Feels Like Spring

Dog life has me on the go these days leaving little time to sit around dreaming up topics that might make an interesting blog post. All the corralling, trips to the vet or Pet Supermarket and filling in holes dug in the driveway tend to take the mind far from blogspot.com. I mean, concentration is a touch-and-go kind of thing when a thirty-six pound puppy is dragging twenty-five feet of hose-pipe around the yard or chewing on old asbestos shingles she found in the shed. If I’m completely honest though, all of it—excepting the asbestos shingles—is a daily joy.

Moving on from dogs, I was looking back at an old Japan blog post this morning, one showing a sketch and a journal excerpt, and I got the idea to re-post the sketch from a different angle. That part of the earlier post which caught my attention was not so much the sketch of tomatoes and a can of sardines as the thoughts about that particular March day written in the margins around the sketch. 

The sketch and the words surrounding it are in my journal of the time, a Life Noble Note Plain notebook with cream paper. The sketch was done first in a 2B Mitsubishi pencil and then colored with Mitsubishi Uni Watercolor Pencils. The journal notes, as far as pen and ink go, are a little harder to discern because earlier and later pages in the journal leave no hint. Looking at it closely I am fairly certain that the ink is an old De Atramentis color called Jules Verne Deep Sea Blue and the pen used, a Sailor Profit with a 21k Naginata medium nib. As the handwriting might cause a problem for some, a cleaner version is below:

Friday, 5 March 2010 — Thinking of tomatoes and sardines for some reason. I have neither in my kitchen but wish I did. That and some saltine crackers. Feels like spring today, a change from the cold rain of yesterday, a day that typified everything about winter, the wet and the cold. Plum blossoms are in bloom in the garden below me, and the Japanese magnolia is full of buds.

Searching through my photographs of Kugayama I can find none of the ‘garden below me’ showing both the plum blossoms and the budding Japanese magnolia, but the one below is fairly close. At least the magnolia (tree with leaves of the lightest green) is budding though the plum tree is out of the picture. The red blooms at the far left are on a giant azalea at least ten feet in height. I was standing on my third-floor veranda when I took the picture; the house and garden belong to my landlord.

Wrinkled Memories

Kugayama is a little town in western Tokyo situated along the Inokashira Rail Line, and home to an abundance of green, most areas off the three shopping streets surrounded by trees and small parks. The Kanda River runs through the town, bordered by walking paths stretching for long distances which create a precious calm for people desiring more nature with their life inside the megacity of Tokyo. Kugayama was a good place to live, for many years offering me a comfortable distance from the concrete and unsleeping neon of central Tokyo.

I sometimes daydream about a magic switch that could transport me in an instant back to the embrace of that charming town that defined so much of life for long years. Oh, no doubt that time and distance tend to channel fond memories through rainbow glass and if the magic switch did its job we might find the remembered conditions not quite so rosy. But there is no magic switch and rather than instant transport I am left to fondle my wrinkled photographs while remembering a fine old time in Kugayama.

Some of the photographs below may be familiar to any who have previously looked through the photostream connected to this page. What is different about the pictures here is the addition of longer descriptions, something like a story behind each of the photos.

An early spring view out the window of my kitchen looking across neighborhood rooftops. To the right a faint glimpse of a just blooming cherry tree, a promise of pale pink that will soon reach across half this window. Resting atop the chest in front of the window are various pots and bowls holding flowers and knickknacks. On wet days the smell of rain fills the whole apartment through this window and when a resurgent sun dries the wetness light pours into the room painting a broad stripe of gold across the parquet floor. Looking through this window now, the faces and the kindness of those kitchen-side neighbors are at the front of my thoughts.

A diagonal cut of green railing tops the wall-embankment above the Kanda’s quiet flow. A cherry tree in full bloom overhangs the pathway, reaching to spread it pinkness over the water below. An open area behind, a small park and playground where mothers bring their young children to chase pigeons and tumble down slides. On many afternoons I find a bench in this town park and sit reading, happy in a quiet spot under flowering trees two minutes from home. The view is one I enjoy countless times from my veranda when hanging clothes to dry.

A dirty mess of half-wild plants tucked into a corner of the veranda. Some of them sit on the rotted seat of an old swivel chair that came from my first Tokyo desk. I miss the wildness of that veranda garden, where wildflowers and weeds often outnumbered the cultivated. The large-leafed plant to the right rises up, the result of biwa fruit (Japanese loquat) bought at the market, its smooth coffee-colored seeds pushed down into a pot of dirt. Thoughts of a time and place where everything grew with abandon.

The other end of that same veranda with some of the rampant wildflowers and weeds. The green here is clearly a summer verdure, a time when all grows at a voracious pace, seeming to pull down the limbs of straining trees. The glimpse of brown roof between the green is that of my landlords, the delightful Mr & Mrs Hata. Easy for me to imagine now Mrs Hata in a wide brimmed sun hat clipping magnolia blooms in her garden three floors below a wildflower veranda.

The walkway below in summer. The neatness of everything is evidence that gardeners have recently been at work. During some months this oasis of flowering green stands almost bedraggled and spotted with unswept leaves. Impossible to see through the thickness, but on the other side of this green wall bubbles a large garden pond patrolled by carp in multi-colored variation. Unseen too are the ground level butterbur plants which occasionally wind up in a kitchen pot.

Here a night view looking inside from the veranda. Through the glass of a door and only slightly visible is my longtime aquarium with its flashes of tropical color. Hard to count the hours I spend sitting in front of that aquarium glass mesmerized by the quiet life inside. Bothered by stress? Many would recommend an aquarium. The flowering plants are a white azalea and a very old princess apple bonsai tree.

A photo crowded with flowers taken outside the flower shop a few minutes from home. There is usually a steady stream of shoppers passing to and fro, headed into the supermarket opposite, or maybe into the cleaners or tiny camera shop—a spot alive with familiar greetings, gossiping housewives, the tinkle of bicycle bells, and the slow squeeze of cars idling through the Volkswagen-sized street. I can hear Satô-san calling out to ask if she should hold a portion of roasted potatoes for me, or maybe a few sticks of yakitori. The warning bell of an approaching train sounds, sending some of us in a dash across the tracks under a descending bamboo barrier pole. Five o'clock in Kugayama.

Back at home I start to think about clearing the table for dinner. The ‘desk’ under my elbows as I write these words is shown above in its former life as a kitchen table. Difficult to tell much from the smallness of the photograph, but the table is a handmade one from the countryside home of my dear friends, a beautiful piece made some years before bombs destroyed Pearl Harbor. One day a large delivery arrives at my Tokyo door and unwrapping it I discover the table shipped from the countryside by those friends who thought it something I might treasure. The table, still treasured, still polished and coddled now lives by Florida’s seaside, far from its farmhouse beginnings.

Coffee & Samba

Someone tells me that a man over by the post office can repair a broken clock. Twice, other repairmen have said that the Seikosha station wall clock is too old and cranky to restore. Made sometime in the early 1950s by the company now called Seiko, it is one of many that once hung on train station walls all over Japan. In 1892, an industrious thirty-one year-old set up the Seikosha factory in Japan, choosing the name, Seiko meaning “success” or “exquisite” in Japanese. I found the wall clock hanging in the cobwebbed corner of a small shop overlooking Inokashira Park, its hands stopped at some ten-twenty-three of the past. After cleaning and a few small adjustments the old clock ticked and worked in a manner of sorts, but without much accuracy. Recently it has begun chiming on a schedule little to do with hours and minutes. I am taking it to the man over by the post office.

“Look here,” the man says, shining a small light inside the clock case. “That gear needs to be replaced, but with a clock this old the problem is finding a replacement…an expensive proposition. Around two-hundred, maybe.”

“That high? I can’t spend so much.”

“Leave the clock with me for a week or so, let me take it apart and play with it. Doubt I can do anything about the worn out gear, but I can get it running a little better.

“How much?”

“About $20, okay?”

Doutor Café is on the way home and with a glass of iced coffee I climb the stairs to the third floor, my usual spot for a stretch of time gazing idly out the windows, reading, writing a few lines in a notebook, or oftentimes discreetly observing others at nearby tables. Never sure what the mix is going to be on any given day, it may be quiet and peaceful one day, rowdy the next. Today the shades on all three windows are up and a flood of sunlight brightens the room. The sight of six middle-aged housewives spread over two tables in the far corner is nothing new, but for me a disappointment because it promises a tidal wave of loud simultaneous talk. I have seen these six before.

They have just returned from a trip somewhere, probably a two-night stay at a hot spring resort, or a reunion of sorts. Travel bags are stacked chest high in a corner. At the moment of my arrival voices are raised in fond remembrance of the ballroom dance teacher who hosted their getaway. In a voice toned by cigarettes and Suntory whiskey, one describes the drape of an arm, illustrating the movement with an outflung arm that threatens cups and saucers. Another moans about the difficulty of a chassé while two others try to remember the teacher’s rule about the Cuban hip motion.

Done with her explanation of arm gestures, the woman suddenly pulls another of the ladies to her feet, leading off in a rehash of the samba bounce. With little or no room between tables for two husky women to practice the samba, a college girl at the adjacent table cringes, clamping hands over her jittering coffee cup. And just as suddenly, both dancers execute a spot turn and return to their coffee.

The dance demonstration all done, another familiar face arrives and takes a table across from me. This is a college student with whom I’ve spoken on several occasions, a man whose Japanese is always a challenge. Everything is slang or vernacular mostly mumbled, a jargon that leaves me unsure of any details. He enjoys reading books in English and the last time he was in the coffee shop I gave him a couple of paperbacks. His name is Hideto and today he has a cold.

We talk across the space between tables, but after a little of that Hideto picks up and moves over to my table. A typically modern student, sloppily dressed, fond of punk rock fashion, he has an email address that begins with ‘fabricatedviolence@.’ He sits opposite me with a trail of snot dripping from one nostril. The sight makes me look away, look down, talk to my lap. Then finally he snatches up a napkin and blows his nose.

Almost dark when I leave Doutor and turn for home. Halfway, I stop in Little Mermaid and buy croissants for Sunday morning.

Yakitori

Feeling sort of chatty lately about my little Japanese home ground of Kugayama. There are probably all sorts of conveniences and comforts lacking in the daily life of this wee town, but there are as well more than enough special qualities and advantages that we enjoy. I have mentioned in earlier blog posts that the area has many trees and abundant greenery. It’s also an express stop on the Inokashira train line, which means the center of Tokyo is no more than twelve minutes away. Overall, it is a desirable residential area for many people. But for a long time I have felt the one thing missing is a choice of good restaurants.

Tokyo in recent years has become a city where food or cuisine of all kinds can be found without much difficulty. Whatever your craving, be it Greek, Mexican, North African or American, you will find it somewhere in this great city. Unfortunately, none of those restaurants have made their way to Kugayama.

Not exactly a listing in the Michelin Guide, but Kugayama does have a splendid yakitori shop. For those unfamiliar with this traditional Japanese dish, yakitori is basically grilled chicken, but prepared and cooked in a variety of ways. Imagine slivers of chicken on wooden sticks or skewers cooking on an open grill—that’s what yakitori is.

Yakitori Ishii is situated near the train tracks on a busy street in Kugayama. It has no more than four employees, who work in the tiny shop Tuesday through Sunday. Eight years ago the small building housing the restaurant was a near-abandoned property before a local woman decided to renovate the building and open a yakitori shop. From the start it was a popular spot, and the owner never had to struggle to attract customers. With its tiny size, Yakitori Ishii is not a place where you can sit down for dinner; everything is made right in front of you, but for take-out only. But that has in no way stopped customers from lining up for the different types of yakitori on the menu. The end of the year is the busiest time because many people like to serve yakitori at parties.

I myself like this traditional Japanese dish and go to Yakitori Ishii fairly often, but I have to admit that my taste for it is somewhat picky. For me, the liver and chicken skin are not too appealing. Below is a list of the basic items on their menu.

tsukune — seasoned balls of chicken grilled on a skewer

negima — chunks of lean chicken and leek on a skewer

chicken livers — skewered and grilled

tebasaki — grilled chicken wings

roasted chicken thighs

deep fried chicken nuggets

kawa — roasted chicken skin

roasted sweet potato

Usually we can find several kinds of Japanese pickles on the menu, some of which are in the bottom photo.

As I said earlier, Kugayama is short of good restaurants, but we at least have Yakitori Ishii. Should you find yourself in the neighborhood one of these days, don’t pass it by.

Snake in the Grass

The neighborhood I live in is pretty enough to occasionally inspire a flowery description of one thing or another, and there are even times when you wonder if words can meet the task. The last week of March and first two weeks of April bring hundreds of people to Kugayama, all eager to walk among, admire and photograph the cherry trees which are at the peak of bloom and paint much of the town in the pale pink wash of spring. The Kanda River flows for a good distance through overhanging cherry trees, and wind-scattered blossoms fall to float on its surface, turning the water into a giant squiggle of pink ribbon.

But such is not my story this time. The seasons regularly redraw the neighborhood and the Kanda, and what’s pretty in pink one month will show a different face, put up a different picture the next. So, let me try to convey the scene when nature and people are not in a lyrical mood.

The Kanda River is one of those odd canyon-like city waterways trapped on both sides by high walls serving as flood barriers. Parts of the river are home to dingy gray carp, great fat things that eat almost anything. Mixed in with them are some brown ducks and turtles. More than a few times I have stood leaning over the railing looking down, marveling at the indifference the fish and ducks pay to the litter which decorates and clogs their unnatural habitat. One day I stood gazing into the grainy, half clear water, watching the ducks quack about, splashing and hopping from the water onto a grassy bank, where one or two old Coke or beer cans lay. Half submerged in the middle of the river was a bicycle someone had thrown over the railing and into the water. It was working as a partial dam in the current, and I could see a carp nosing about a plastic bag caught in the spokes.

After a few minutes I spotted a very large snake swimming downstream, headed straight into the schooled carp just below me. Three excited schoolboys on the opposite side ran up and down shouting, scrabbling in the dirt for rocks to throw at what looked like an aodaishô, or common Japanese rat snake.

“Hey, I almost hit ’im on the head!” the oldest of the three screamed with horrible glee.

“No fair! That’s too big. You can’t throw that.” One of the boys had found a stone the size of a brick, and was about to launch it at the snake.

“Oh, yeah? Watch this,” he said, hurling the stone with all his junior might, missing not only the snake, but the water as well.

“What an idiot!” the one in a Metallica T-shirt jeered.

With that they seemed to give up on throwing rocks and contented themselves with merely watching the snake.

It was fast approaching the carp, making a straight line for them, but they ignored the snake as it swam among them, then the snake turned for another of the grass banks coming out from the stone walls. It finally slid out of the oily water and approached a drainage pipe in the wall. Finding that blocked, it settled somewhere in the deep grass, disappearing from sight. I noticed a man opposite me on the other side of the river gripping the rail, knuckles strained white, and a look of pure horror on his face. He stretched out over the water, body bent, his arms fixed in stiff angles to the railing while his eyes bulged and strained to find the vanished snake.

A moment passed, and maintaining his posture over the railing, the man shouted across to me and laughed. “Did you see the snake? It was a snake. He’s down there in the grass.”

“Yeah. I hope he doesn’t decide to climb up here.”

“Yiiiiiiiii! Don’t say that. Don’t say that!” and he laughed again.

Kugayama

In Western Tokyo, twelve minutes by train from bustling, jam-packed Shibuya is the place I have called home for almost fifteen years. It is the little town of Kugayama, a part of Suginami Ward, situated along the Inokashira Rail Line, and home to a little under 20,000 people. There is an abundance of green in the area, and most areas off the three shopping streets are surrounded by trees and small parks. The Kanda River runs through Kugayama and is bordered by walking paths stretching for long distances, and this too is an attraction for people wanting more nature with their life inside the megalopolis of Tokyo. Come to walk along the Kanda in spring and you will find yourself engulfed by soft pink clouds of billowing cherry blossoms. In talking with one of Kugayama’s native sons, I learned that water and environment played a big part in development of the area from as far back as the 17th century.

The older Chinese characters for the name Kugayama indicate that the area was at one time raised, not in the sense of a mountain, but something like a crown of land. If my understanding is right, that topography changed, or was flattened sometime in the early 1930s with the coming of the Inokashira Line. Kugayama Station began operation on August 1, 1933 and since then the town has been connected to Shibuya at one end, and Kichijôji at the other. But even today the town is not completely flat. From my window here I am able to see a steep slope rising on the far side of the Inokashira tracks.

Something I didn’t know until today was the town’s connection to anti-aircraft protection during the last year of WWII. There were two huge anti-aircraft gun emplacements in the area as a defense against the B29 air raids that devastated Tokyo during the last months of the war.

During the time I have lived in Kugayama there have been some noticeable changes. Perhaps the biggest overhaul came a few years back with the rebuilding of Kugayama Station. The B&W photo above shows the street in front of the station as it was in 1979, and the color picture was one taken recently, though from a different perspective. The watercolor is that same view about thirty-five years ago. The bottom photo shows a view across Kugayama from my veranda.

It has been a good place to live, offering me a comfortable and manageable distance from the non-stop steel, concrete and neon of central Tokyo.