Masako and Spam Musubi

Over thirty years ago.  I was a child.  My father took us to a cemetery to check for ancestors we had learned to be buried there.  It was a country church.  And in the church was a stained (still is) glass window bearing the names of great great relatives.  When we pulled in to the parking lot I remember it to be empty.  But there was a “man”.  He was older than us children.  But he couldn’t have been more than twenty or something.  He was playing a guitar under a tree.  And he kept looking in to something.   At some point or another we managed to make our way to him.  Our curiosity was peaked.  I couldn’t tell you what he was playing, I couldn’t tell you if he was just learning, or already a master.

I do, however, remember and can picture his curly haired head looking…