THE WILD KINGDOM -- US 395 AT MANZANAR

THE LATE MARLON PERKINS, once director of the St Louis zoo, visited my next door neighbor a couple of times while I was growing up. Mr. Perkins directorship was not his claim to fame; rather, it was his association with Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom. Every week, we children of the sixties would rivet ourselves to our black and white TV sets, engrossed in natural tales of life and death in the Wild Kingdom. Almost to the point of comedic-ness, each quarter hour segment would end with a safari-suited Marlon Perkins intoning something like: “The Brewers Blackbird has only his combined ability for rapid flight and dive-bombing predators like Ford Falcons with poop to help him survive in the Wild Kingdom. As people, we can’t fly off into the air for protection, so we need protection from Mutual of Omaha.”

Hap Andrews, an independent agent, lived just down the street. By the time I was twelve, my folks had me covered for five grand.

I mention Marlon Perkins and the Wild Kingdom because one thing we never saw was a predator actually taking prey, crushing the smaller in the jaws of the larger and then rending its lifeless form into bloody chunks of breakfast. Too graphic for television’s then sensibilities.


THE WILD KINGDOM came to mind six weeks back while I was exploring the Manzanar Japanese Relocation Center in the Owens Valley. Afoot, I’d taken to walking through sand and greasewood and one hundred degree heat exploring the far reaches of the enclave; places not visited by those touring in air conditioned Nissans and Toyotas and Hondas – all imports from Japan. Ironic, ain’t it?

Returning at mid-day the mile-and-a-half from the cemetery near the old Victory Garden, a small storm of dust catches my eye. It moves rapidly into my vision from left to right, the source of which was obscured by sage and mesquite. My attention arrested, I note a tinier dust devil racing in front of the larger one. Amidst it, a panicked squeak. Repeated. Squeak. Squeak. Squeaksqueak!

The larger draws closer to the smaller and, in moments, the dust explodes with a tiny, shrill shriek.


BACK HOME there are two dogs. Jax, the senior Aussie mix, enjoyed a storybook life until Edward, the junior, a Lab mix, brought this paradise to a reality-based halt. In the back yard, Jax may claim the red rubber ball or the Nyla-bone or the Kong, but the persistence of the interloper always leads to fisticuffs and, ultimately, the little black lab trots away with his smiling mouth clutching whatever the prize was. Jax eyes Edward ruefully as Edward looks over his shoulder, victorious, as if to say, “Look what I have.”

Such is life in the Wild Kingdom, I always say, running my fingers deep into Jaxie’s thick shoulder fur.


IN MOMENTS, trotting out of the dust cloud, a dusky-grey coyote, no bigger than Edward, proud and tall, clutches the hapless gerbil or squirrel or bunny in his iron-like jaws. He trots light and victorious, looking over his shoulder. The predator spots me and freezes.  He eyes me in much the same manner as our Lab eyes our crestfallen Aussie - tauntingly - as if to say: “Look what I have.”

Such is life, I think, followed by: I must find out what happened to that little life policy.

© 2010
Church of the Open Road Press

PHOTO ESSAY OF THE MANZANAR RELOCATION CAMP

IT IS AUGUST OF 2010.  In an effort to escape the hyperbole and extremism of the mid-term elections, I decided to check something off my "bucket list" with a quick trip to the east side of the Sierra Nevada and a visit to the War Relocation Center at Manzanar in the Owens Valley. My desire for this pilgrimage grows from the fact that I have made acquaintance of several individuals of Japanese descent who were interned here or at Tule Lake up north or Camp Poston in Arizona.


THE NATIONAL PARK SERVICE has done an outstanding job in recreating life for Japanese American citizens during WWII. This is what 10,121 Americans saw as they were relocated to this desolate land east of the Sierra. Some felt it was their duty as a part of the war effort.

A RECONSTRUCTED BARRACKS, sheathed in tarpaper. Photographs from the era indicate the barracks were whitewashed. I toured in 100 degree heat and can easily imagine the conditions. I chose to leave after three hours. The internees stayed for more than three years.

Hundreds of these tarpaper barracks lined a grid of over 14 miles of streets inside this 5415 acre property. Recall that a square mile has 640 acres.

THE MESS HALL where thousands ate three meals daily.

 This room teamed with folks from before dawn until after dark. “Hurry up and eat your hot white rice topped with cold Jello.”

MANZANAR is a derivative of the Spanish word for apple. Some 65 years after having been planted, this orchard remains a testament to the hard work of those who farmed this "Land of Little Rain." Apologies to Mary Austin.

THE INTERNEES BUILT GARDENS and fountains utilizing waters that flowed from the east face of the Sierra. Now dry, it doesn't take much to imagine how folks attempted to make something beautiful where something beautiful hadn't existed before.

Pool in Merritt Park, Manzanar War Relocation Center; Ansel Adams Photograph © 1943

In the movie "The Great Escape," Captain Hilts (the Cooler King), Steve McQueen's character, having been returned to confinement, immediately begins bouncing a baseball for a game of solitary catch. The German guard hesitates for only a moment, but conveys that, "We may win the battle, but we will not defeat you." These gardens and parks convey the same message. Only this time, it is the American guard who must realize the message.

MT WILLIAMSON towers 14,389 feet in the background. One can only surmise what these folks must have dreamed about as they looked westward to the high Sierra.

150 CITIZENS DIED here over the course of the camp's existence. Some were initially buried here then removed and reburied by family in their home communities. Most, however, were cremated. One's ashes were scattered on the flanks of Mt. Williamson to the rear of the photo. Fifteen graves remain.

Baby Jerry Ogata.

 SURROUNDED BY BARBED WIRE and guarded from on high, our fellow Americans stayed put. Their only “crime?” Being or being related to immigrants from Japan.

One woman, whose son was released because he promised to enlist, received his Congressional Medal of Honor here, behind the fence. Her son sacrificed his life by falling on a grenade in the European Theater.






All told, about 120,000 Americans were “detained” during the war years from 1943 through 1946. During his presidency, Ronald Reagan signed a reconciliation act offering compensation to 60,000 surviving internees. He stated there would be no good to come from blame, but, “it was a mistake. One we should not repeat.”

 A REMNANT from how many decades back, now choked in sage and creosote. An artifact easy to overlook. Likewise, the Manzanar Encampment as one zooms past on US 395.



 THE CONSTITUTION OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA is only as strong as the first element we choose to compromise in favor of political expediency. 

RESOURCES:

The Essential Mary Austin, (2006), Heyday Books. Includes, in its entirety, Mrs. Austin’s Land of Little Rain (1903) wherein she offers vivid descriptions of life and death in the natural community that would become the Owens Valley.

Farewell to Manzanar, (1973, 2006), Laurel Leaf. Jeanne Wakasuki Houston recounts life in camp in this young-adult level memoir co-written with husband James.

www.nps.gov/archive/manz/siteindex.htm: The National Park Service provides an archive of photographs and print media accessible on line. Original documents may be found at the Manzanar Interpretive Center on site five miles south of Independence, CA on US 395.