‘Beyond Heart Mountain’ book and movie are for sale

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Buy Beyond Heart Mountain memoir published by Winter Goose Publishing. It is available as a printed book and ebook. Signed copies can be purchased from the author. The book was released February 27th. That week coincided with the 80th anniversary of President Roosevelt’s signing of Executive Order 9066 that sent 120,000 Japanese to 10 war relocation camps, that included Heart Mountain in northwest Wyoming.

Beyond Heart Mountain book and related are now for sale.

Remember to download the Beyond Heart Mountain promotional information booklet.

Boulder Community Media (BCM) produced a documentary that aired on PBS that aired in December 2021. The Nishigawa Neighborhood is a coffee table book that will soon be released.

During World War II, Cheyenne native Alan O’Hashi’s family avoided life in internment camps such as Heart Mountain.

As a Baby Boomer, Alan documents the overt and quiet racism pervasive in Wyoming and throughout the United States during and following World War II. He relates his experiences to current violence towards Asians and the issue of civility within society.

The backdrop to Alan’s account is the history of the once vibrant Japanese community in the 400 and 500 blocks of West 17th Street in the downtown area of my hometown, Cheyenne, Wyoming.

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“My grandmother and grandfather Ohashi and their large family lived in worked in that neighborhood where I spent quite a bit of time between elementary and high school. Having been away from Cheyenne for many years, I stashed those two blocks in the back of my mind until I learned that two classmates of mine were planning to build a housing development at 509 W. 17th St. The biggest obstacle was obtaining permission to tear down an old building. It was the last structure in the Japanese neighborhood. It was the site of a rooming house operated by Mrs. Yoshio Shuto.”

Buy the Beyond Heart Mountain movie

Buy the Beyond Heart Mountain DVD is mainly about the West 17th Street Japanese community history and a general overview of Executive Order 9066 that President Franklin Roosevelt signed that relocated 120,000 Japanese into 10 internment camps, including Heart Mountain in northwest Wyoming.

I interviewed four childhood friends for the documentary. Robert Walters formerly worked at the City Cafe. He still lives in Cheyenne, where he practices law.

Terie Miyamoto and her family-owned Baker’s Bar. It was the only racially-integrated bar in Cheyenne at the time. She now lives in the Denver Metro area.

Brian Matsuyama now lives in Seattle, Washington. He resided in Cheyenne during his childhood. His family owned the California Fish Market. Carol Lou Kishiyama-Hough is in Cheyenne. She and her family purchased the Fish Market from the Matsuyamas.

Buy the Nishigawa Neighborhood coffee table book. It’s a 11 x 8.5-inch hard-cover coffee table book with over 100 color, black and white images of the neighborhood. Signed copies are available from thanks author.

Nishigawa Neighborhood coming soon

Mrs. Shuto’s tenants were mainly Japanese residents who made their way to Cheyenne. She later opened the City Cafe across the street which became a gathering place for the Japanese in town.

My grandmother was a cook at the City Cafe. Next door, my grandfather was the third owner of a pool hall.

Whenever we went out to eat, the restaurant of choice was the City Cafe. It was a gathering place for the Japanese in Cheyenne. My friends enlisted me to do a cultural and historical survey of the Japanese residents who lived and worked there from the 1920s through the 1970s.

Buy a Beyond Heart Mountain cap are also available. They are low-profile baseball-style hats. Select Beyond Heart Mountain from the dropdown menu.

The logo is an adapted version of the Wyoming state flag. One size fits most.

The Papa Burger and Princess Leia

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Sorting through old myths, one cheeseburger at a time.

There’s a Swedish television show where three cheerful Scandinavians arrive at cluttered American homes and gently remind people of an inconvenient truth.

When you die, your relatives will either fight over your stuff, donate it to Goodwill, or haul it to the dumpster.

The Swedes call it “death cleaning.” Americans call it “my garage.”

I’ve been doing my own version lately. A few boxes at a time. Not because I’m planning an imminent departure from the planet, but because I’ve reached the age where I open a box and wonder why I thought it was important enough to move across three states.

This week’s excavation uncovered two sets of toys I once used as visual aids during gender-bias trainings when I worked in domestic violence prevention.

Leia and Luke over the years.

I’d pull out old Star Wars figures and Barbie dolls to make the point that popular culture starts socializing children early. Boys become dominant. Girls become decorative. By adulthood, everybody needs therapy.

The original 1977 Princess Leia and Luke Skywalker figures looked like underfed exchange students. Skinny. Plain. Awkward.

Over the years, both evolved into action heroes with toned abs and revealing wardrobes.

Ken especially transformed from suburban boyfriend into a plastic MMA fighter. Barbie’s proportions stayed pretty much the same, emphasizing that thin is better than otherwise.

Ken has bulked up over the years.

The toys worked well in trainings because every participant understood the point. You could physically see cultural expectations hardening in molded plastic.

Eventually, my teaching props became clutter.

So I sold the Star Wars collection to a collector in Berthoud. After an acupuncture appointment in Longmont, I drove over to make the delivery. One more box removed from the archive of my former lives.

Of course, no trip to Berthoud is complete without stopping at the A&W Restaurant.

The drive-in feels like a surviving artifact from “American Graffiti.” I pulled in, pushed a button and ordered through a two-way speaker, The curbhop brought out a tray that hooked onto the partially rolled-down car window.

Baby Boomers somehow managed to eat entire meals in their cars without permanently staining the upholstery, although now that I think about it, my old Ford Falcon may have always smelled faintly of french fries.

I ordered the Double Papa Burger combo: fries and a large root beer float, another stop on my ongoing cheeseburger field research project.

Double Papa Burger Combo

The Papa Burger today is wetter than I remember. Not worse. Just overcommitted to condiments.

The burger arrived dripping special sauce and sliced tomato fluid. I inhaled the monster with no evidence of chewing, which may explain indulgent health trends.

Compared to the other burgers I’ve sampled over the past few months, the Papa Burger holds up well.

There’s no brioche bun or truffle aioli. It’s a big, messy American cheeseburger served at a drive-in where you’re expected to eat like napkins are optional.

The afternoon felt connected in a strange way.

I sold toys that represented old ideas about masculinity and femininity. Then I celebrated by eating a burger large enough to challenge modern cardiology.

America remains a land of contradictions.

The trip would have been perfect if the kids meal had come with a Mandalorian toy.

Of course, that’s the domain of Burger King.

Swedish Death Cleaning II: The Violin Case

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Have you ever learned a skill, forgot it, then relearned it?

When letting go brings something back.

I was sorting through another box for my ongoing Swedish death cleaning project when I came across a stack of old violin chamber music.

Duets. Quartets. Quintets. Pages with penciled notes and dogears from another life.

I figured it was simple enough. Sell the music and two of my three violins. I’d keep the one my grandfather passed down to me, which he bought from a Sears catalog in the 1900s.

That box carried me back to Lander, Wyoming.

Years ago, when I worked at the newspaper there, I wrote a feature story about Becky, the local Suzuki violin teacher.

One Saturday morning my photographer friend Tom stopped by unexpectedly and told me I needed to see a violin he’d found at a garage sale.

We drove back across town. The violin looked worn but had character. The owner said it had once belonged to local fiddler Quentin Roberts. That mattered to me.

It had history.

Provenance.

A life before mine.

I bought it for something like twenty-five bucks.

After that, I contacted Becky and asked if she took adults. She mostly taught the parents of her younger students and people like me who woke up one day and realized they wanted to learn something difficult before it was too late.

So I learned.

Long story short, I got pretty decent.

Not concert hall decent. But good enough to play in a small local orchestra and enjoy myself.

Becky played viola and a second violinist, Lisa, played for tips at a local bar. The patrons there were more accustomed to Dylan than Mozart.

I started collecting music just because I wanted to try playing it someday.

Then life happened and I moved to Colorado.

I relocated to Boulder imagining there would be amateur groups everywhere. There were plenty of musicians, but even the “beginners” had conservatory backgrounds and college performance experience.

My violin disappeared into its case where it has sat for thirty years.

When the woman stopped over to pick up the sheet music, we talked. I asked her why she wanted it.

Turns out she and her husband were in the exact same predicament I was.

Former players. Rusty musicians. People who once loved playing but drifted away from it over time.

Except they had taken the next step. They had found a few other “hackers” like us to play together for fun.

Then came the best part.

She lives two blocks away.

I had been preparing myself emotionally to part with the music and the violins, thinking Swedish death cleaning meant dismantling old identities.

Instead, the process handed one back to me.

Now I’m thinking about restringing the fiddle.

Maybe the point of Swedish death cleaning is figuring out which possessions are still attached to joy, memory, possibility, and will find new homes when the time is right.

Who would have thought that lightening the load could also put something back into my hands?

The image at the bottom was taken at a fiddling workshop led by one of my high school classmates Bob Mathews.

Swedish Death Cleaning for Pack Rats

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Have you heard about Swedish Death Cleaning?

Where sentimental value meets Facebook Marketplace.

There’s a television show called the “Gentle Art of Swedish Death Cleaning” where three cheerful Swedes descend upon cluttered American homes like minimalist Viking spirits.

They smile politely while staring at your collection of commemorative beer steins and ask questions that cut straight to the soul.

“Will anyone want this after you die?”

“Why do you own 17 extension cords?”

The premise is simple and terrifying. Swedish death cleaning (döstädning) is the practice of gradually getting rid of your stuff before someone else has to do it for you.

I don’t want my grieving friends and relatives to stand in my garage holding a box labeled “miscellaneous cables” and wonder if I was building a radio station or hiding evidence.

I’ve been Swedish death cleaning for years without realizing it had a name. I thought I was slowly becoming the old guy muttering, “Why do I still own this?”

The Marshall Fire accelerated the process for me. Watching entire neighborhoods go up in a puff of smoke changed my relationship with possessions in a hurry.

I started thinning out decades of sports memorabilia, political collectibles, souvenirs, and enough paper ephemera to start my own presidential library or baseball museum.

At first, it was hard.

I had convinced myself that every object contained meaning. I took pictures of everything significant. I got rid of the item and kept the memory.

“This ticket stub is history.”

“This bumper sticker might be valuable someday.”

“This faded Rockies pennant represents an era.”

If I wanted a replacement, I could buy another.

Eventually, I realized my heirs are not going to lovingly curate my life’s treasures. They’re going to rent a dumpster.

Now I’m down to the nuisance phase of death cleaning. The weird objects. The things that survive every purge because they’re too sentimental to toss.

Which brings me to the Sony micro television.

This tiny set came from my grandmother’s estate over forty years ago. She had hauled it all the way from Japan sometime in the 1960s, back when electronics from Japan felt futuristic and exotic.

The little monitor looked like something NASA might issue astronauts to watch Walter Cronkite on the moon.

I’ve carried that little TV through apartments, condos, moves, closets, shelves, storage bins, and several rounds of “I really should get rid of this.” It became less of a possession and more of a hostage situation.

The TV held me hostage.

I dug out the box and posted it on Facebook Marketplace.

Immediately, two kinds of people appeared.

The first guy messaged me within minutes.

“I can come right now.”

That’s slightly alarming. Nobody has ever urgently needed anything good from Facebook Marketplace. Usually, it’s either haunted, illegal, or both.

Then another user chimed in helpfully to explain that old electronics are worthless.

Thank you, internet stranger. That was comforting.

But the first guy arrived today, and it turns out he’s part of a group called the Colorado CRT Connection. These people rescue old cathode ray tube televisions and monitors.

They restore them, tinker with them, keep retro gaming systems alive, and host meetups that benefit the Children’s Hospital.

Who knew there was an underground network of people lovingly preserving obsolete television technology?

This guy looked at my grandmother’s tiny Sony TV the way an art dealer might inspect a lost Picasso.

“The guys are going to be so jealous.” He knew exactly what he bought.

He appreciated its history.

He was genuinely excited.

This object I’d been schlepping around for decades wasn’t junk anymore. It had found its next chapter.

That’s the beauty of Swedish death cleaning. It’s about getting rid of things and releasing them back into the wild while they still mean something to somebody.

All our treasures eventually become mysteries to the next generation.

“Why did Grandpa keep this?”

“What is this thing?”

“Can we throw this away?”

Every once in a while, the right person shows up. The object finds its tribe again.

My grandmother is smiling that her quirky little television, carried across the Pacific Ocean 60 years ago, is still sparking curiosity instead of gathering dust in my basement.

I still have a box of cables I’ll take to Goodwill soon, 2028 at the latest.

What would the Swedes think?