Yonsei 18 - Fourth Generation Japanese-Americans - Part 1

My husband and I have two sons.  The younger son lives with his Japanese wife and two sons in Nagoya, Japan, while our older son lives with his Japanese-American wife and two sons in California. And there-in lies my story. (Remember you can click on any picture to enlarge it.)

In California, my son's family belongs to the Yonsei Basketball Association.  Quoting from the Yonsei Basketball Association web site:
"The Yonsei Basketball Association, founded by Frank Kiyomura in 1993, consists of specially selected young men and women active in Japanese-American Youth Basketball throughout Southern California. The vision of the Association is to provide our American youth with a glimpse of their rich heritage through immersion in the Japanese culture by staying with a local Japanese family and participating in their daily lives."

Here's the basketball teams: boys and girls. Zachary is the
boy standing closest to the right side.

(Yonsei refers to the fourth generation of Japanese-Americans.
First generation:  Issei
Second generation:  Nisei
Third generation:  Sansei)

Last summer Zachary (age 14) as part of the Yonsei Youth Basketball Team, along with parents and siblings, traveled  to Tamana on the Island of Kyushu in Southern Japan.  Kyushu is a popular tourist destination - sub-tropical, with active volcanoes, one of Japan's finest reconstructed castles and gardens.  Tamana is a small town where The American Yonsei team played Tamana High School Team - among others.

Members of the entourage stayed in hotels, while each basketball player stayed with a host family.  (The host families most likely knew very little English, and the Yonsei visitors probably knew less Japanese, although they did have some lessons before they left the States.)

Zachary with his host Takuma

Our younger son, Sharif, living in Nagoya (Central Honshu - south of Tokyo)  drove with his family and mother-in-law to Tamana to see his brother and family.

Here they all are at the Tamana train station. Left to right, Chris (age 4) held by his mom, Sachiyo,  Liam (age 7) in front of Sharif, Wade, Zachary, Cody (age 10), Joyce and Mrs. Oi.

Kumamoto Castle with samurai warrior

When not watching basketball games,  the families took in the sights.  This is the Kumamoto Castle.  Kumamoto is just south of Tamana.  Chris was not at all happy about the samurai warrior sharing this picture with them.

Apartment gardens seen from Kumamoto Castle

Here is Cody having a calligraphy lesson, one of the Yonsei activities.

Bedroom scene at the hotel - with Cody relaxing

Garden from hotel window.



Wade and Sharif in the garden.



Chris exams a prickly pod while Cody shows Liam a bug (?).

After a few days the Yonsei Team said good-bye to their host families.  The Yonsei group traveled on to Hiroshima, and Sharif and his family continued on to visit the Aso-san volcano caldera, a big tourist attraction on Kyushu.

You may be  wondering why it took me 9 months to write about this trip.  I had to collect the pictures from our sons' Flicker accounts.  It took me awhile to get enabled to download and/or copy photos, to decide which ones to use and to determine how to describe the Yonsei 16 program.  The last problem was solved when I hit upon looking for the web site.

Journey Home

My son, Sharif,  and his family made their annual visit from Japan this month.  About 18 days.  The first thing  he and his wife always do is put the mattress and the futon on the floor of the guest room and make up their beds where the four of them sleep.
Sharif and Sachiyo want their sons to be bi-cultural as well as bi-lingual so the second thing they do is to put Liam in school.  For the past two years Liam has attended the elementary school near us, but this year they said they didn't want to go through all the paperwork involved in admitting Liam, unless he was going to stay at least 3 weeks.  Since Liam was only staying 2 weeks Sharif enrolled him in Columbia Independent School (CIS). 

While Liam was there Sharif gave a talk on Japan, and with Liam's help, gave the class of second graders a lesson in origami.  They made a cicada.











Here is a photograph of  a photograph taken of the class while Sharif was there.



This photo was part of a large book given to Liam on his last day commemorating his nearly two weeks at the school.  Besides these pictures of his dad's talk, each child had his picture taken with Liam and each child wrote a paragraph of appreciation. 





Chris was also enrolled in a nearby pre-school, but the four year olds only attended afternoons, three days a week,  so Chris went three times.

Japan has one of the highest literacy rates in the world, but Sharif says that is not because Japan has better schools than other countries.  Rather, as you may have heard, students have after school tutoring sessions.  Liam goes to a math class twice a week, swimming class once and calligraphy class on Fridays.  Besides this, Liam's parents brought books ordered on line in both Japanese and English, math and language, for Liam to work on.

Here Liam works on some Lego car concoction from the first Star Wars prequel.

Chris also shows a lot of concentration.

Liam's birthday (age 8) was in January so I gave him Star Wars Lego's as a birthday present.   Really it was for both boys, along with a small Lego air ship which Chris chose.  Chris will be five at the end of this month.

 Liam couldn't wait to play with a young neighbor boy every day after school.  On a Sunday afternoon he and his sister came over for a birthday cake (and ice cream) dedicated to both Liam and Chris.   They sang happy birthday songs both the traditional and every vulgar rendition they had ever heard.

Building castles with blocks.  Mommy approves.



 Other amusements that occupied the grandsons' two weeks in Columbia:

Creating a volcano.

Feeding the birds.

Visiting the library.

By the time the family was at the airport ready to leave for Japan, Chris was fed up with his grandmother taking pictures.  He refused to open his eyes, pretending I wasn't there.

Finally they were pushing their boxes toward check in.  We will miss them for another year!

Lenten Roses

As of March 5th, we've had a very mild if rather unpleasant winter.  The hardy Lenten roses in our back garden have put out blossoms despite some low nighttime temperatures.  They regularly bloom during Lent, hence their common name, I suppose, although the botanical family is helleborus.  Their flowers are not showy, but they bloom all summer, are green into fall, and the deer don't eat them.  As you can see the blossoms droop as if in prayer - maybe another reference to Lent - but if you turn the flower up you find interesting variations.

Here is the coveted Lenten  purple, although in this photograph shows it more pink.

The creamy white blossom is just as shy as the purple.  Notice the little circle of stamens around the pistils and stigma of the flower.

Unless you tip this flower up and look into its cup,  you will never see the lovely purple freckled petals.

We have one other brave flower.  Our first daffodil bloomed yesterday.  They have withstood a number of hard freezes, too.  Is spring really on its way?

Roads Around Bath - More Thoughts About Roads From the Writers Group



Avon Meadow and Copse

 The following is another reminiscence I wrote about roads, prompted by our writing group.  For this post I have edited and expanded on the original topic.

In the 1990's my husband and I usually spent several weeks each summer in Bristol with his mother to be with her and as a resting point on trips between the United States and Egypt.  I learned to love the rural rambles around Bath and often took the morning bus to Bath and from there Badgerline buses into the countryside.  The U.K. has a wonderful policy for ramblers (i.e. hikers/walkers).  If a footpath has been used for a long time - say centuries - that footpath is considered a public footpath and can be used by hikers/walkers/ramblers even though it goes through private land.  Of course ramblers are expected to show such common courtesies, as closing gates and respecting the work of farmers. Footpaths have been obliterated in some cases or go through cow pastures.  However, there are books and pamphlets with directions and notes on the locations of Stone Age forts, canals, bridges, viaducts, and 19th Century train trussels.

Remembering my walks over the Mendip Hills and farms of Avon, I am surprised by my nerve in going out alone armed only with a roughly sketched map in a country walks booklet - and also by my luck.  Once lost and disoriented, but more or less sanguine, I waited in the cooling summer dusk by a narrow paved road's bus stop.  An empty Badgerline - these buses were always mostly empty -  came flying along and stopped to pick me up, although I was waiting on the wrong side of the road.  Once in Bath, I was able to catch an evening bus back to Bristol and a city bus home. 

The farmhouse B and B - the garden tea room is just around the corner.

A favorite memory, walking outside of Newton St. Loe, west of Bath (don't you love the English village names), was a working farmhouse bed and breakfast where I drank a mid-morning tea and ate scones in the garden.  Fruit trees (pear, if I remember correctly) were pruned to grow in a one dimensional fashion against the grey stone garden wall. 












Midford? Worth remembering, anyway.



Later I happened upon a little hamlet outside of Bath. I think it's Midford (won't swear to it, though). It had a quiet stream flowing through the town, a church and a long graceful viaduct just outside.

Viaduct just outside of 'Midford'

Midford? Church

As I continued to insist on rambling, my husband began to go with me, not for pleasure, but to promote my safety.  On one cool, cloudy day, following a warm sunny day,  we took a Badgerline out of Bath to Limpley Stoke.  By the time we arrived in Limpley Stoke, it was beginning to rain.  Unfortunately, my handsome husband was dressed for the previous warm sunny day - shorts and t-shirt.  I, a seasoned hiker, of course, was layered up with sweatshirt, windbreaker and umbrella.  I gave him my windbreaker and opened the umbrella.  We finally sought shelter in a small country hotel where the proprietor served us biscuits (shortbread cookies), coffee and hot tea with a measure of sympathy, saying the this was certainly not a day to be tramping around outside. Later, we stood waiting, under my little blue umbrella, for the bus back to Bath.  We had waited for some time at the wrong bus stop before finding the proper one.  The drizzle continued as we huddled together, but I remember this as one of the happiest moments in my life.

Bath - looking down to Bath Abbey

Once on the bus, we came down out of the hills on a winding road into Bath.  The Georgian houses on the terraced hillsides formed a giant amphitheater.  Through the trees, I could see wisps of fog and mist floating between the woods and terraces. I'll never forget that quintessential English moment.  "...these clouded hills..."

Another ramble took us to the Mendip Hills around Hinton Charterhouse.  We stopped in a pub where a group of customers were watching tennis and cheering on Venus Williams.  After a two mile walk up hill, we arrived in the late afternoon back at Hinton Charterhouse to catch our Badgerline back to Bath...a bus that never came.  After an hour of waiting, a woman, whose son was also waiting for the bus, came by and took the three of us into Bath.  We warmly thanked the woman for the ride and I also thanked her for saving our marriage, as my husband's nose was seriously out of joint.

Beginning our walk from Clevedon to Portishead.
Looking out to sea.

My husband does remember fondly one ramble we took between Clevedon and Portishead - south of Bristol.  We took the bus to Clevedon and ate breakfast - the big English breakfast -  at the pier.  Then we walked along the bluffs looking out to sea using a well-worn path.  As we walked, we past through the shady bramble and scrub, and then into the bright, warm sunshine.  I thought to myself that it was like going from spring to summer, spring to summer.  Spring in the shade, summer in the sunlight.  At Portishead men were standing on the shores of the Severn River using their binoculars to watch container ships pass - going to port north of Bristol.

My English mother-in-law died in Egypt a year ago in December in her daughter's house where my husband continued to visit her after we returned to live in the States.  She longed for England to the last, just as we do. 

All through the '90's, the hamlets and farms, ancient houses and barns, were being gentrified by weekenders driving out from London.  Now I wonder if those mostly empty Badgerline buses are still hurtling along the lonely country roads around Bath.

California Christmas

Click on this photo to get a better view of the surfers.



 California in winter is mild compared to much of the rest of the country, but it is often cool, foggy and overcast.  When we took our Christmas trip to California, December 24th, we were favored with sunny, warm weather most of the week between Christmas and New Year.

A favorite Christmas toy was a remote controlled helicopter each boy received Christmas morning. 

Cody serenaded us with Christmas songs on his flute.

Zachary is hoping to learn to play the guitar.

 We flew to California at this time to see our grandson, Zachary, play basketball in his high school tournament. As I may have said before, I am not a sportswoman, but basketball is fairly easy to understand, fast, and when my grandson is involved, exciting to watch.  Zachary, as point guard, was rarely on the sidelines and scored 6 to 15 points per game. Their team won 3 of 4 games. Lost the

final, unfortunately, but only by a respectable 4 points.

Three times we went to Huntington Beach to see the sun sink into the ocean.  The first 2 times the sun was down before we made it to the pier.  The third time was the charm and I have this photo to prove it.

And this one:  Huntington Beach Sunset

                                                                                                       

Left to Right:  Zachary, Wade,  Big Daddy, me (Taytah), Joyce, and Cody 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
We couldn't leave California without eating breakfast at the Sugar Shack, so here we are.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    

Writers' Group




 

For about ten years I have enjoyed attending a Writers' Group at the Unitarian Church.  Most of the attendees are Unitarians, but being broad minded they are pleased to welcome those of us who are not.  The group meets about twice a month, throughout most of the year.  However, if a member plays hooky for months at a time he or she is welcomed back with open arms, no questions asked.

The 'drill' amounts to this.  We discuss an idea and then write about it.  After about 45 minutes we take turns reading what we have written to the group and get postive feedback.  If a writer doesn't choose to read his/her work, this choice is accepted no questions asked. There is no pressure.  

The last meeting was a special pleasure.  The prompt, provided by our soft-spoken leader, Fran, was to consider the importance of roads in American life.  We shared favorite songs about roads and highways and talked about family trips we have taken.  Finally,  we each wrote about roads.  The variations were many.  A few ccontributions included:

the sound of popping gravel outside a boyhood home announcing uninvited guests or the premature return of parents from church, 

a 14-year-old boy's summer traveling with a carnie troupe,  

eating pita bread and humus in Jerusalem,

traveling Route 66 in the 50's with a very young baby,

traveling in England on the 'tube' visiting a teen aged daughter

and adventures with Flat Stanley. 

My contribution (you knew this was coming) is as follows.  I have tweaked it since I wrote it at our 

meeting, so that it is a little more polished than before.   

The County Road

The county road was a central part of life as I was growing up in the sandhill prairies of Southwestern Kansas. We lived on a ranch six miles from a small town and our only connection to church, groceries, schools, and friends was a dirt road maintained by the county. Once every so often, usually prompted by my daddy, a big road grader would come out scraping the road, smoothing out the washboard ruts. The ruts were so ubiquitous that the frame of one of our cars shook loose and had to be welded back into place. Once the road was graded, for a few days at least, it was smooth to drive on. I remember one time, at my father’s suggestion, I took a slice of my mother’s freshly made apple pie out to the grader’s operator.

About the time I was two or three years old, my mother with my older sister and brother, had a horrific accident on this road. Much of the road was hardly wider than two tire tracks and it twisted and turned as well. Weeds had grown tall, lots of sunflowers and grasses, which concealed a car coming from the opposite direction. Mother’s car collided with this car on a curve in the road. My brother, in the front passenger seat, struck the dashboard and bears a scar on his forehead to this day. My sister, standing up in back, behind the front seat as children were apt to do in those days, hurtled into the front window, struck it with her head and was thrown again into the back seat where she collapsed on the car floor. Both adults received minor injuries. I survived simply because I stayed at home with my grandmother instead of standing in my usual place – beside my mother in the front seat. I mention these seating arrangements to remind us all of the cavalier way children were allowed to ride in cars 70 or so years ago.

Both my sister and brother recovered from their injuries, but this accident became part of our family mythology, thereafter.

Other memories include the several times my mother, or another one of the family driving the car, got stranded in the banks of sand on each side of the road. Usually someone would come along and help the stuckee out, but my mother had to walk home at least once – two or three miles in heels.

Another time my father came upon a group of women, members of my mother’s PEO Chapter, stuck in the sand on their way to a meeting at our house. He told them he’d pull them out if they’d tell him what PEO meant.

My best friend and I rode our bikes to town when we were in the sixth grade. Of course, much of the way we had to walk our bikes over sand hills. Goat’s head stickers would pierce our tires, but I’m not sure they caused any lasting damage. Once in town it was fun to ride around on the elm tree shaded, bumpy brick streets.

One winter, when I was a teenager we had such a blizzard that the County National Guard sent a tank out to bring me in to town so I could go to school. That was a big disappointment to me, because the inside of the tank was about as interesting as the inside of a tin can.

The road is gone now, as are our meadows and pasture land. The sandhill prairie is now covered with sprinkler-watered silage crops fed to the cattle in the many feedlots around our hometown.







Cantaloupe Volunteer

This is the scraggy vine that produced the cantaloupe.

My ever optimistic husband has tried to grow melons of various kinds for a number of summers, but we saw nary a melon come to fruition.  Then last summer a vine of some sort grew up between our driveway and the bricks around the clematis.  I could see the tiny baby melons developing from the blossoms, but they disappeared before they grew to the size of my thumb.  Then one day my husband found a huge green cantaloupe growing behind the clematis...yes, still attached to the vine.  We left it on the corner of the driveway, and after a couple of months, it turned yellow.  By this time it was  October. 

Our cantaloupe after picking.

I had no idea if it was ripe or not, but we finally picked it.  I left it on the kitchen cabinet dreading to open it only to find it unripe.

  Finally, I cut it open, and sure enough, by that time, it was overly ripe.  We ate some of it.  Not all.  Oh, well. There's always next year.