I have been teaching Japanese to foreigners for almost two decades now. Some of my students can speak Japanese very well, but, unfortunately, few of them can read or write, even the Japanese script, hiragana, which is relatively easy to learn. Whenever I think about that, I can’t help but remember my nanny.
When I still had to be pushed around in a stroller, in other words, when I was still too young to walk, a new nanny named Katsué-san came to our home to learn the manners of a big house. One of our distance relatives, she was very loyal to us and took rather good care of me.
The day after Katsué arrived at our home, my mother asked her to take me to a physician. As she was new to the area, I had to point out the direction with my hand from the stroller.
One night, my mother asked Katsué to read me a fairy tale. As she began reading the story, I noticed something odd. At last, I sat up and asked her to show me the book. Taking it from her, I started reading the story to myself. Only then did I realize she had been making a mistake reading the particle ヘ as “hé” rather than “é”. When I finished reading the story, I looked over to Katsué and discovered that she had fallen asleep. Who was really babysitting whom, I couldn’t help wonder.
The fact that Katsué could barely read hiragana was not surprising. In those days, there were a lot of people who could not go to primary school for one reason or another. Even though they were illiterate, they still managed to find work and lead productive lives.
When Katsué-san was in her twenties, she married a carpenter and moved out of our home. She must be in her late 80s now, but in my mind, she is still a naïve teenager.
As I write this, memories from those days have been flooding back to me.
A carpenter once came to repair the lock to my aunt’s room. A few days later, he returned to steal some money from her room. I happened to be returning from kindergarten at that moment and went upstairs where I noticed someone hiding behind the door. I told this to my mother and a few days later she took me to the police where I reported what I had witnessed. I learned later that the carpenter confessed everything.
My grandfather and grandmother were enthusiasts of sadō, or the Japanese tea ceremony, and often invited guests to our house. We children had to be quiet during these visits and whenever we got too noisy, my grandmother would threaten to put us in a dark underground storage room as a form of punishment. We were always afraid of getting into trouble during their tea ceremony gatherings.
My grandparents’ garden, which was laid out in the karé-sansui, or dry landscape style for the tea ceremony, expressed a natural scene of a mountain, river, waterfall and valley. They were all made of stones—there was no water—which suited the calm mood of the tea ceremony room very well. The garden’s stones and trees are still there today.
Because of the rampant poverty and hunger in the region during and after the war, our home was often the target of burglars. One night, my grandmother caught a thief. He had snuck into the tea ceremony room to steal whatever he could find that was of value. As my grandmother Kanamé was waddling down the breezeway towards the teahouse to prepare it for their tea ceremony lesson, she caught sight of an unfamiliar figure with one hand in her pot of sugar, the other hand in his mouth. Mesmerized by the sweet taste of sugar—so scarce in those wartime years—he must have completely forgotten what he had actually come to steal. As soon as Kanamé discovered him, she grabbed onto the belt of his kimono, pressed the burglar alarm, and shouted at the top of her lungs: “THIEF!!! THIEF!!!”
I once saw the sugar pot myself several years later. A rare article, it was made of green diamanté glass with cracks in it and shaped like a melon. I suspect that the sugar must have been Kanamé’s own stash that she hid in the teahouse for safekeeping. Life used to be simpler back then, something which we cannot imagine now.
Before summer arrived, a tatami-mat craftsman would come to change the straw mats that covered our floors. It was one of our yearly events. The servants would help the craftsman carry the mats to the garden where he would remove the old covers and padding, then sew on new ones, using a special needle, stitching awls, and picks. I always enjoyed watching the craftsman’s skillful way of sewing the mats which was so different from sewing clothes by hand. Unfortunately, the work is mechanized today and the cushioning is made from polystyrene foam rather than rice straw. In the past they were living things with souls; now, I’m afraid, they are just mass-produced floor coverings.
After finishing up his work, the craftsman would sprinkle lime on the wooden floorboards, and then all the servants would carry the new tatami mats back into the house. The floor was higher than most other houses, something my grandfather took pride in.
There were many children among my relatives and neighbors. Sometimes they played hide-and-seek in our house. There were a lot of rooms and closets, inner steps. There was no end to our “playground”. My sister once hid in such an out-of-the-way place that she couldn’t be found. After a while, we became hungry and gave up looking for her and went home, something that still makes us laugh today. We also played kick-the-can in the alleyway until it got dark.
As I have mentioned before, my grandmother was terribly sensitive to the cold and always kept a pocket warmer which contained volatile benzene. One day she forgot to remove the warmer from her clothes. She changed out of her kimono and left it on a futon. Her maid brought the futon out to the balcony and hung it on a wooden hanger. Before long, the futon and the wooden hanger caught fire. I was in the children’s room upstairs near the balcony and noticed black soot falling. When I looked down from the balcony, I discovered that the futon was on fire, smoke billowing from it. Running downstairs, I told my mother and with the help of the maids she threw water on the futon, dousing the fire. In olden times, causing a fire, even by accident, was considered a serious crime, but nobody was punished. I heard that my grandmother could be very unforgiving towards others but she never apologized for her own mistakes.
The drainpipes of our house were made of copper. One day, a pair of thieves tried to steal the drainpipes because they could make some money if they sold the copper on the black market. A maid encountered the two men in front of the house and cried out. When my mother heard her voice, she ran out of the house and chased after them in her sock feet, but failed to catch them.
The kitchen in our home was 15 tatami-mats in size, or about 30 yards square if my math is correct. It had hardwood flooring, rather than an earthen floor like most traditional homes had in those days. Three sides of the kitchen were covered with order-made cupboards that my grandmother had designed. One of them separated the kitchen from the dining room and had cabinets and drawers accessible from both sides. Food and dishes were placed on a shelf from the kitchen side, then taken from the dining room side. The cupboard was divided into the shelves for trays and big dishes and small drawers for spoons and forks, and so on. It was quite innovative for the times.
The kitchen’s southern side window faced the earthen floor. It also had a skylight in the ceiling such that it was relatively bright. A scrap box was placed beneath the bay window near a big sink and was connected to a garbage bucket outside the kitchen. The idea was quite good, but I don’t think my mother or the maids ever used the garbage shoot for sanitary reasons.
There was an island table in the center of the kitchen. The table had board shelves underneath it. When live-in servants and maids had their meals, the cooking table was used as a dining table. There was another gas oven countertop which was made of tiles as well as an old Japanese style cooking oven, known as a kamado outside the kitchen. It was used to cook rice.
I never heard about the usefulness and conveniences of it directly from my grandmother, but even though I was a child I understood how elaborate and new it was for the times. My grandmother might have been trying to bring the modern times into her home.
Unfortunately, the Japanese furniture was all made of wood and brown in color, rather than painted. When you see famous western-style houses in Japan which imitate the European-style, almost all of them are made with unpainted wood furniture. My grandmother’s elaborate kitchen was no different.
There was a dining room next to the kitchen which had a hori-gotatsu. This is a kind of pit in the center of the room, over which a low table is placed. In the winter, a charcoal-burning or electric heater is placed under the table to keep your feet warm.
Our cat was always hiding in the hori-gotatsu, and would bite or scratch at our feet whenever we sat down. When I was in kindergarten, there was a radio on a small cupboard. We would enjoy listening to popular radio shows every night.
There were two telephones in the house. One was at the hospital and the other was by the dining room. It was one of those old-style phones with a separate receiver and mouthpiece that you sometimes see in classic movies. You spoke into the mouthpiece and listened with the receiver which was attached by a long cord. In order to make a call, you had to pick up the receiver and tell the operator the number you wanted to be connected with.
In the room next to my grandfather’s bedroom, there was an oshi’ire closet with a peculiar door. Although it looked like a typical Japanese-style sliding door made of paper with a wooden frame, it had a bell attached to the back of it. Whenever someone slid the door open, the bell would ring. Even when you were on the other side of the house, you could hear if someone was trying to get into the closet, where a small safe was hidden. We called the safe “Charin” after the sound the bell made. It was used for keeping money and important papers. My mother was in charge of the safe and almost no one was to supposed to go near it but her.
I don’t know who named it, “Charin”, but it was a cute name and we were all fond of it.
Every summer, my aunts came back to our house with their children. My grandparents had eleven grandchildren altogether who would stay for a couple of weeks during the long school breaks. The family would become big and noisy during their visits and my mother and the maids had a hard time taking care of the lot of us.
Going on “bus hikes” with my cousins is one of my happier memories. Sometimes Taichirō would let his eleven grandchildren massage his legs and arms while he lay on the tatami mat. One of my mother’s hobbies was taking photos, so we have many photos from those good old days.
On New Year’s Day, we used to put on impromptu plays under the direction of an elder cousin in front of the whole family and live-in maids. I remember an elder cousin named Hiroshi played the lead character in the skit “Kunenbō”. This is a story about a tree that gives fruit every nine years. He directed the children and starred in the leading role of the planter of the trees. We enjoyed putting on these impromptu plays and the audience always gave us a big round of applause.
In September of 2012, I visited the City Art Museum.[1] It was the first time for me to go back in 21 years. While there I had the chance to see the outside of our old home. The curator of the museum was a generous person and showed me around many places which are closed to the public and are now being used for storage or office space.
Since I had brought my video camera with me, I was able to capture it all on tape. I was particularly interested in the outside of the buildings. There were both western style and Japanese style buildings, which today are still closed to the public. Not even close family members can see them.
As soon as the curator unlocked and opened the door to the passage leading to the entrance of the house, I was so surprised that tears fell from my eyes. I started to take a video, but I couldn’t stop crying. It felt as if I had found soldiers returning from a hard-fought battle. They quietly saluted me as I entered, generously showing me their proud exteriors.
The curator of the museum returned to her office, leaving me alone to reminisce.
The buildings have changed little over the years and the condition was not bad; far better than I had imagined. I had expected the weeds to have become thick and bushy, preventing me from walking through the passage. It was a clear autumn day and there was not a cloud in the blue sky. It allowed me to take some very good shots which contrasted the western-style and Japanese buildings and roofs.
While I was taking the video, my imaginary old soldiers began to whisper about the good old days. Our house was always busy, with people coming and going, chatting noisily in every corner.
Whenever a guest would come through the front gate and make his way along the gravel path, a maid would notice, and, looking through a window, find the visitor. She would report it to my grandmother, who would instruct the maids to prepare the tea. One of the maids would put china on a tray; another would boil the water and make tea. They were already using a coal gas oven in their kitchen back then because of the coal mine industry in the area. The other maid would lead the guest to a round, western-style guest room.
As I recalled these images I felt as if I could hear the sounds of pans clanging, china rattling, and steam whistling from a kettle. Above all I could hear the hustle and bustle of people busy at work.
When I walked around the backyard to the kitchen, memories of our pet dog “Shigeru” came back to me. I don’t know why, but my grandfather named the brown little puppy after the Prime Minister, Yoshida Shigeru. The Akita-inumix ended up living for over 15 years, witnessing all of the trials and tribulations of our lives.
Shigeru lived under the engawa just outside of our dining room by the well on a chain, with another young dog.[2] Shigeru was smart and loved by everybody. He understood the differences between family members and servants, and could tell people by the sound of their footsteps. He knew who his master was and who fed him. On the other hand, Shigeru seemed to be rather strict towards the younger dog as if it was his responsibility to inculcate the ways of the house.
Shigeru would sometimes escape from his chain, but before running away, would first dash up to my mother’s room on the second floor, gesture goodbye, then go back down the stairs and run out into the street. He did this every time he escaped.
One day Shigeru was caught by a dogcatcher, who sold dogs for their meat and fur. In those days there were a lot of stray dogs. Since they were a danger for public health, the municipal office hired dogcatchers to catch strays. My mother had to visit the pound to get Shigeru back. The poor dog’s body was still shaking when he returned home. Even though he had only been missing a few hours, he was a different dog and we couldn’t help but laugh at how haggard he looked. That said, everyone, including the servants, were relieved to have him back.
I played a trick on Shigeru once by pretending to be a stranger. I completely fooled him by wearing a disguise and changing the way I walked. As I came down the gravel path, he barked loudly, but as soon as he realized who I was, his tail wagged excitedly to show that he was sorry for his mistake. I enjoyed this immensely.
Shigeru kept good watch over our house and did an excellent job protecting us throughout his life.
[1] The museum is located in the building that once housed my grandfather’s clinic.
[2] An engawa (縁側) is a Japanese style loggia, or a wooden-floored corridor that cuts off direct contact of a room with a garden. The en runs around the room on the outside of a building or house and resembles a narrow porch or sunroom.
A Silent Ovation is available in print and digital version at Amazon.