Summer Special Memoir vol. 3

Family Roots at the Town’s Corner

Grandma Fumi’s house can be spotted through the narrow isle between the Yoshino Family (Rice Merchant Family) and the Koresawa family (Grandma Fumi’s maternal home), fifteen yards in from Main Street.  It is exactly where I got hit by the donkey.  Yasu and his parents, the honest watch technician/merchant couple, live in front of Fumi’s house.  We kids often pass through Yasu’s house as convenient.  For instance, I say hi to Uncle Watch (Generally the older male figures are called Uncle and female Auntie for respect and friendliness, even they are not technically family members.) when entering his store from Main Street.  After I socialize with him for a few minutes, I pick up my shoes and go up two steps into the living space right behind his store.  Compared to the commercialized bright, shiny, watch store, their living area is unintentionally as dark as a cave.  Neither the crowded buildings nor the sole window help bring in enough sunlight.  Now I greet Auntie Watch and mingle a little more, perhaps nibble on some candies, and play with Yasu for a while.  Occasionally, he makes incredibly imaginable and creative vehicles out of Legos for me.  If my whole body was the size of Legos, I sure could blast off to space with one of his space ships.  Finally, I excuse myself through their back door to my home.  This shortcut doesn’t really work as well as it should.  Ironically, going through this shortcut takes a longer time than the regular route just because this hunched backed couple and their Lego genius son always welcome me without exception, unlike the Yoshino Family. 

In fact, I have never visited the Yoshino Family’s house.  The keloid faced man is Mr. Yoshino. The dark purple blotches are clear on the dark skin under his glasses.  The house fire was quite unfortunate, but he was fortunate because he at least survived from the terrible inferno when he was young.  Even though I know his past, his facial features scare me away while Uncle Watch’s hunchback doesn’t bother me at all.  I have no interest in learning about him.  He is probably not interested in me either, anyways. 

On the other side of Uncle Watch’s building, Ms. Sato’s yarn store is pretty popular.  In fact, these two business share a building.  Unlike the watch store, Ms. Sato’s yarn store is dark.  Her colorful knitting displays try to cheer up her business space and create a friendly atmosphere.  Some projects are on the wall, and a complicated patterned sweater is shown on the mannequin doll.  Often, the neighbor ladies gather around a small table to chat and share their knitting projects.  This is my mother’s favorite store.  Ms. Sato has a huge smile and welcomes me anytime I visit her with my mother.  But I don’t visit as often as I do with Uncle Watch, because her space didn’t have the shortcut to my house.

In Fumi’s maternal house, Fumi’s mother, Tama, and her first son’s family reside downstairs and the second son’s family upstairs.  All of them are living together under one roof.  These residential buildings (Tama’s, Uncle Watch’s and Ms. Sato’s spaces are all somewhat connected.) Fumi’s and Yoshino family’s houses are both separated with less than three feet of space between them (Sadly, that causes quite a few unpleasant lawsuits among family members and close neighbors.) Huddling together at the corner lot, the buildings still standing there barely survived from the inferior bombs dropping from the sky during the war.  The American military planned to exclude the Japanese historical buildings like castles, temples, and shrines from their “destroy” list. However, the surrounding towns happened to become their targets as a consequence.  Unfortunately, Fumi’s town was a typical target.  After her husband was drafted, Fumi came back from Osaka (217 miles from home) with three little children all under five, in fact, the youngest was the newborn infant.  The respectful visit to her in-law’s house turned out to be her worst choice.  No one wanted their daughter-in-law or their grandchildren.  They, too, were barely surviving during the difficult war time.  “We don’t need any more mouths to feed.” That’s what her father-in-law said.  Luckily, Fumi’s parents extended their arms openly, even though, at that time, Fumi’s parents had about 10 children.  (Fumi is the first child of sixteen siblings.)  This extended family ate together, worked together, played together, and evacuated together under the incendiary rain.  The survival from the fatal war itself was a miracle.  Keeping their house and property was another miracle.  There could have been hundreds of people who died on the street where I got hit by the donkey.  The whole town’s rapid recovery was indescribably miraculous.

Fumi’s kitchen has a special underground room to store food. I suspect it used be an evacuation unit where family members hid when they heard the frequent war siren.  Now she uses it as a punishment dungeon for the naughty children.  My blood freezes immediately when she touches the knob on the floor, even if I don’t do anything wrong.  Grandma Fumi’s bedroom is on the other side of the kitchen.  I often sit on her bedside to ask her to tell me a story of a Japanese folktale, the Peach Boy.  No one except Fumi in our neighborhood has their own modern western type bed.  It is way softer and bouncier than a futon.  I wish I could sleep in a bed someday.  Every evening, the majority of the neighbors take out their futon and cot from their paper sliding door closet.  In the morning, they fold them nicely, and put them away into the closet. Although, owning your own bed will reduce daily physical tasks, owning a bed was something too modern for the general population of the town at that time.  Besides, as an honorably deceased Japanese soldier’s wife, the western items are things you do not consider owning.  But she does what she wants.

When I visit my grandma’s maternal home by stepping on the stones outside of her house, Fumi’s first brother’s white spitz dog, Chiko, greets me with high pitch barks.  I make it through the sliding door entrance only once in five tries without any troubles because of Chiko.  Grandma Fumi’s first brother, Chiko’s owner, becomes known as Uncle Chiko, and his wife as Auntie Chiko.  Uncle Chiko is one of only two boys from sixteen of Fumi’s siblings.  The other boy is Uncle Koma.  Koma means “small and young” in the regional dialect.  Technically, there was another boy between Uncle Chiko and Uncle Koma along with several girls.  Sadly he deceased at age one.  His name was Issai, which means One-Year-Old.  This is one of the several family wonders: why my great grandparents named him Issai in the first place.  It sounded almost like a curse on the innocent and unfortunate child.  That’s what the neighbors and even Issai’s siblings said about behind Tama’s back.

Fumi’s father used to be a famous inventor, known mainly for his carpentry tools.  Someone stole his idea one day, and got a patent with quite a large award.  Despite this nasty fraud incident, Fumi’s Father retained a solid reputation among customers as a carpenter to be able to feed sixteen children.  He was the one respected family man until his secret love affair was revealed by his devastated children several decades after his death. 

To reveal another family wonder: how did the two boys, Uncle Chiko and Uncle Koma, live together under one roof while never got along each other in their entire life? I have never seen both boys together talking or laughing with each other, like regular brothers would, on any occasion, even during the wedding of Chiko’s daughter.  The boys’ ongoing battle never ended even after the judge’s rule in the court forty years later.

Summer Special Memoir vol.2

Donkey Bakery

Wednesday is an unusual day of the week because nobody in my private preschool is supposed to bring their lunch.  On some Wednesdays, we have to go home before lunch time.  On other Wednesdays, a teacher opens the little bakery in the office foyer to sell us some bread.  On these Wednesdays, a little truck rolls in through our school gate and unloads pastries into the building.  I only wish it could be my favorite Donkey Bakery.  If it were the Donkey Bakery, a real donkey would haul its trailer full of pastries through the narrow isle between the classroom buildings and the common temple hall building, while the catchy Donkey Bakery Theme song followed it. This song reminds me of Ferde Grofé’s On the Trail, of course, with the sight of the enormous Grand Canyon’s sunset.  With this tune, your mind will travel to the donkey’s back, holding the reign, swaying your upper body, and bumping your bottom while traveling on a rocky surface.  Sometimes the donkey lazily neighs. This somewhat idiotic and humorous music movement fits extraordinarily well in the gorgeous symphony, the Grand Canyon Suite.  The Donkey Bakery Theme song sounds just like the On the Trail music that instantly takes me to a dream land that I have never been to, aside from dreams. 

One day, I heard this song at Mitch’s house across from our house.  My heart began racing.  Agitation!  It allured the 3-year-old’s genuine temptation.  I happily inhaled the irresistible aroma that came along with the silly donkey melody.  Just visualizing my favorite Sweet ‘n Soft Steamed Bread filled my mouth with water.  All five of my senses were stimulated by the Donkey Bakery.  I had to get permission and money from my mother, so I could get something!  My mother’s regular bet is Mighty Hard Bread that is sweet but almost breaks your teeth.  If you don’t want to chip your teeth, you have to suck it for a long time so that it gets soft enough to chew.  Usually, my mother is not going to buy a Sweet ‘n Soft because it doesn’t last long enough to entertain a short tempered preschooler.  Mighty Hard Bread is my mother’s best friend; it is a long time period baby sitter. But I beg every time anyway, “Will you get me a Sweet ‘n Soft Bread?” 

“Mitch, I must go.  Good Bye!”  Slamming open Mitch’s door, I slipped my shoes on for the perfect run across the busy Main Street.   My old neighborhood had been a crowded and busy town with the commercial and industrial merchants.  Many small business owners and their descendants had developed and passed on their businesses over the years underneath the Japanese Castle during the Samurai era. In addition to the business buildings, people, bicycles, motor cycles, and cars were all sharing Main Street.  Were some things in my way?  I didn’t care.  My focus was just on where I would dash to.  I would have taken about 5 seconds to get home.  I darted toward my house like a bull.  But, in the middle of the street, something tripped my feet and hoisted my little body in the air for a second.  Then my little body fell on the hard concrete ground, flat on my tummy, just before I enjoyed a flying sensation.  Thud!  “Ahhhhhh!”  I’d just run through a donkey’s feet!  I froze on the ground like a dead frog by the donkey that was ignoring and passing by me.  There was a filthy looking canvas bag under the rider’s seat where the donkey’s droppings directly fall into.  What an amazing idea, this canvas sack’s spot was!  My eyes caught the huge amount of Donkey’s brown baseball-like dung.  The double shock of falling down and witnessing a poop sack paralyzed my entire body as well as my mental functionality for a long time on the hard ground.  By the time I finally stood up by myself, the Donkey Bakery’s theme song was far away from where I was.  The thoughtful wind carried almost echo-like music to a miserable child.  In the distance, the trailer became a tiny dot which became smeared in my wet eyes. 

Heartbreakingly, I dragged my feet home.  “What happened to your dress?  Oh, no, your knee is bleeding.  Did you fall?  What happened?”  Holding my baby sister in one arm, Mother looked terrified.  She washed my bloody knee.  “Here, why don’t you eat your snack,” she comforted me.  On my hand, a piece of Mighty Hard Bread left over from last week sneered at me, “He, he, he….  Eat me!  I am your destiny.”  Madly I started biting it.  It wouldn’t budge.  Then I realized I had to give up before my teeth broke; I had to suck it just as usual.  It was my typical snack time.  I often fought, but most of the time, I withdrew, then ended up obnoxiously sitting in front of the TV in the house where my family and Grandma Fumi lived.

Summer Special Memoir vol.1

Prologue

My mother’s eye lids gradually lift up like the rising sun. With her favorite classical music tone coming from the FM radio, the chilly early morning air is welcomed through her nostrils.  Quickly but quietly, she folds her futon cover and mattresses lying by her husband’s into thirds.  She swiftly hoists the futon pile up to put it away in the closet with sliding doors.  The space on the tatami mat (the straw woven floor) where her futon used to occupy upholds the warmth that she left.  Everybody else in the family is still sound asleep.  Her footsteps in the hallway don’t seem to bother anybody.  In the quiet kitchen, even before she washes her face, her daily routine begins.  She never wonders why she is the only one to stay busy starting from the early morning until the end of the day.  Her fingertips are always looking for something to do with her family.  Napoleon didn’t have the word “Impossible” in his dictionary; my mother doesn’t have the word “sacrifice” in hers.  None of her duties burden her.  All chores are done one by one with a tempo that she has established over the years.  By the time the kettle lid starts dancing with boiling water, the washing machine is getting even louder in the laundry room.  When the sizzling sounds from the little rectangular skillet pan on the stove joins the morning symphony, it means my mother is diligently preparing my lunch.  Every day, except for Wednesdays, my mother fixes my lunch as a part of the melody in the morning symphony

My lunch box is a colorful, mini full course dinner condensed into one little box.  Plain white rice or fist sized rice balls with seaweed sit on one side of the rectangle box.  Sometimes a sour plum proudly places itself in the middle of the plain white rice.  It looks just like a Japanese flag.  The sour plums are known to protect from spoiling food.  Because of this reason, I find a red sour plum inside of my rice balls.  I don’t like the flag lunch box or rice balls with sour plum inside because I feel old fashioned.  My classmates have cute tiny rice balls with colorfully sprinkled sweetened sesame seeds on them.  I ask my mother, “Can you make smaller rice balls?”  She replies, “Only if my hands were as tiny as yours.”  More than half of my lunch box is filled with three (jumbo!) Mother’s fist sized rice balls.  I never have four rice balls or four of any item, because “four” in Japanese language sounds the same as “death”.  Holding four items will give you bad luck.  In fact, there is no room number four in any Japanese hospital.  No patient wants to stay in room number four.  My mother picks up a couple of little octopus shaped wiener sausages to give the box some color along with the yellow, brick-like omelet and Teriyaki sautéed green beans.  Dessert is a slice of apple with its skin carved like bunny ears.  My mother imagines every color as a music note.  She looks satisfied in front of her creative culinary art that creates a complete symphony.  Steam still rises from the tin lunch box, just like music coming from a music box.  My lunch box is my mother’s proudest musical and visual art creation of the day, except for Wednesdays.