Many of my Sojourns have included side trips to research family roots. In the past I have visited WW2 Japanese Internment Camps, the Japanese American National Museum in LA, my mom’s hometown. The list goes on. And sometimes I just take side roads randomly.

This trip I wanted to revisit 25^th Street in Ogden. I had only recently found this historic area when I was searching for the Buddhist temples in Ogden. The first time through I was surprised to find the street, which is perpendicular to the Union Station and Wall Ave, had been the old Japan town from the 40s. I instinctively figured my grandparents had to have been working and living on or near 25^th after WW2, since 25^th was the epicenter of the Japanese community. Unfortunately at that time I didn’t have the addresses I needed.

Then this past year I got a hit from Ancestry dot com. It was the census report from 1950 that showed the address of my grandparents, Shiro and Yoshi Kubo, and my uncle Ben Kubo.  I logged that information into my phone, knowing that I would pass through again.

268 25^th Street.

I try not to ski on weekends to avoid the crowds. My day to explore Ogden was on a Saturday. I had the address in hand. I had already found the storefront on Google Street view, now I wanted to see it live.

I found a place to park behind 25^th Street in a large lot also occupied by the Courtyard by Marriott. As I walked from my truck to the back of the buildings, it reminded me of the old streets in small towns: exposed brick, staircases leading to second floors, walkways between some buildings to access the main street. From the parking lot there was a rear entrance to 268. That’s the door I entered.

The last few months I have been spending a considerable amount of time in art galleries and artsy businesses. 268 was now a co-operative art gallery, local artists sharing their work in Gallery 25. The first paintings were western American paintings that reminded me of J.K. Ralston, a famous Montanan artist. It quickly put a chill up my spine, hitting so close to home. I half expected to see my brother’s work in the gallery.

Two gentlemen were manning the gallery. It turns out Galler 25 is an artists’ collective, all local, that creates a place for them to display their work. Both men had artwork on display. I explained why I was there, and the one man took a ready interest. He had some connection to the history and referred me to Yesterday’s News Ogden Utah on Facebook.

There brick is laid bare, popular among art galleries. A fire had taken out the upstairs apartments so it is now a one story with loft and basement. A beautiful log staircase leads to the loft. I imagined the soda fountain counter and white wooden shelves lined with canned goods. The traces of a staircase is apparent from the brickwork on the wall. The separate door to the apartments now gone, leaving only one entrance. The façade of the building is a bright yellow, a far cry from the drab look of the old photos that I have.

My uncle Ben wasn’t in any of the old Ogden photos, my guess is that he was behind the camera. This was long before “selfies”. Ben was injured in the US Army. He served in the all Japanese American 442^nd Infantry during WW2. He was part of the rescue of the Lost Texas Battallion in France. They saved 211 Texans who were trapped behind enemy lines. Approximately 150 Japanese American soldiers were killed and Ben was one of 1800 wounded in the rescue. He had schrapnel in his neck and his hand was damaged. I think it damaged his speech and maybe other mental functions. He lived with his parents, and listed his address as 268 ½ 25^th Street, Ogden Utah. He must have lived upstairs. Grandma and Grandpa Kubo listed their address in the census as 268. I wonder if they lived in the back of the store. Many people did that back in the day.

One other picture that I was curious about was taken at my grandfather’s funeral. It is of a large congregation in front of the Buddhist Church. My family, parents and seven siblings, is front and center—all except me. I wasn’t born yet.

My next quest was going to the Japanese Buddhist church. I could tell it wasn’t the church in the photo. It was much newer, lower profile, but I figured they would know where the old church had been.

When I got to the church—it was Sunday—I was afraid there might be a service or something going on, but I was pressed for time, so when I saw the cars in the parking lot I was encouraged. The front door was locked so I didn’t have to interrupt some religious ceremony.

The side door was open. I knocked, but no one came. I walked in.

It was the kitchen area and dining room. Things were set up for a gathering, and there were maybe ten Japanese looking women there that looked like me, but shorter and thinner. There was one Hakujin  (white) lady. They were all getting ready to go.

It was very strange, and yet not so strange. They looked at me curiously, but didn’t ask me any questions. I finally address the kitchen group of four, “I’m researching my family, and wondered if anyone here might have information?”

“What was their name?” one lady asked. 

I said, “’Kubo’, they had a store on 25^th St.” I knew this was fruitless. These women weren’t even born when they had their store. I hadn’t been and they were my age looking.

Then I asked, “Do you know where the original Buddhist church was back in the 50s? I have a picture of my grandfather’s funeral taken at the front of it.”

Many of the ladies had already left. The Hakujin lady said, “Wait here,” and I waited. She and one other lady were the only ones left.

She came back with a church scrapbook with photos. Half the book was 1960s or later, but several pages would have been the era my grandparents were there. I thanked her profusely. Her friend was impatient. Clearly they were headed to an important function and I was an unexpected blip.

I pulled out my phone and began taking pictures of the pages that looked interesting. I found the address where the Buddhist Church had been. I thanked them and thought I should have had some kind of gift to leave them. I could have left one of my Let Me In books, but it was clear they were in a hurry, so I took my leave so they, too, could leave.

Next stop—2456 Lincoln Avenue, Ogden. The address of the old church.

I knew the old church was probably razed, but I wanted to see the site anyway. It was only half a block off 25^th, and it turned out it would have been in the parking lot I had parked in when I visited Gallery 25! I sat across the street, imagining the church and congregation gathering in front of the building at Grandpa’s funeral. I found his obituary in Deseret New and Telegraph, Salt Lake City.

He was 69 years old and died November 21, 1952 “following a lingering illness.”

Geez. I’m 69 years old.