This morning we found ourselves in the middle of a lights-flashing police cruiser and fire engine escort, winding down the canyon road and out onto the Pacific Coast Highway toward Brentwood and Leslie Sacks.
Reverend Georgiana Rodiger led a prayer and blessed the cross with holy water from the Jordan River. (Yes, that Jordan River.) Jon offered his thoughts, expressing his hope that everyone who looks upon this cross will reflect on their own lives and think of their place in a world that is much bigger than any of us.
I read the names of the firefighters stenciled in gray on the backs of their heavy yellow turnout gear. One of the men, white-haired and tanned, with weathered skin and deep eyes, was named Yamashiro.
Afterward we got to talking, and I found out that years ago his parents had emigrated from Japan and settled in Hawaii where they grew pineapples and sugar cane for a living. He knew a few people back in Japan, though he didn’t visit much. I wondered if he’d felt more affected by Japan’s disaster of a couple months prior than he had in the aftermath of 9-11. He was in the unusual position of being in the middle of the two disasters, both geographically and in terms of his past and present heritage.
I didn’t broach the subject. It didn’t really matter. I wanted to know more about the trip his parents had taken, leaving their country to start something new in a place far from home.
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