think of him leading a big-league team — wow.

She goes back to when Don was 10, and he got into a huge argument with his brother, Jeff. His mother warned him that she would tell his dad about the fight. Frightened, Don rode off on his bicycle. The family lived in Hazel Dell in Clark County, at the time, and Don was intent on escaping to Hood River, about 70 miles away.

He made it about halfway, to Multnomah Falls, Ore., before the police saw him riding without a light and picked him up.

"He doesn't like us telling that story," Ruth says. "He said it's embarrassing. It makes me laugh. He was just a kid."

The boy who ran through their orchard, picking fruit off their trees, is now charged with rebuilding the Mariners.

Leland, their son, called a few months ago with some good news: He and Sandra were planning to fly from California to Hood River and escort the grandparents to Safeco Field for the Mariners' home opener April 14.

"I told him that, by that time, we weren't going to be able to walk," Ruth says.

Once again, there's Ruth, hiding her emotions with self-deprecation. Nevertheless, that special day is nearing. Her grandson manages his first official game Monday. Eight days later, they will see him at his new home, a massive ballpark containing a diverse team.

"Ohhh, I really hope we don't have to walk too far," Ruth says.

The new Mariners manager should be able to handle the request. After all, his triumph wouldn't be possible without his family's example.

Jerry Brewer: 206-464-2277 or jbrewer@seattletimes.com