When it was our time, my mother and I left on the bus to Delta with only Grandpa and Grandma, who came to see us off and would be joining us in Berkeley later. We left with little more than we came with–three suitcases and two crates2 which were shipped to Berkeley. We stopped in Salt Lake City and my mother bought us a real steak dinner at Beau Brummel’s. The waiter let us share a dinner and threw in extra sides and a dessert, too. His kindness began a wonderful transition from camp to civilian life.
I remember the train ride past the Great Salt Lake, the Salt Flats, and then the endless desert of western Utah and Nevada. I spent my time sitting next to my mother just looking at the scenes go by. We were in a car filled with ordinary Americans and not a train with covered windows and only Japanese American families traveling into the unknown.
I think of Alistair Cooke, an English journalist, describing his first train ride in America as the endless fields of corn stretching to the horizon as far as one could see. It was forever, and each phase was different and wonderful, like coming to the Sierra and seeing the snow sheds again after all these years, and the beauty of the Feather River Canyon down to the rich Sacramento Valley. Our trip felt like it would never end.
Great article. Jon is my cousin once removed, my dad’s first cousin. This is the first time seeing my great-grandfather’s storefront. The property is a Chevron station now.