We moved to the Carroll Park house in 1954

 

 

It was a nice house for us.  Big yard but we didn’t have to mow the lawn.  We had a Japanese gardener.  His name was Kaz.  Dark skin.  His hands looked tight and smooth, like dark leather.  That’s what I remember about him most, his hands.

 

As a single-digit boy, I used to follow Kaz around and talk to him.  I remember him being pleasant enough, but he didn’t say much.  Never volunteered anything.  Answered questions but never asked them.  I guess he wouldn’t make a lot of conversation with an 8 or 9 year-old boy though.

 

The time I’m remembering was less than 10 years after World War II, and now it occurs to me to wonder if being a Japanese gardener is what Kaz aspired to.  Had he always been a Japanese gardener or is there a chance he got stuck into a stereotype.  Did he used to do something else before the war and that option was no longer available to him, and he quietly filled the role that was still accessible.  So many stories and possibilities of other people’s lives that we’ll never know.