My Japanese Mother

My Japanese mother and me

After we moved to Japan in 1976, it didn’t take much time at all for me to discover what I love about this country:

♥the prominent, craggy mountains that play hide and seek with wispy clouds, a scene that characterizes Japan’s horizon with an exclamation mark (assuming you’re not sandwiched between buildings in the cities);

♥rice planting in May, and later the amber stalks of rice grains that dance in the fall breeze while awaiting harvest in October;

♥the impeccable manners of the Japanese. These emphasize politeness and social order so much so that three lanes of bumper-to-bumper traffic can, if necessary, meld into one lane without anger, frustration, or even the presence of a policeman (although, to be honest, the incessant traffic jams are not among my favorite parts of Japan);

♥the regularity, dependability, and cleanliness of the mass transit system;

♥the arts traditions of pottery making; bold calligraphy and even bolder taiko drumming; elegant silk kimonos; sliding paper doors that often feature paintings of Japan’s four seasons; willowy dancing that is graceful even to the fingertips; and much, much more.

But certainly what I most love about Japan is its people, a sentiment shared by many people, including Bernie’s parents. My father-in-law was on a U.S. naval transport ship docked in Yokohama Harbor when the peace treaty was signed at the end of World War II. After he was finally discharged to return to his Missouri home, Sandlin had no desire ever to visit Japan again. So as we prepared to move to Japan thirty-three years ago, he wondered out loud why we didn’t do our mission work in America. Perhaps, if he’d been honest, Japan was still enemy territory to him even thirty years after the war. That all changed when Sandlin and Margaret visited us in Saga. Suddenly Japan took on the wonderful personalities of the people they met who welcomed them warmly.

Hanajima-san is characteristic of the gracious Japanese who have blessed us so often during our long tenure here. My mother’s age, she worries over me as if I were her own daughter. Preferring a kimono to western clothing, she preserves many other traditions in her daily life as well. As a result, we are often the recipients of her homemade jams and jellies, moisturizer distilled from the plants and herbs she grows (it does wonders for my skin), and lately, advice on how to survive an unusually hot and humid summer (her mint tea is an amazing antidote).

Speaking of which, I think I’ll pour a refreshing glass of that delicious heat elixir right now. Mmmm. It isn’t Mother’s Day, nor is it Hanajima-san’s birthday, but remembering my Japanese mother with a smile, I just want to say, “Okaasan, arigato!”