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I was discussing with some strangers the other day, about my ambivalence of holidays like Memorial Day. Even as a youngster, it felt more like an Irish Wake than a full blown celebration.

I discussed about how some holidays are marked by utter joy, while others are marked by a solemn nod to the sacrifice of others so we might laugh and play and love.

The following is a short story based on a conversation I had with my late stepdad, Thomas Watanuki, about his experiences from the coastal hills of Orange County, to the Concentration Camps in Montana and Utah, to the march on Messina. A sad postscript, Thomas' elderly father died in Camp while Thomas was overseas...

Thomas Watanuki
26 April 1923 - 27 July 2012

The Four Forty Second

by

Justice Putnam

"A Jap's a Jap. It makes no difference whether he is an American citizen or not. I don't want any of them . Racial affiliations are not severed by migration. The Japanese race is an enemy race and while many second - and third-generation Japanese born on United States soil, possessed of United States citizenship, have become 'Americanized,' the racial strains are undiluted."

-- Lieutenant General John L. DeWitt

"It was a time when some of us had to take extraordinary steps when our Constitution did not require it, to prove to our neighbors that we were worthy of being called Americans. The price was very heavy. There was much blood that had to be shed. But looking back, I can say with pride that I was part of it."

-- Senator Daniel Inouye

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Thomas Matsui hadn't slept for almost 46 hours. The Italians had long stopped the fight, but the Nazis kept at it. Mortar shells exploded nearby with a frightening consistency. The rocky Italian hillside bucked and rolled with each explosion.

Battle has an uncanny affect on a soldier; it becomes a kind of tedium. The first month of a soldier's battle is the worst, it all being so new. The mortality rate is highest during that first month. After six months, with bombs exploding around the battlement, a soldier will daydream.

Thomas Matsui thought of his family's orange and avocado orchards rustling in the warm coastal breeze. He thought of the smell of his mother cooking rice in the farmhouse just above Pacific Coast Highway near Balboa. He conjured his father in the workshop, standing at the grinding wheel, sharpening the tools.

Those were daydreams that made the tedium of battle tolerable. But Thomas Matsui had other daydreams that were not so idyllic.

He saw his parents crestfallen from the notice tacked on the farmhouse. Civilian Exclusion Order Number 33 gave only two days to sell the farm before the Military evacuated them to the camp in Montana. He remembered the offer that came from The Irvine Company later that day. Mere pennies on the dollar for what the farm was worth.

He remembered the drive to the Civilian Control Station in Los Angeles, his mother crying the whole thirty miles. Twenty years growing avocados and oranges; all gone in a day. Twenty years and all the possessions acquired; gone in a day. Only allowed bedding and linens, some kitchen utensils and clothes; twenty years of Thomas Matsui's life was spent on that farm. He was born there. It was lost in a day.

The Nazis increased the frequency of the mortar attack and shook Thomas Matsui out of his reverie. He knew Marines on the other end of the hillside were getting the brunt of the bombing. The Four Forty Second though, were well hid and dug in. Soon the bombing would cease and the real battle would commence. There would be no time to daydream then.

Thomas Matsui chuckled at the memory of the military recruiter who came to his camp that Thursday in June. How fresh-faced and upright he was; the perfect embodiment of American righteousness. Thomas and his family had been at the camp for a month and life was a brutal series of bad weather and racist guards. The chance to escape that prison, with the hopeful promise of making his parent's life easier was too great to pass up. If he fought hard and patriotically, maybe the war would end sooner and his parents would no longer be incarcerated.

But the farm and all they had was lost. No, not really lost; in effect stolen. But that did not matter any longer. He wanted this war to end so his parents would not suffer any more.

The mortar attack suddenly stopped. Thomas Matsui shouldered his rifle and aimed down the hillside.

The real battle was about to begin.

© 2006 by Justice Putnam
and Mechanisches-Strophe Verlagswesen

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(12-String Ovation Balladeer Astoria, Oregon / copyright Justice Putnam)

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Justice Putnam Self-Portrait / copyright Justice Putnam

The After Show with Wink and Justice broadcasts 9am to 10am Pacific on Metaphor Mondays, Wednesday's Child is Full of Whoa! Wednesdays, Thank God It's Giovedì (that's what we call it) and Angle of Repose Fridays

Who luvs ya, baby!?

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Don't forget to tune in to The Justice Department: Musique sans Frontieres, Sundays 8pm to 9pm Pacific and Mondays 9pm to Midnight Pacific.

Special Agent DJ Justice; Radio Host and Program Director for Netroots Radio mans the dials, spins the discs, warbles the woofers, puts a slip in your hip and a trip to your hop.

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Voices and Soul appears on Black Kos Tuesday's Chile; poetry chosen and critiqued by Black Kos Poetry Editor Justice Putnam.

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(Cut Stones and Arch St Ceneri, France / copyright Justice Putnam)

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Question: Who is your audience? What are you here for?

Answer: Tribal Alliances, Heart-felt Convictions, Passionate Reason, Random Abandon, Sustainable Civility and a kiss; to comfort the sad and the mad Ones; the Ones roaming the International section of the American Supermarket at night; or roaming the neglected streets looking for an angry malaprop to sink their teeth into; the Ones who seek without seeking and learn as much as they teach; the Ones who embrace and kiss and embrace again; the Ones who sing the song of the city and the ballads of the forest; the Ones who chant the rhythm of the sea and hum the melody of the desert; the Ones who sing the prayer of Her name and Her name is the World. Yes, those are the Ones.    -- JP

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(Man, Girl and Broken Window Klamath Falls, Oregon / copyright Justice Putnam)

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Okiciyap (we help) is a 501(c)(3) non-profit organization, your donation should be tax deductible. Okiciyap, located on the Cheyenne River Reservation in South Dakota, is working to provide a food pantry, youth center, K-12 educational support, GED & Lakota as a 2nd language class support for youth and adults. The word Okiciyap is Lakota for "we help."

The Daily Kos Fundraising for Okiciyap group was formed to support the pantry. More information is available at the Okiciyap diaries published here at Daily Kos.

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So that explains it... !

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Sunlight and Water Pitcher Muir Beach / copyright Justice Putnam

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... Or does it?

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(Holy Bible and 3 in 1 Oil Berkeley, California / copyright Justice Putnam)

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(Rail Road Crossing, Sonoma California / copyright Justice Putnam)

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(Farm Road and Running Fence, Olema, California / copyright Justice Putnam)

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"Many heroes lived before Agamemnon, but they are all unmourned, and consigned to oblivion, because they had no bard to sing their praises."

 -- Horace

"Still the race of hero spirits pass the lamp from hand to hand."

-- Charles Kingsley

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Lamp and Post Berkeley, California - copyright Justice Putnam photo LampandPostBerkeleyCalifornia-copyrightJusticePutnam_zps17e491e0.jpg

(Lamp and Post Berkeley, California / copyright Justice Putnam)
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Simonides of Ios

by

Justice Putnam

On the fields of Marathon
Lay the withering
Brave

Farmers and boys
In a flowering
Grave

(Markris Yialos—Crete, Greece)

from: "The Nature of Poetics Collapsed Outside My Window"

© 2006 by Justice Putnam
and Mechanisches-Strophe Verlagswesen

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(Field of Tournesol Normandy, France / copyright Justice Putnam)

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Rest in Peace Aaron Swartz

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(Morning Fog And Surf, Muir Beach, California / copyright Justice Putnam)

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