Embarking on a ten day vacation to a land far, far away needs a lot of one’s time to prepare… one reason for my recent absence from WordPress. Not that anyone would notice, of course.
For now, just some colorful images of nature taken during the journey to Japan I immensely enjoyed… which would not have been possible without the unqualified help from my Hiroshima cousin Masako – after whom this blog is named – and her extended family. Hopefully, time will permit sharing more of this glorious journey – and enlightening in ways I could never have imagined.
Samurais did the same thing… Slashed through two dozen other samurai with one sword…at least in the movies.
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My mother drummed it into me for the first years of my life – that “my ancestors” were samurai.
And not just plain ol’ run-of-the-mill samurai.
They were 偉い侍.
Okie-dokie. I’ll help. High ranking samurai.
And its true…but flawed.
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It gets too complicated so for argument’s sake, I have a second cousin, Toshio. He was adored by both my mother and Aunt Eiko. “Tosh-chan”, as we lovingly called him, was always kind to them through the years. Considering his horrendous working hours common amongst Japanese workers of that time, he still made the effort without complaint. He eventually became a top-notch engineer for Mitsubishi and worked in Cairo and Singapore to name a few places. He lives in Yokohama, Japan.
Tosh-chan sporting a Japanese goliath beetle near his home in the village of Fukui. 1974
When I lived in Japan alone for a couple of years as a very young adult, ever faithful Tosh-chan was there again. This time to help me out as well.
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As it turns out, and while mom was there with me visiting, he took us to his home village of Fukui, on the Japan Sea side. It was beautiful country and the area still had the ambience of pre-war Japan. We stayed at his parent’s house and were fortunate to meet some of the extended family. The house was typical from that early time – even the abode was outside. And the mosquitoes. Notice the plural? They never went away. The little buggers loved me… After a couple of hours, I was swollen like a Japanese pin cushion.
Mosquitoes and me after a while – nice and puffy.
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One day, Toshio drove mom, his mom and me to a very old temple, Zenshouji (全昌寺〒922-0807 Ishikawa Prefecture, Kaga, Daishoji Shinmeicho, １ if you’re curious). It was at least three centuries old and miraculously escaped US Naval bombardments.
We met with the head monk who took us to a room where we waited. We sat with our feet under our hineys; you should try that. Very uncomfortable. And the damn mosquitoes were there.
Then out came the monk with a VERY old notebook for the lack of a better description. It had black front and back covers. It was about three inches thick and quite dusty. It was held together by an old hemp string which bound EQUALLY old rice paper. He opened it up on the tatami flooring.
I wish I took photos of it. But my family (on my mother’s side) does have something similar in appearance. The paper and writing looked like something like this:
Example of calligraphy on rice paper. Written by Great-Great Grandfather Wakio Shibayama.
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The rice paper the history was written on was from the 1600’s… from about the time the Mayflower set sail on her historic voyage putting it into an American mindset (which was AFTER the Native Americans were here, of course). And the writing had some details on “my” samurai ancestors. Unbelievable. Even Joan Rivers would have been speechless.
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We then proceeded up a good sized hill accompanied by – you guessed it – the world’s supply of mosquitoes. I would have preferred just one Doutzen Kroes bug me. Was it my Hai Karate cologne?… or my blood infused by twenty years of Oscar Mayer bacon? Whatever it was, I must have smelled scrumptious to them. I was the nectar of the gods to the little buggers.
We climbed. And Tosh-chan pointed out that as we climbed up, the gravestones (called Ohaka) got older. And older. And older. 1900. 1850. 1800. 1750. 1700. 1650… “Fascinating,” as Spock frequently said.
Then, near the top of the hill by a ledge was a line of ohaka. There they were. “My” ancestors. Samurai ancestors. I was standing by their ashes.
You can see the edge of the hillside off to left of Tosh-chan.
The ohaka with the roofs on them mark the resting place of the honorable samurai. (The littler ones mark the resting place of children.) The one Tosh-chan and I are standing next to represents the resting place of a high ranking samurai. All their last names were of the “Shibayama” clan of which my grand-mother was one (my mother’s mother).
According to the family’s understanding, one ancestor was so skilled in swordsmanship that he was appointed the personal instructor to the son of a shogun. I’d have to admit that would be quite an honor back then. Others were feudal lords.
But…….. That is on my mother’s side and even then, half of that as she had her father’s blood in her… although my grandfather was also of samurai heritage. I know very little of grandfather’s side except that he came from the island of Shikoku.
And my father’s family? They were hard-working farmers. NOT samurai. And that’s one-half of ME.
So what does that make me? As mentioned at the beginning, my mother drummed into me my ancestors were samurai. I grew up thinking, “Yeah! I’m samurai!”
Yes, my ancestors were samurai. Noble ones at that. No doubt. But what my mother drummed into me was just a tad flawed to say the least. SOME of my ancestors were samurai.
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So I guess John Wayne is more of a samurai than I.
Make that Tom Cruise. He did a much better job portraying one in “The Last Samurai”.
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In a future post, you will learn of the true samurai. Not the lore. It is definitely not what you see in Hollywood movies.
But in closing this chapter, here is good ol’ Tosh-chan this past summer when my oldest son Takeshi and I went to Japan.
He helped us once again. Right down to the mosquitoes.
My son Takeshi and Tosh-chan in Yokohama near my father’s WWII US 8th Army HQs.
In the past several years, as his dementia progresses, Dad is repeating many times how he broke his elbow as a young boy… “Many times” like as in every four minutes. No…every two.
I thought, “He doesn’t remember he ate like a horse ten minutes ago… How can he remember something that happened 80+ years ago?”
Well, I just HAD to find out about his story… and I did.
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The story (which never varies) is/was he was playing “oninga”, or tag, with the neighborhood kids. “There was nothing else to do then,” he would tell me. They would end up in the yard of 正覚寺 – pronounced “Shoukakuji” – the Buddhist temple which is a hop, skip and a jump from his home. No wonder he excelled in the triple jump at Nichu.
You can see a tiled roof on the tallest structure to the right of him. That is 正覚寺.
The tiled roof of “Shoukakuji” can be seen behind and to the right of Dad in this 1948 photo. He is standing alongside his childhood home.
For those who like visuals:
Satellite view of home and Shoukakuji, 2012.
He would tell me (over and over) that while playing tag, “…I tried to get away so I jumped on this big round stone then leaped up to a branch on big a pine tree in front of 正覚寺.”
Now that I know he did the broad jump at Nichu, I thought this jumping thing was therefore plausible. (Did I mention I’m a writer for “Mythbusters”?)
“Trouble is, I jumped too far so my hands couldn’t grab onto the branch. I slipped off the branch then broke my elbow when I hit the ground”.
OK. So now, after “An Atomic Spark From a 1937 Yearbook“, I also know he excelled in the triple jump at Nichu. Plausible. (See… More proof I am a writer for “Mythbusters”.)
To this day, he cannot completely straighten out his right arm. It’s crooked. He now tells this story to my youngest kids, Jack and Brooke… Every four minutes.
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On September 7, 2012, I had to know. Off to 正覚時… But unlike my agile father of the 1920’s, I was walking very gingerly. There were four humongous blisters on my toes from walking in Japan and (from being tricked into) climbing Mt. Misen on Miyajima.
The sign at the entry gate, or “mon”. Shoukakuji’s middle character is written with an old Japanese character.
Indeed, there was a Japanese pine tree, or “matsu”. A huge one. You couldn’t miss it as you walk through the “mon”, or gate. It was so huge, the temple had steel braces installed to help hold these majestic branches up.
Steel posts and braces were installed to help hold up these ancient branches.
Off the to right, was the base of the tree. A puny trunk in relation to the Goliath branches… It was hard to believe at first this small trunk was the heart for this proud tree.
Then… at the base… was a large round stone. Could it possibly be? Plausible as we don’t know how long the stone was there… Am I tough?
Masako and my son Takeshi stand next to the large round stone and pine tree made famous by my father some eighty-plus years ago.
But where’s the branch my father jumped for? Myth: Busted!… or so I thought.
Then we saw it. Above my son Takeshi in the picture. The base of a broken branch. It was at the right height! OK… Myth: Plausible.
Here is the branch that Dad supposedly leaped for 80+ years ago…but fell and broke his elbow.
But conclusive proof was just beyond reach. There was no evidence as to age of the tree or how long the stone was there…
Then, as if Aunt Shiz summoned him, the reverend of 正覚寺 came out…with his wife. He was about 90 years old. Almost as old as my dad but he still had his wits about him. Thank goodness.
He told us he didn’t know my father personally…but that he played with Suetaro and Mieko, Dad’s youngest brother and sister! He knew Suetaro well, he said. He listened to Suetaro blow on his flute from the house in the evenings.
My Japanese wasn’t good enough so Masako stepped in… She explained to the elderly reverend how my dad (her uncle) had jumped from a large round stone at the base of a pine tree here 80+ years ago and broke his elbow.
Masako is mimicking my father’s broken right elbow and his story while my son Takeshi and cousin Kiyoshi watch. Kiyoshi was pointing to the stone to supplement the story.
Unbelievably, the reverend said with pride, “The pine tree is about 400 years old…and that stone has been there for as long as I can remember. It hasn’t been moved, either.”
Then the wife said that a number of years ago, the branch had broken off but it was very long. Then after it broke off, “…a swarm of bees made a home inside. We had to seal the crack unfortunately,” to account for the mortar on the branch.
Was his story a myth? Busted? Plausible? Confirmed?
Myth: Confirmed.
Dad wasn’t imagining ANYTHING. His memory is intact from that time.
The main Hiroshima newspaper yesterday ran a story on my Dad and his yearbook – and of international kindness. Fittingly, it was the anniversary of the atomic bombing.
The main newspaper in Hiroshima (Chugoku Shimbun) ran an article on my father and his 1937 yearbook. (A) Mr. Tsukamoto 塚本, the man who kindly helped locate my father’s yearbook, (B) me 金本光司, (C) my father Koso 康三, and (D) my father’s beloved Nichuu High School 広島二中. (Since you all can read Japanese, in this case, it is read top/down, right to left.)
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Hiroshima conducts an annual, somber peace ceremony each year on August 6th. A peace ceremony. That’s the message. Peace. Nothing more. Nothing less. Just peace.
They are not calling attention to themselves seeking pity or repentance. While there are still many who feel the Japanese brought this on to themselves, the citizens of Hiroshima have moved beyond forgiveness and are simply seeking to spread a strong global message for peace.
This year, the grandson of President Truman (below) was in attendance. Ari Beser was there, too. His grandfather was Jacob Beser – Enola Gay’s bombardier. Wonderful.
Clifton Truman Daniel (center) lays a wreath during the peace ceremony in Hiroshima. His grandfather was President Truman.
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In my short story, “An Atomic Spark and a 1937 Yearbook“, it tells of how two complete strangers from Hiroshima – without hesitation – sought out my father’s yearbook from 1937. They miraculously found one, made a digital copy and mailed it to me through my cousin, Masako, who still lives in my father’s childhood home in Hiroshima. I printed it out and showed it to him a week before Father’s Day this year.
Dad – who is suffering from progressing dementia at 93 years of age – was overjoyed. He recalled so many things from the most happiest years of his life…including being a track star. Riding on the train to get to school with his friend Aoki… The school song. Dementia was put on the back seat for that morning.
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In a small expression of thanks, I had sent to Mr. Tsukamoto a flask etched with “Nichuu High School, August 6, 1945”. I also asked he offer a prayer to the students of Dad’s high school on August 6th. Dad’s beloved high school was but 1,500 yards from the bomb’s hypocenter.
Think about it. 1,500 yards from the hypocenter. A Marine Corps sniper armed with a Barrett .50 caliber rifle can take out a target over 2,000 yards away. The school ceased to exist.
As part of the peace ceremonies yesterday in Hiroshima, Mr. Tsukamoto visited the school’s memorial wall. You can see the stainless steel flask on the black center stone in front of a praying Mr. Tsukamoto.
Mr. Tsukamoto offering a prayer for world-wide peace and in memory of my father’s high school’s students who died that morning in 1945. The flask can be seen directly in front of him.
In this photo, Mr. Tsukamoto is offering a symbolic toast with water from the flask.
Mr. Tsukamoto offers a symbolic toast at the school’s memorial wall during the annual Peace Ceremony. It was unbelievably hot that day as well. The newspaper’s white building can be seen in the background.
I will be showing the article to my father this next weekend.
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I wish to thank Mr. Tsukamoto, Ms. Kanetou and Ms. Michiko Tanaka, the reporter who authored this article on international kindness, forgiveness and peace.
To say it is incredible falls short. 1,500 yards short.
After a war’s end, the war for food continues for a losing country. Japan was no exception.
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In “There Be Gold in My Family,” Taro was mentioned. He was miraculously able to track down my mother and Aunt Eiko in what remained of Tokyo after Japan’s surrender in WWII. He was part of the US 8th Army’s Military Intelligence Service and had brought them much needed food, clothing and cigarettes.
L to R: Aunt Eiko, mom, Grandfather, Grandmother and Uncle Shibayama. Aunt Eiko, mom and uncle are wearing clothing given to them by Taro who took the picture. It is dated January 2, 1947 on the back.
After being discharged from the Army in early 1947, he returned to his family’s farming roots in Livingston, CA. With his meager income, he still managed to buy clothing and shipped them to my mother and Aunt Eiko. He was a kind and generous man. To this day, they are indebted to Taro.
One ensemble Aunt Eiko received was a blue dress, shoes, and handbag. More later.
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When war ended and the Allies began their Occupation of Japan, the population was in rags. Many had no homes.
Civiians with ration books waiting in line for beans. Note the containers for carrying clean water. Japanese signage discloses this line was in Shinagawa, Tokyo. Note the orderliness of the civilians.
Everyday people suffered from poverty, filthy conditions, hunger, and food shortages. In order to help distribute food, Japanese people were given assigned rations by the Allies. This was put into motion quickly thanks to the Supreme Commander, Gen. MacArthur. He ensured the most humane treatment possible under those wretched conditions.
In reality, living just on the rationed food often did not provide adequate nourishment, and a thriving black market developed amidst the constant food shortages. Civilians lined up, waiting for their rations of beans as even rice was not available to them at that time. (The last point is critical to this story.) They also carried receptacles to carry clean water which was also rationed. As many young Japanese men were killed, a majority of those lining up were the elderly, women and children.
Of course, Americans were issued food ration stamps as part of our war effort back home and textbooks show many photos of starving and tortured American prisoners.
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Back to Aunt Eiko’s blue dress ensemble.
She recalls how “Western” they looked. Especially since the outfit was a BRIGHT blue. Very American. Very NOT Japanese. Madonna-esque. You can tell by looking at the clothing the women were wearing in the food line picture.
Aunt Eiko was so happy though. She wanted to show off her dress but was fearful of the ridicule or demeaning comments she may receive from passerbys. You see, even in 1947, only a small minority “had”… The vast majority were “have nots”. Neighbors would turn their backs on those that appeared to have received favors from the conquering Americans.
Nevertheless, she was too happy and wore the ensemble through the still decimated Ginza. She caught a photographer’s eye. She was asked to model. So she did.
The photo series ended up in a magazine, a rarity as paper was still in short supply and very expensive. Another case of have versus have nots.
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Although the magazine now is extremely fragile (the paper quality was very poor), it is one of Aunt Eiko’s prized possessions. I was so worried the pages would fall apart if I opened up the magazine to scan the pages. Its odor was typical of old newsprint. But somehow, the pages stayed together.
This is the original B&W of the cover shot:
B&W original print. Aunt Eiko does not recall why the bottom left corner is cut off. Taken in 1947.
Inside the cover:
Orginal B&Ws of this page:
Original B&W. Note the handbag and shoes sent to her by Taro from Livingston, CA.On a sofa.
Aunt Eiko cannot recall why the actual magazine took about a year to be issued.
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But what is the connection between a blue dress, food and post-war Japan?
The photographer paid her with “ohagi”. Out of his food ration. Made out of precious rice and beans.
One of the few times Old Man Jack would tell me what island something happened on, it would be humorous – as humorous as he could make it.
He HAD to laugh off some of the horror. He needed to survive being under attack by his own thoughts.
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On January 16, 2011, eleven months before he passed away, we decided to go to Denny’s for breakfast. He hated that place – except for their (gawd awful) coffee. He loved their coffee. And he complained about the coffee on the islands. Imagine that. Denny’s coffee couldn’t have tasted that much different. Denny’s uses ocean water, too, you know, for their distinctive flavor. Perhaps that is why he liked their coffee.
Jack with “Green Island” story and his tradmark grin – Jan. 16, 2011.
“Green Island” was Jack’s last combat station when he earned enough points to be rotated back home. He told me when they yelled out his name, he just ran straight onto this makeshift pier where a PBy was starting up. He jumped in wearing only his shorts and boots. They took off. He was on his way home.
(Click here if you wish to see official US Navy photos of Green Island when Old Man Jack was stationed there.)
In my internet research, I did come across some detailed battle history of Green Island. I printed it out and not knowing how he would react (even after 11 years of friendship), I presented it to him before the (gawd awful) coffee came. I didn’t want him to be TOO alert in case things didn’t go well. 🙂
Well, you can see his reaction. He was “tickled and pickled” I went through the trouble.
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During breakfast, he told me about one detail he was assigned to on Green Island – the digging of new holes for latrines. Never mind my eggs were over-easy. But he’s gone through hell whereas I was spared. This was everyday fare for him.
He told me he picked out two “dumb new guys” who thought they knew everything for the detail. They went out where the other “used up” latrines were. He ordered them to start digging new holes in this hard coral-like stuff not too far from the other “used up” holes while he “supervised”.
I knew I would get his goat if I interrupted him. That was part of the fun.
So I interrupted him. For fun.
“Jack…dig? Why didn’t you just have them make a small hole then throw in a grenade?”
Well, I asked for it… in Denny’s… on a busy Saturday morning.
“You dumb shit,” he declared with that boyish grin. “YOU could have been one of the dumb new guys. YOU would have fit right in. We didn’t need any more craters! We had LOTS of craters – all around us! So we dug holes like we were ordered to. So shut up and listen!”
Whooo-ee. That was fun… in Denny’s… on a busy Saturday morning.
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I never asked him if he read the history on Green Island. Later on, though, Old Man Jack said he had wanted to go back to those “stinkin’ islands” just to see. It felt as if he wanted to let some demons out.
He never made it back.
Perhaps he’s there now saluting his young buddies he had to leave behind.
Masako and Spam Musubi 