Summer Special Memoir vol. 6

Typhoon Roll

I am four years old with thirty cents (a promotion! See the previous episode vol. 5) in my hand, feeling a little older than the Homerun Bar time.  I don’t have to be terrified of Grandma Fumi’s arrogance either, because I am just waiting for my turn to purchase my favorite bread.  It is the Wednesday Little Bakery in my school, not a general store in her neighborhood. My friend, Hitomi, is standing before me in line.  She comes to school with two long braids every single day without any exception.  A nice straight line parts her hair equally.  Her hair smells of grains of rice because her house is next to the rice grinder facility in town.  Though my nose is tempted to get close to her head, it behaves itself.  My nose already knows it’s not a pleasant scent anyway.  It’s a unique and irresistible scent, however, my nose knows it will disappoint me if I actually inhale it in through my nostrils.  I try to distract myself by holding my coins really tight, fighting against yet another temptation.  Should I touch her hair?  No, I have no intention of pulling her beautiful braids.  I just want to feel a tiny amount of the short and soft baby hair at the bottom of her perfectly straight hairline.  Hitomi’s mom, for some reason, cut some of her hair so that it was too short to be made into a braid.  I keep thinking, “It looks so strange, but I wonder how it feels like.”  Suddenly, “What are you staring at?”  Miho says in a confronting behind me.  Hitomi turns around.  “Well, n-n-nothing,” I stutter.  Both Hitomi and Miho stare at me.  I smile apologetically even though I am not doing anything wrong.  Can they read the thinking bubble above my head?

Right before my left hand is about to reach her neck, Hitomi swiftly leaves the line with her bread.  The fantasy crime is officially out of my mind. My long awaited turn finally arrives.  I am lighthearted and feeling lucky because Mighty Hard Bread (remember Donkey’s Bakery?) is not available.  Chipping my teeth by eating bread sounds awful, especially at school.  Donkey Sweet ‘n Soft bread is still my all-time favorite.  But that is just a past luxury.  I sadly and happily admit that a school-bakery-truck doesn’t deliver any kind of bread that the Donkey Bakery would carry.  “A cream sandwich please,” I decisively say as I genuinely smile.  Ms. Aoki smiles back to me, but sympathetically addresses, “I am sorry, we have no more cream sandwiches today.  Wait until next Wednesday.  How about a Typhoon Roll?”  That’s why I love Ms. Aoki.  Not only is she the prettiest and most thoughtful teacher in the whole galaxy, but she always knows how to solve my problem.   

A Typhoon Roll, which looks like a real “eye of a typhoon”, could be an appropriate substitute and would ease my disappointment from the lack of cream sandwiches.  Its long flat square bread is rolled with some white whipped cream between the swirled bread.  On the top of bread, they spread a really thin chocolate icing.  I reluctantly, but somewhat hopefully compromise to purchase a typhoon roll.  While licking some white cream after unrolling my Typhoon Roll, I still dream about the yellow custard in a cream sandwich.  It is almost as if both the white whipped cream (real) and the yellow custard cream (the imaginative ingredient from the cream sandwich that I dream of) are melted onto my tongue at once.  My imagination fills up my mouth with more than what I actually eat.  Miho asks me, “Isn’t it good?”  “Yes, it is more than good.”  Miho wonders why my over-victorious smile is on my face.  Wednesdays are special days for Miho and me.

On some Wednesdays, Pre-Kindergarten students are told to go home without shopping at the little bakery.  The dark condensation hovers over the sky through the windows in this morning.  They are about to drip some rain drops.  Sigh….  A rainy day equals rain boots, a simple reason for why I feel blue.  If only I had a choice of rain boots or regular shoes.  My stubborn and unreasonable parents are single minded in many areas, particularly in this.  Technically, no flexibility has existed in my family before. The family is exclusively dictated by parents.  If you sneeze, you have to take some icky tasting powder medicine and go straight to bed.  On the contrary, they never allow us to have pain killer pills for headaches.  Headache medicine contains bad chemicals, according to them.  For stomachaches, suspicious black smelly herbal pills are the remedy.  These fishy black pills are respected and therefore approved because they have grown in the Buddhist Temple where famous monks have trained. What an ordeal for a four year old child!  Nobody ever comprehends my parents’ philosophy of the boots. 

Accordingly, when moist air fills in the air, kids need to wear rain boots. I have to admit, though, that my rain boots are not the black ugly ones which my brother wears.  But my silly looking rain boots humiliate me anyway when the sun comes back in the afternoon.  My whole body gets crunched under the peer pressure.  Someone will talk behind my back about how horrible I look like with my unreasonably stupid boots.  Unlike my friends’ boots, there are no flowers, stripes, or polka dots.  The cancerous point of my boots is that they are too tight on my feet.  My mother is such a conservative shopper.  According to her, she is the wisest consumer in the area, and never shops for new boots until they are ripped.  Being tight is not in her criteria to shop for new boots.  My school tennis shoes are a little tight, but at least they are red and have my favorite princesses on them.  Just thinking about my boots makes me nauseous. 

Summer Special Memoir vol.5

Passing on the Family Wisdom

Now, my family is no longer living in that small and busy merchant town anymore, except for Grandma Fumi.  My father decided to move his family to a new house attached with an office in which he is going to start a new business.  Fumi prefers to live in her own house that saved herself and her three children from World War II.  Even though this house holds countless memories of various horrendous wartime incidents, she is proud of herself for surviving on her own.  She rarely talks or whines about her honorary drafted husband who died somewhere in the Pacific Ocean.  Back then, she had no choice other than to be tough.  Living in this house represents the feistiness and resilience that she refused to give up many times.  Besides, regardless of her age, she still desired the maximum amount of comfort and support from her mother next door.  Fumi has had special respect and trust with her mother in the traditional Japanese way. 

Everything her parents say is right even if she disagrees.  In fact, Fumi’s mother is the one who encouraged her arranged marriage.  Fumi didn’t want to marry someone she didn’t know.  Fumi and her mother sat on the Tatami mat, face to face, silently.  Fumi’s mother started lecturing her, “This is the fifth visit in three months that his uncle came to ask us to marry you.  You should feel honored to be wanted by this young man.  You should not be stubborn anymore.  It must be a good match.”  Fumi gave in and married a young engineer who had an enthusiastic match-making uncle.  At this point, no one expected this young engineer’s tragic ending and its ripple effect on his family.  I hope that because she learned about him, Fumi at least loved her young husband.  After all, she chooses to live in this house, perhaps, because she treasures the few memories of unforgettable and amazing times.

When I visit Fumi’s emotionally attached house, she routinely hands me one 10 cent coin to shop for something fun in the tiny general store.  I can buy a prism shaped vanilla ice cream bar, the Homerun Bar, from the 10 sweaty cents inside of my fist.  After I lick all the ice cream, I might see the lucky engraving, “Homerun” on the wood stick. This means I can get another bar for free.  Although winning a free ice cream bar is very attractive, the 30 cent chocolate coated ice cream bar looks extravagant.  Since I only receive 10 cents at a time, there is no way for me to purchase the extravaganza.  Another interesting treat are the lottery strawberry candies.  Each of the some fifty strawberry candies have a long sturdy kite string which is surprisingly untangled.  If you are lucky enough to pick a winning string, you can receive a bigger candy than others.  I look seriously at the complicated yet untangled strings in order to pick the best bet for the biggest candy in this Ami’s lottery.  I usually aim for a large one.  But that opportunity doesn’t come so often. 

Though I should feel fortunate because there is no loser in this lottery, instead, I am interested in the 30 cent candy bars called Ghana.  If I get Ghana, I don’t have to gamble.  Ghana itself is a winning.  Ghana is another luxury that I cannot possibly reach.  Unfortunately, Grandma Fumi never taught me any wisdom as simple as saving money for just three days.  In my little mind, ten cents must be used up all at one time, just like a church donation.  A church wouldn’t accept, “Well, I won’t donate anything today, but trust me, I will donate double the amount next time.”  They might not allow me to do any fun activities if I skip the donation, even if I promise God the double donation next time.  Or maybe they would have let me.  I assume they won’t so I don’t try to, in practicality, attempt this. The point is that Fumi expects me to learn things by myself, regardless of my age, maturity level, and lack of life experience.  Her lessons are all developed from her survival.  Do the best you can do.  If you fail, try something else until it works out.  I am too young to learn her extremely sophisticated, silent, and somewhat harsh messages. 

Summer Special Memoir vol. 4

The Town Under the Castle

In addition to the little corner lot of Fumi and her relatives’, there are so many different places to explore in this town.  You can practically go anywhere on foot, even to places beyond the daily needs stores, like the original Samurai Period merchants’ stores: the children’s clinic, the otolaryngology office, the dentist, the electric store, the rice store (Mr. Yoshino), a couple general stores, the yarn store (Ms. Sato), the liquor store, the clock store (Uncle & Aunt Watch and Yasu’s house), the tavern (Mitch’s house), the floral store, the confectionery store, the street car station, the meat store, the fish store, and the Lutheran Church that has a concrete block fenced playground where the neighbor kids often play.  I am one of these kids, even though I don’t consider my family as Christian. 

In the back of the living room corner of Fumi’s house, a black wooden Buddhist altar is sitting at home with dignity.  In the altar, there are a picture of Fumi’s husband, his mortuary, two white candles, a scent jar, two vases, a gold teacup-like gong, a little rice bowl, and two tiny tea cups.  All items in the altar represent appreciation and respect for the family’s ancestors.  It is the heir (usually the first son in the family) family’s responsibility to take care of the altars and graves in the temple.  People believe that their ancestors’ spirit brings happiness and health to the family due to their practice of this consistent ritual.  Every morning, freshly made rice and green tea are served at the altar.  Offering them to the altar before anybody has their meal is a way to respect ancestors and elders.  The candles and green scent are lit accordingly.  Mother does this routine most of the time.  Putting her hands together in front of her chest, she hits the gong twice, closes her eyes, puts her head down, and mumbles a ritual chant for a long time, maybe ten times longer than what one of her kids does.  When she is satisfied with her long prayer for the day, she puts out the candle light by waving her hand to send wind.  “Don’t blow the candles,” she scolds.  Blowing breath at the altar is exclusively prohibited.  It shows disrespect against the ancestors.

All in all, it sounds like some kind of joke that this genuinely Not-Christian family, which is mine, is sending kids to the Christian Sunday School almost every Sunday.  Interestingly enough, my mother, the most serious altar prayer with her long ritual chant, attends the Sunday service with the kids sometimes.  Each child sits on the bench holding 10 cents in their hand for a donation.  The gentle speaking pastor’s wife asks for a volunteer to read a part of the Bible.  A big girl’s name is always called.  Not only does she never ask me to read, but she also ignores my confident hand shooting up in the air.  I sadly conclude that she doesn’t know me well enough.  The best part of the Sunday school are the imaginative and entertaining activities.  Last year’s Christmas play was one of them. Though I always didn’t get a significant role at this church, I truly enjoyed holding the baby Jesus doll in my arms between rehearsals.  I ended up performing as a “tree” in the real play.  Another activity I loved was the old newspaper dress contest.  Teaming up with some new kids, we created a dress with old newspaper and toothpicks.  Surprisingly, our dress didn’t look filthy despite the materials used.  It looked rather gorgeous.  And what satisfaction and accomplishment we shared!  After the dismissal of Sunday school, most of us directly met up at the tiny playground. 

The Church playground has big toys, a swing set, and a sand box for all ages.  Until I went there, I had never seen a jungle gym before.  Climbing up it is like conquering a castle.  I, the king, govern one part of the jungle gym, and the other side is the other kings’ property.  My mother lets us play there any time we want without supervision, even after a visit to the doctor.  By the way, nobody in town ever makes appointments with any doctors.  Most of the medical facilities are walk-in only.  Anyway, it is hard to ignore the playground in between our house and the clinic, especially after having painful shots on my butt.  I am very thankful to have such joyful memories and places in this town, even after I got hit by a donkey.  I wonder whether the good discipline of my Christian church-going habit or my mother’s diligent daily prayer to the Buddhist altar brings me this good fortune.  It might not be either one.  It might be both.  It might be a coincidence.  Do I belong to one particular religious group?  I don’t even understand the meaning of “faith”.