Growing up, I lived books. Ever since I was a baby. Somewhere in a photo album there is a picture of me on my elbows – I may have been crawling by that point – leaning with raised eyebrows over a little wooden and foam picture book. I have always loved books because my mom read to me.
The library was a great place to go for a little kid. The books were colorful and fun to look at, and the stories talked about entire lives that we could never live, but could enjoy vicariously through mom’s readings. We would sit as she read to us in the library, then we would fill up one or two large canvas bags – that was before the unfortunate twenty-book limit was enforced – and proceed to work through them, five or ten picture books a day, until the next week, whereupon we would troop back in to the library, say hello to the nice librarians – we all knew each other by name – and troop out with another several bags worth of reading material.
My first real love was the Chronicles of Narnia. Mom started reading those to my sister and I when we were four and five years old. We did not follow much, and Mom was able to skip pages when the chapter was running long, but after a couple years we were able to pick out when she “missed” pages, and at that time, I was hooked. Sadly, after reading Prince Caspian Mom had some time-consuming issued come up. I never understood why, and I don’t suppose that I ever shall, but while we still read picture books together she did not have time to start anything longer. Distressed, I begged and begged for her to start the next book, but she encouraged me to do so myself until she got more time. That was out of the question because, at age ten, I still could not read – my parents had been worried and it was suggested by some kind of specialist that I was Learning Disabled, but at that my parents had vehemently determined that I would read whenever I was ready, possible disorders aside.
So one day I decided that I would try out Voyage of the Dawntreader, the sequel to Caspian. If Mom would not do it, then I would just have to man up and do the job myself. I finished the book in a couple days and moved on to The Silver Chair before Mom knew what had happened, and I have been reading great fiction ever since.
But the overdue advent of my reading career did not keep my mom, sister, and I from reading together. Dr. Seuss and the Berestain Bears were replaced by J.R.R. Tolkien, Rosemary Sutcliff, and Longfellow, but we carried on the tradition through middle school and into high school. Some might say that going so far was a bit much. I would never have exchanged a moment.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Living in the Country: Part Two
Spiders aside, the countryside was to me the perfect place to live. There was plenty of room to run around and scream without bothering the neighbors, and the neighbors could not even be seen with all the trees around our house. There were acres and acres of woodlands for hiking, and though we established no permanent trails, we hiked with our friends through the woods on a regular basis.
Below the house, the hilly slopes came together in one great ravine, where water collected during rainy weather. When things were dry, the water made a single little pool amidst large rocks, and where it spilled the water was almost immediately dried up. But when rains came the little pool was hidden by a torrent of rushing, crashing water that rose waist-deep and could knock a man over and drag him away. A sorry fate, for if he survived the rocky dashing, then he would have to dodge the barbed wire fence that marked our property’s westerly border.
Our neighbors on the ridge were varied. To one side, nearest the highway, was an old man who raised mules and hunted in the woods on his property. He asked permission to do the same on ours, assuring my dad that it was necessary to curb the coyote population.
“They come up here and breed with the wolves!” he said in deadly earnest. My dad denied him, thinking of his kids running about in the woods with firearms going off from time to time. That said, we became used to hearing the occasional boom thump off the hill side during hunting season, and the coyotes regularly set up a racket, but our dogs drowned them out and kept the place clear.
The next neighbors down were a family, with grandma living by herself in a doublewide next to the house where her son’s family lived. The man raised fighting cocks that he took to matches in neighboring states, since the fighting – but not the raising of – roosters was illegal. He valued his fighters, so we were all a little alarmed when my sister’s dog turned up with Number Thirteen twitching in her mouth. Dad clipped the tag off, beat the dogs with the dead rooster to scare them into submission – he hated every minute of it, too – and tossed the bird into the woods.
On the other side of our property, there lived some kids a little younger. We played often until the high school year took us in different directions. We read the same books, played the same games, and went to the same church for a while. Our fathers even rigged up a “climb-over,” a wooden stockade-style ladder that straddled the barbed-wire fence that divided our properties. Using that, all we needed was a wave and a shouted explanation to our parents before we disappeared over the fence to play for hours.
Below the house, the hilly slopes came together in one great ravine, where water collected during rainy weather. When things were dry, the water made a single little pool amidst large rocks, and where it spilled the water was almost immediately dried up. But when rains came the little pool was hidden by a torrent of rushing, crashing water that rose waist-deep and could knock a man over and drag him away. A sorry fate, for if he survived the rocky dashing, then he would have to dodge the barbed wire fence that marked our property’s westerly border.
Our neighbors on the ridge were varied. To one side, nearest the highway, was an old man who raised mules and hunted in the woods on his property. He asked permission to do the same on ours, assuring my dad that it was necessary to curb the coyote population.
“They come up here and breed with the wolves!” he said in deadly earnest. My dad denied him, thinking of his kids running about in the woods with firearms going off from time to time. That said, we became used to hearing the occasional boom thump off the hill side during hunting season, and the coyotes regularly set up a racket, but our dogs drowned them out and kept the place clear.
The next neighbors down were a family, with grandma living by herself in a doublewide next to the house where her son’s family lived. The man raised fighting cocks that he took to matches in neighboring states, since the fighting – but not the raising of – roosters was illegal. He valued his fighters, so we were all a little alarmed when my sister’s dog turned up with Number Thirteen twitching in her mouth. Dad clipped the tag off, beat the dogs with the dead rooster to scare them into submission – he hated every minute of it, too – and tossed the bird into the woods.
On the other side of our property, there lived some kids a little younger. We played often until the high school year took us in different directions. We read the same books, played the same games, and went to the same church for a while. Our fathers even rigged up a “climb-over,” a wooden stockade-style ladder that straddled the barbed-wire fence that divided our properties. Using that, all we needed was a wave and a shouted explanation to our parents before we disappeared over the fence to play for hours.
Living in the Country: Part One
To some degree, I have always lived in the country. Until my trip to Japan in the autumn of 2006, my time in cities had been only trips and visits, either to see my urbanite relatives, or to play tourist at famous museums and the like. The closest I ever came to the urban environment was my infancy in Rapid City, South Dakota – which at the time could barely be called a town, to hear my parents tell it – and a few years in neighborhoods while Dad job-hopped in the early Nineties, right after he got out of the Air Force. And even then, we were close to city parks and hiking trails, which Mom forced us all to use on a daily basis.
So it was no great change when my family moved out of our grandparents’ roomy country house and resettled outside town in an old two story wood and brick house that Dad likes to call the “cabin.” It was up on a hill in a young wood on the county border, with several sloping lawns and a long driveway that ran parallel to the dirt road. The house was curiously built into the hillside, with the top floor for living and the bottom floor for sleeping, unlike any house I had ever seen. The floors were connected by a spiral staircase that was (and is) painted a bizarre purple color that seemed to defy the house’s color scheme. But I loved that staircase and bounded up and down every day for several weeks.
One aspect I did not get used to were the arachnids. I had seen plenty of spiders at my grandparents’ (we even nicknamed the bathroom located near the dark back of the house, “the spider bathroom” for all the water spiders found in the sink on mornings) but these little buggers were the infamous Brown Recluse, and I dreaded even the sight of one. There were also scorpions in the corners, and it was not uncommon for the first year or two in that house for us to espy one of the vengeful beasts scuttling along the baseboards. The spiders and scorpions did not discriminate, and infested the entire house for years, though they tended to favor the dark downstairs – where we all slept. to fight back, my dad discovered invaluable sticky traps at Wal-Mart and we scattered these throughout the house, to great effect. The scorpions vanished and the spider population plummeted, although on occasion we would encounter a lone hunter stalking silently across the carpet in front of the TV. I have often considered the accidental flooding a few years back a miracle in disguise, because after we ripped up the ruined carpet, our spindle-legged foes were easier to point out, and after Dad got up the gumption to tile the downstairs, the Brown Recluses stand out like bandy-legged caltrops.
Strangely, despite living in that house for over ten years, not one of my family has ever been stung.
So it was no great change when my family moved out of our grandparents’ roomy country house and resettled outside town in an old two story wood and brick house that Dad likes to call the “cabin.” It was up on a hill in a young wood on the county border, with several sloping lawns and a long driveway that ran parallel to the dirt road. The house was curiously built into the hillside, with the top floor for living and the bottom floor for sleeping, unlike any house I had ever seen. The floors were connected by a spiral staircase that was (and is) painted a bizarre purple color that seemed to defy the house’s color scheme. But I loved that staircase and bounded up and down every day for several weeks.
One aspect I did not get used to were the arachnids. I had seen plenty of spiders at my grandparents’ (we even nicknamed the bathroom located near the dark back of the house, “the spider bathroom” for all the water spiders found in the sink on mornings) but these little buggers were the infamous Brown Recluse, and I dreaded even the sight of one. There were also scorpions in the corners, and it was not uncommon for the first year or two in that house for us to espy one of the vengeful beasts scuttling along the baseboards. The spiders and scorpions did not discriminate, and infested the entire house for years, though they tended to favor the dark downstairs – where we all slept. to fight back, my dad discovered invaluable sticky traps at Wal-Mart and we scattered these throughout the house, to great effect. The scorpions vanished and the spider population plummeted, although on occasion we would encounter a lone hunter stalking silently across the carpet in front of the TV. I have often considered the accidental flooding a few years back a miracle in disguise, because after we ripped up the ruined carpet, our spindle-legged foes were easier to point out, and after Dad got up the gumption to tile the downstairs, the Brown Recluses stand out like bandy-legged caltrops.
Strangely, despite living in that house for over ten years, not one of my family has ever been stung.
Babies, Blessings, and Shrines
One of the joys of living on one’s own in a foreign country is “getting lost.” That is, leaving the house and losing one’s way en rout to the destination. One is almost always due to encounter interesting, if not fascinating, people and places. So one day I got lost in Japan. I was in the park surrounding Osaka Castle and, seeing as it was a weekend, there was some sort of festival in motion. I looked at my watch, “I’ve got time,” – in English, just in case someone was listening – and started wandering aimlessly.
Because there was a festival present, there were also the requisite kiosks. So I bought some takoyaki and set out to see the sights. My wanderings took me to the paths that lead around the outskirts of the park and which lead to many out-of-the-way buildings and smaller “parkish” places. I happily strolled about, finished my takoyaki and set to getting found. I asked about, usually approaching blue-collar types such as gardeners; they are usually the most helpful. At last I was nearing my exit when a huge arch caught my eye. Well, I was “lost” so I turned aside and discovered a massive Shinto shrine. No one was in sight so I began snapping pictures with that crafty feeling that a kid gets who is doing something possibly detrimental, though he or she has not been told so. But suddenly the doors opened and a priest exited. He was followed by several people, which turned out to be a family. Then the wife appeared and she had a baby! Was it…?
The priest stopped outside the door and bowed to each family member as they filed out and I snapped a picture before he turned and looked me over quizzically. But I had no time for him; there was a baby to be seen. The family began walking toward a cluster of vehicles opposite where I entered and I hovered about on the outskirts, getting up my courage. Finally I threw aside my wayward fears and strode confidently up to the mom. I pointed at her child and asked authoritatively…“blessing, blessing?” She stared at me. My worst fears were realized. But they were all very gracious. Through a mixture of broken English and all but recognizable Japanese on my part, I ascertained that yes; this baby had just been baptized, Shinto style. She had a red kanji on her forehead, which is for girls only; boys have blue for their mark. Her mother held her up and bounced her in time to, “konnichiwa, say konnichiwa!” But the girl, barely larger than a football and semi-comatose, just let her head flop like a bobble toy and did not even un-cross her eyes. So I thanked them all and they smiled politely as the strange foreigner marched away to find an exit.
Because there was a festival present, there were also the requisite kiosks. So I bought some takoyaki and set out to see the sights. My wanderings took me to the paths that lead around the outskirts of the park and which lead to many out-of-the-way buildings and smaller “parkish” places. I happily strolled about, finished my takoyaki and set to getting found. I asked about, usually approaching blue-collar types such as gardeners; they are usually the most helpful. At last I was nearing my exit when a huge arch caught my eye. Well, I was “lost” so I turned aside and discovered a massive Shinto shrine. No one was in sight so I began snapping pictures with that crafty feeling that a kid gets who is doing something possibly detrimental, though he or she has not been told so. But suddenly the doors opened and a priest exited. He was followed by several people, which turned out to be a family. Then the wife appeared and she had a baby! Was it…?
The priest stopped outside the door and bowed to each family member as they filed out and I snapped a picture before he turned and looked me over quizzically. But I had no time for him; there was a baby to be seen. The family began walking toward a cluster of vehicles opposite where I entered and I hovered about on the outskirts, getting up my courage. Finally I threw aside my wayward fears and strode confidently up to the mom. I pointed at her child and asked authoritatively…“blessing, blessing?” She stared at me. My worst fears were realized. But they were all very gracious. Through a mixture of broken English and all but recognizable Japanese on my part, I ascertained that yes; this baby had just been baptized, Shinto style. She had a red kanji on her forehead, which is for girls only; boys have blue for their mark. Her mother held her up and bounced her in time to, “konnichiwa, say konnichiwa!” But the girl, barely larger than a football and semi-comatose, just let her head flop like a bobble toy and did not even un-cross her eyes. So I thanked them all and they smiled politely as the strange foreigner marched away to find an exit.
Women Only
How I boarded the train and wound up in the women’s-only car, the Lord only knows. It had been a long day in Japan, I had gone into Umeda to see the Umeda Sky Building, a ten minute train ride from home, and come back before going back to Namba to visit the Nipponbashi shopping district, for which the area is famous. I stayed perhaps two hours in the neighborhood in a fruitless search for a particular store but, giving up at about 6:30, I located Namba Station to make the trip home.
I boarded as usual and was soon absorbed in a good manga that I had picked up (one is hard-pressed to NOT find a manga-ya in Nipponbashi) and traveled to Shin-Osaka, perhaps seven stops from Namba. The manga finished, I put it away and looked about me at the singularly feminine car wherein I stood. My brow wrinkled only a little as something poked the back of my brain and I glanced up at the pink handle in my fist. Indeed, the entire car’s trim, handles, and seats had a pink aspect and further inspection yielded sufficient evidence – a sign – to convince me that I had traveled nearly all the distance home in the Woman’s Only, the bane of any self-respecting western – and Japanese – male. Strangely, I was not embarrassed (I mean, it was an accident, right?) and upon coming to a stop at Shin-Osaka I stepped calmly from the car, “adieu, ladies” and collapsed, knees weak, against a low wall. I had just lived through my worst commuting nightmare and not only survived it but did not even notice until the trip was nearly over. Well, at least my experience was not as bad as that of the gentleman my sister witnessed.
My sister lived in Osaka for a number a year before my trip and often traveled the very Midosuji rout that I took on a daily basis. She rode on many occasions in the Women’s Only, as it was infinitely more roomy thanks to the male half of the commuting population being stuffed into every other car. Well, she was one day traveling somewhere and into the Women’s Only steps a gentleman. She said this was actually not unusual, for on some occasions, little boys and teens with their girlfriends would make use of the exclusive car. Except, this was a stout, briefcase-toting businessman. In he came, huffing and so on from an apparent run he had recently finished, and plopped down between two schoolgirls. He leaned back and closed his eyes through a sigh of relief, glad that he was safely on the train. But only for a moment did he remain thus, because my sister said that he, obviously more observant than this author, slowly opened his eyes to study his surroundings. In a second he was up and in the next car, leaving three very amused schoolgirls behind. Being Japanese, he probably went home and committed hara kiri.
I boarded as usual and was soon absorbed in a good manga that I had picked up (one is hard-pressed to NOT find a manga-ya in Nipponbashi) and traveled to Shin-Osaka, perhaps seven stops from Namba. The manga finished, I put it away and looked about me at the singularly feminine car wherein I stood. My brow wrinkled only a little as something poked the back of my brain and I glanced up at the pink handle in my fist. Indeed, the entire car’s trim, handles, and seats had a pink aspect and further inspection yielded sufficient evidence – a sign – to convince me that I had traveled nearly all the distance home in the Woman’s Only, the bane of any self-respecting western – and Japanese – male. Strangely, I was not embarrassed (I mean, it was an accident, right?) and upon coming to a stop at Shin-Osaka I stepped calmly from the car, “adieu, ladies” and collapsed, knees weak, against a low wall. I had just lived through my worst commuting nightmare and not only survived it but did not even notice until the trip was nearly over. Well, at least my experience was not as bad as that of the gentleman my sister witnessed.
My sister lived in Osaka for a number a year before my trip and often traveled the very Midosuji rout that I took on a daily basis. She rode on many occasions in the Women’s Only, as it was infinitely more roomy thanks to the male half of the commuting population being stuffed into every other car. Well, she was one day traveling somewhere and into the Women’s Only steps a gentleman. She said this was actually not unusual, for on some occasions, little boys and teens with their girlfriends would make use of the exclusive car. Except, this was a stout, briefcase-toting businessman. In he came, huffing and so on from an apparent run he had recently finished, and plopped down between two schoolgirls. He leaned back and closed his eyes through a sigh of relief, glad that he was safely on the train. But only for a moment did he remain thus, because my sister said that he, obviously more observant than this author, slowly opened his eyes to study his surroundings. In a second he was up and in the next car, leaving three very amused schoolgirls behind. Being Japanese, he probably went home and committed hara kiri.
Graves of Murderers
My teacher of Russian History is rather enigmatic. The man is eccentric to the enth and his background is dodgy. He loves Russia. He talks about the great freedom that the citizens now enjoy and he speaks as though the Russians invented Democracy.
We were in class one day and the teacher was going on about the succession of the throne in Muscovite Russia. Ivan the Terrible had died and left only two sons. He had one son earlier, but he had offed him for treason – a fact that the teacher was very deliberate in defending, after all, with all these traitors running around, it was incumbent upon Ivan to uphold the law! Never mind that there was a law passed declaring those generals who surrendered in wartime to be traitors, worthy of death, thereby driving them to flee to the enemy in Poland. No! They were traitors and Ivan had every right to defend his crown!
So Ivan had a son that he killed – there was definitely no mental illness involved at all! – leaving him with two sons more. Fedor was a sickly man, but he did his best as Czar when his father died, though that did not stop him from succumbing to his illness and dying shortly thereafter. So that left young Dmitri as the last heir.
There was at the time a curious church law dictating that any marriage after the third was illegitimate. And it so happened that young Dmitri was the son of the fifth or sixth wife (I can’t recall which). Well, Dmitri was the son of a violent czar, so it came as no surprise when he was found dead in the courtyard, having tripped or slipped while playing alone with a dagger and thereby slitting his own throat. some suspicion was cast upon the boyar Boris Godunov, but that was ridiculous and unfounded, for he became the next czar and when he too died in time, he was buried in a cathedral.
But our teacher was eager to prove that Boris was innocent. Remember that church law about the third wife? Well, since Dmitri was the child of the sixth wife, it is clear that he was illegitimate – the prof used a stronger word, and he used it frequently. So, if the boy was illegitimate, then Boris was clearly innocent. After all, what competition was there in an illegitimate child? No! Boris was innocent, he was elected to the royal seat by a council and he was buried in a church, wasn’t he? Moreover, when our teacher went to Moscow last time, “I went to Boris Godunov’s grave, and I prayed over Boris Godunov’s grave, and I would never have prayed over the grave of a man whom I thought was a murderer!” and he seized the podium in both hands and glared at us from under his Gandalf eyebrows.
There was no response, though the guy behind me snorted real loud and buried his face in a textbook.
We were in class one day and the teacher was going on about the succession of the throne in Muscovite Russia. Ivan the Terrible had died and left only two sons. He had one son earlier, but he had offed him for treason – a fact that the teacher was very deliberate in defending, after all, with all these traitors running around, it was incumbent upon Ivan to uphold the law! Never mind that there was a law passed declaring those generals who surrendered in wartime to be traitors, worthy of death, thereby driving them to flee to the enemy in Poland. No! They were traitors and Ivan had every right to defend his crown!
So Ivan had a son that he killed – there was definitely no mental illness involved at all! – leaving him with two sons more. Fedor was a sickly man, but he did his best as Czar when his father died, though that did not stop him from succumbing to his illness and dying shortly thereafter. So that left young Dmitri as the last heir.
There was at the time a curious church law dictating that any marriage after the third was illegitimate. And it so happened that young Dmitri was the son of the fifth or sixth wife (I can’t recall which). Well, Dmitri was the son of a violent czar, so it came as no surprise when he was found dead in the courtyard, having tripped or slipped while playing alone with a dagger and thereby slitting his own throat. some suspicion was cast upon the boyar Boris Godunov, but that was ridiculous and unfounded, for he became the next czar and when he too died in time, he was buried in a cathedral.
But our teacher was eager to prove that Boris was innocent. Remember that church law about the third wife? Well, since Dmitri was the child of the sixth wife, it is clear that he was illegitimate – the prof used a stronger word, and he used it frequently. So, if the boy was illegitimate, then Boris was clearly innocent. After all, what competition was there in an illegitimate child? No! Boris was innocent, he was elected to the royal seat by a council and he was buried in a church, wasn’t he? Moreover, when our teacher went to Moscow last time, “I went to Boris Godunov’s grave, and I prayed over Boris Godunov’s grave, and I would never have prayed over the grave of a man whom I thought was a murderer!” and he seized the podium in both hands and glared at us from under his Gandalf eyebrows.
There was no response, though the guy behind me snorted real loud and buried his face in a textbook.
Book Sale!
Books sale in the liberal arts building! The History department was conducting a general purge of its library, with paperbacks for one dollar, hardbacks for three dollars, and textbooks for five dollars. I disregarded textbooks entirely and homed in on the histories, discovering a title on American expansion, one on the conquerors (of Britain, I suppose), and a trilogy on the kings of Merry Olde England. All told I spent a mere thirteen dollars on my new acquisitions!
I arrived early to said book sale so I helped to sort out and stack some books, browsing all the way. I received a free plastic sack for my troubles. Said the professor on staff, a younger fellow with a ponytail and soul patch, “Can I interest you in a FREE complimentary plastic book sack? It is also very useful for waist disposal, the asphyxiation of small animals, and makes a great urban tumbleweed!” I accepted gladly. As I strolled away he began a lament over his lack of stereotype; he was not too old, nor pretty, nor even big and threatening enough to scare away potential buyers; which left him out of sorts with regard to manning the table.
Later the next day, I spoke with my Christianity professor as I went down to the book sale again. Much to his delight, I spent a further seven dollars on works about medieval culture and politics (my professor was pleased to recognize several that he had donated to the sale), a bible commentary, and a novel titled Esau. It may be junk, but hey, it was only a buck.
The only problem now: what to do with my books? I always have great intentions to read every day and work through at least one book per semester, etc. yet inevitably, a combination of homework, social interaction (even if that means just sitting on the couch and watching a friend play Mariocart), and dilly-dallying leaves me with little time to read. As such, I do not have the time so late in the semester to read my new books, much as I would like to. I can’t even read the ones that I have brought from home, there is just no time at all, after the aforementioned time-taking escapades. And I really hate to just shelves the things until next semester. But wait! My mom is a history teacher!
So I off and packed the books back into their plastic sacks and toted them home. Mom was very pleased, and filed some away for later use while I stashed the thicker ones on the shelves with my other tomes of knowledge. Maybe come Christmas break – or graduation – I shall take the time to look through them.
I arrived early to said book sale so I helped to sort out and stack some books, browsing all the way. I received a free plastic sack for my troubles. Said the professor on staff, a younger fellow with a ponytail and soul patch, “Can I interest you in a FREE complimentary plastic book sack? It is also very useful for waist disposal, the asphyxiation of small animals, and makes a great urban tumbleweed!” I accepted gladly. As I strolled away he began a lament over his lack of stereotype; he was not too old, nor pretty, nor even big and threatening enough to scare away potential buyers; which left him out of sorts with regard to manning the table.
Later the next day, I spoke with my Christianity professor as I went down to the book sale again. Much to his delight, I spent a further seven dollars on works about medieval culture and politics (my professor was pleased to recognize several that he had donated to the sale), a bible commentary, and a novel titled Esau. It may be junk, but hey, it was only a buck.
The only problem now: what to do with my books? I always have great intentions to read every day and work through at least one book per semester, etc. yet inevitably, a combination of homework, social interaction (even if that means just sitting on the couch and watching a friend play Mariocart), and dilly-dallying leaves me with little time to read. As such, I do not have the time so late in the semester to read my new books, much as I would like to. I can’t even read the ones that I have brought from home, there is just no time at all, after the aforementioned time-taking escapades. And I really hate to just shelves the things until next semester. But wait! My mom is a history teacher!
So I off and packed the books back into their plastic sacks and toted them home. Mom was very pleased, and filed some away for later use while I stashed the thicker ones on the shelves with my other tomes of knowledge. Maybe come Christmas break – or graduation – I shall take the time to look through them.
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