Azalea Bloom!

I am privileged to offer a guest post from a very good friend, one who has given me hours of delightful and stimulating company. Knowing that Kathleen writes, I threw out a hint wondering if she might want to scribble up something I could share with readers here. Not too much later I got this engaging story about the joys of life in two small Florida towns.

Hi! My name is Kathleen and B has graciously asked me to write a guest post here on Scriblets. My husband and I also share B’s love of the seashore, especially the small seaside town of New Smyrna Beach. We are not full-time residents, however. We split our retirement between New Smyrna and DeLand. It’s only about thirty-eight miles—a mere forty minute ride between—but the two towns are worlds apart.

DeLand is a lovely, historic, Main Street USA town—home to Stetson University, the Athens Theatre, the Museum of Florida Art, as well as Skydive DeLand, one of the world’s leading skydive centers located at our municipal airport. During WWII, the Navy built the property as a naval airbase, later turning it over to the city. DeLand is also the county seat of Volusia County, Florida with an estimated population in excess of 25,000.

After an exhaustive twenty-year search for just the right spot, we came across this little piece of heaven which we have fondly named Southern Oaks, honoring the hundreds of magnificent Live and Laurel oak trees that adorn the acreage. We have never regretted our move and are still enjoying every inch of it. Right now, Southern Oaks, as well as the entire town of DeLand, is experiencing one of its most beautiful seasons—Azalea bloom! While the ocean and all its majesty is difficult to compete with, Azalea bloom is one of God’s most dramatic exhibitions. It’s brief and magnificent and a must-see.

Azaleas are cold-hardy flowering shrubs rarely found along coastal areas. They especially love shade from oak trees and are not tolerant of salt air or salty well water. They create a dazzling display of springtime color here at Southern Oaks and are one of our main reasons for being in DeLand this week.

Southern Oaks is a 2.5 acre work in progress. There are vegetable and herb gardens to tend; a plentiful array of citrus trees; a small vineyard and a large assortment of flowering shrubs and roses—not to mention a variety of out-buildings constantly demanding with their needs and our wants. It requires a significant amount of planning and energy and real hands-on work to keep it up, but we truly love every minute (well almost every minute). However, aging joints, a dwindling supply of vitality and basic get-up-and-go tend to slow us down more quickly than they once did. It’s then that we close up the house, set the timers to auto, and head to our cozy beach retreat.

And it’s exactly that—a retreat. It’s a sanctuary, a place of beauty, a safe harbor in a busy world, our refuge where we can go to renew ourselves and our well of vitality and energy. We spend our days watching the pelicans swoop and play atop the waves and plan our walks according to tidal whims. There is a timelessness that envelops us and a relaxation that truly soothes aching muscles and calms scattered thoughts. We are truly blessed with the best of both worlds!

Winslow Tries Trevanian

Don Winslow is a writer I have long enjoyed, starting with his 1997 Death and Life of Bobby Z and continuing on with six of his later books. Savages, which came out last year was especially impressive and one that I reviewed here last August. The impression was that Mr Winslow had reached a new plateau, creating a prose style very unlike his earlier novels, sparkling, razor-edged and economic. But now comes Satori, his latest release and I have to wonder what happened.

In fact, it isn’t too hard to figure out what happened to make this newest book from Don Winslow more disappointment than anything else. The shortest way to explain it is to say that it isn’t really Winslow, but an attempt to use another writer’s characters and style to create a prequel to the 1979 Trevanian classic, Shibumi. It doesn’t work. Not being the writer’s strength, style or type of story it’s an uphill battle all the way. At one point about halfway through the book’s 500 pages a thought occurred that writing Satori was for Winslow either very easy or very difficult—Easy to rattle off an acceptable copy of standard CIA assassin storytelling, difficult to quell his own far from standard style and build a story rife with Asian settings and culture.

Nicholai Hel is a multi-lingual deadly assassin who kills only bad guys. Son of a Russian mother and German father, raised in Shanghai and trained by a Japanese general in the art of killing and survival, Hel is more than anything Japanese at heart and in spirit. In 1951 he is freed after three years in Tokyo’s Sugamo prison where he was sent for killing the man he called teacher and father, General Kishikawa. The general’s death by Hel was more honorable than hanging after his conviction of war crimes by the victorious Americans. Released from prison, Hel is offered a chance to remain free and earn a large sum of money if he will assassinate a high level Russian official in Beijing. To create a strong cover, surgeons give Hel a new face while a French beauty remakes his manner, habits, dress and French into that of a perfect French arms dealer. Shadowy bad guys start in early trying to kill him, but they are no match for Hel’s technique of ‘naked kill’ and he dispatches one after another without even increasing his heart rate. Much of the same in Beijing until complications send Hel and his tormentors south to Saigon. He is by this point mixed up with the CIA, Chinese Nationalists and communists, Russians, French, Vietnamese guerillas, and the French mafia. The number of people with Hel in their sights is beyond counting. Of course it all works out in the end, but we knew that from page one.

Apart from a style not natural to the writer, the book is weakened by either poor or little research, settings that lack definition apart from tour book descriptions, a minimum of suspense, and characters who are for the most part blatant caricatures. Were no native Japanese contracted or asked to read and correct the author’s glaring Japanese language mistakes, to set him straight on Japanese custom? Where did he get the notion that Japanese men wear kimonos, or that strangers are called by first name? There is much in Winslow’s Tokyo that is odd and inaccurate. In Beijing the opportunities for rich background are practically limitless, but you would hardly know it was China. A pivotal scene is set at the Chinese opera, but we learn nothing about what that place looks, feels or sounds like. In Saigon the only telling description is of netting around café and restaurant terraces to prevent bombs or grenades being tossed into the crowd. A casino in the almost fabled city is described…‘The large room was filled with excited chatter, shouts of victory and curses of loss, the clatter of dice, the clack of chips, and the spinning of roulette wheels. A cloud of cigarette smoke hovered like protective coverage over the triumphs and disappointments.’ Could just as well be Caesar’s Palace in Las Vegas.

The title Satori is a Japanese word meaning ‘sudden awakening or enlightenment’ and is perhaps a play on Trevanian’s title Shibumi, which means something like ‘elegant simplicity.’ But a bigger question is why the writer undertook this project. An author’s note at the end of Satori answers the question. His agent emailed him one day, asked if he were familiar with the Trevanian classic, and if he would like to be the next Trevanian. Winslow admitted that he could never be another Trevanian, but began thinking about the idea and possibilities of writing a prequel to Shibumi. The result of it all likely earned Winslow a lot of money, but I doubt it will do much for what was already an excellent reputation for writing a different and much better kind of book.

The Price of Sugar

Friday was a beautiful day and perfect for part two of my swim in the history of this little beach town sixty-eight miles south of St Augustine, Florida, America’s oldest settlement. Last month the Scriblets pages included my impressions of the New Smyrna Beach Historical Museum, a small but richly endowed re-creation of the city’s past. While visiting the museum I learned about the ruins of an old sugar mill only a couple of miles away and made a note to visit the site. What a find that turned out to be.

On his second voyage to the New World Christopher Columbus carried sugarcane from Europe, introducing it to the island just south of Florida, which they called Hispaniola and we call the Dominican Republic and Haiti. Not long after that it was shipped to Florida for cultivation. Sugar is a work heavy crop and the need for labor is a big reason slavery became important on Florida plantations. To produce just one ton of sugar a plantation had to grow and crush seven tons of sugarcane. The labor involved required large work crews.

From the latter years of the eighteenth century until 1835, Florida’s sugar industry was concentrated in east Florida, on land between the St Johns River and the Atlantic. By the 1830s there were no fewer than twenty-two sugar plantations along the coastline producing sugar, molasses, and rum. The sugar industry brought prosperity to the region, employing the skills of farmhands, architects, stonemasons, riverboat crews, shopkeepers, and traders. Of course, African slaves provided the backbreaking labor, and that too was another form of economy. It all ended with the outbreak of the Second Seminole War in 1835. The Indians were revolting against US policies that would remove them from their homelands to land in the Oklahoma territories. They had a devastating effect on the plantations.

In 1830, Henry Cruger and William dePeyster purchased 600 acres to build a sugar mill. The land had originally been part of the Turnbull grant which led to the planting of a 1,255 strong Smyrnéa colony. Using the land as collateral, Cruger and dePeyster secured a $10,000 loan for the purchase of steam equipment from a New York foundry. But their venture was ill-timed. After only five years the sugar mill was destroyed by the warring Seminole Indians. Today the beautiful arched walls remain to give a glimpse of early American industry and the struggles two pioneering businessmen faced.

The ruins in New Smyrna are surrounded by lush green that includes oak, palmetto and tangerine trees. One historical marker on the site explains, “The mill had little time to produce sugar or repay investors before it was wrecked by the Seminoles. In December 1835, the Indians ran off the overseer, burned the complex, and destroyed other plantations throughout the region. Helping the Indians stage the raids were Cruger-dePeyster slaves.”

Three American Voices

Black Americans can claim three of America’s finest poets—Langston Hughes, Maya Angelou and Nikki Giovanni—as clarion voices of their heritage and experience. They are in many ways dissimilar writers, but their themes and vernacular often have, and naturally so, an echo that is indelible in the experience of growing up black in twentieth century America. Each poet is distinct, each with a clear identity but their voices together make a stirring and resonant impression.

LANGSTON HUGHES was born in Joplin, Missouri in 1902. He spent some time at Columbia University before taking work on a tramp steamer headed to West Africa and Europe. The ship traveled up and down the coast of West Africa for several months before Hughes left the ship, settling in Paris for an extended time. Back in the US, he earned a degree at Lincoln University in Pennsylvania, then moved to Harlem in New York City where he remained until his death in 1967. Other work by the poet is posted here; his collected poetry here.

MAYA ANGELOU was born in St Louis, Missouri in 1928. She started out as an actress and dancer in New York, became a journalist in Africa, and later worked extensively in drama, television and films. She speaks five languages and has published over thirty books of poetry, fiction and non-fiction since her 1969 bestselling autobiography, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. Ms Angelou is lifetime Professor of American Studies at Wake Forest University. I Shall Not Be Moved.

NIKKI GIOVANNI was born in Knoxville, Tennessee in 1943. She has published sixteen collections of her poetry and teaches writing and literature at Virginia Tech. Collected poetry.

MOTHER TO SON (Langston Hughes)

Well, son, I’ll tell you:

Life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.

It’s had tacks in it,

And splinters,

And boards torn up,

And places with no carpet on the floor—

Bare.

But all the time

I’se been a-climbin’ on,

And reachin’ landin’s,

And turnin’ corners,

And sometimes goin’ in the dark

Where there ain’t been no light.

So boy, don’t you turn back.

Don’t you set down on the steps

’Cause you finds it’s kinder hard.

Don’t you fall now—

For I’se still goin’, honey,

I’se still climbin’,

And life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.

ME AND MY WORK (Maya Angelou)

I got a piece of a job on the waterfront.

Three days ain’t hardly a grind.

It buys some beans and collard greens

and pays the rent on time.

Course the wife works, too.

Got three big children to keep in school,

need clothes and shoes on their feet,

give them enough of the things they want

and keep them out of the street.

They’ve always been good.

My story ain’t news and it ain’t all sad.

There’s plenty worse off than me.

Yet the only thing I really don’t need

is strangers’ sympathy.

That’s somebody else’s word for

caring.

QUILTS (Nikki Giovanni)

Like a fading piece of cloth

I am a failure

No longer do I cover tables filled with food and laughter

My seams are frayed my hems falling my strength no longer able

To hold the hot and cold

I wish for those first days

When just woven I could keep water

From seeping through

Repelled stains with the tightness of my weave

Dazzled the sunlight with my

Reflection

I grow old though pleased with my memories

The tasks I can no longer complete

Are balanced by the love of the tasks gone past

I offer no apology only

this plea:

When I am frayed and strained and drizzle at the end

Please someone cut a square and put me in a quilt

That I might keep some child warm

And some old person with no one else to talk to

Will hear my whispers

And cuddle

near

Bottled Clover

My first bottle of Montblanc black ink dates from around 1982 or 83. Still have that bottle. Nobuhiko Moriyama of Fullhalter pen shop in Tokyo told me that the ink is probably better now than when it was purchased. Have to trust him since he worked for Montblanc thirty years before opening his own store specializing in Pelikan and Pilot fountain pens. Whatever the vintage, Montblanc inks have for a long time been a great favorite of mine and at present there are fourteen bottles on my ink shelves. Two of my favorite colors—Turquoise and Racing green—have been discontinued and as a result are now rationed inks.

January’s issue of the Japanese magazine Shumi no bungu bako (Stationery Hobby Box) included a notice (and page sample) of the latest ink from Montblanc—Irish Green. Obviously they needed something to replace the very popular Racing Green, and why not a color at the other end of the green spectrum, something evocative of the Emerald Isle? The new Irish Green is a fresh green, a color that reminds us of clover, and while it is a big step away from the darker, browner Racing Green, it is a welcome shift if a tiny bit familiar in shade. Good chance that many will find Irish Green too much like other greens and lacking in individuality. I won’t argue that except to say that Montblanc’s quality is a large part of its singularity. Montblanc’s stronger focus is on writing instruments, but their history is long in a country that to many is undisputedly the premier maker of ink and fountain pens. All that history and quality is unmistakably a part of Montblanc inks.

The Irish Green flows beautifully—I tried it first in a Sailor Naginata with an M nib—laying down a smooth line with minimal shading. I personally would like to see more shading, but the freshness of the green may be an influence. Would impress me to see a page of Irish Green resemble more a patch of clover with dark and light highlights. That isn’t what I see, though disappointment is not a word that applies. I tried the ink on three different kinds of paper and all three liked the ink, leaving minimal show through and zero feathering. The best results were with white Clairefontaine Triomphe stationery, where the shading was more noticeable. It has a short drying time, much faster than several American inks I could name, but is also less waterproof that the bulletproof inks. I held a page of the Irish Green under running water for thirty seconds, leaving the words faint but at least legible if you get your squint just right.

Surprising that the $18.00 price tag (at a Montblanc store) is higher than the cost of the same ink in Tokyo. I could buy the ink there for $15.00 at one of several Montblanc stores. Understandable that Pilot Iroshizuku inks cost more here, but the Montblanc price caught me off guard.

For some green ink junkies maybe the high price tag is worth a spot-on Saint Patrick’s Day ink.

Community Spirit

Following Tuesday’s review of The Last Samurai I had second thoughts about a portion of that post. I began to wonder if some of my comments about younger generation Japanese might have been untimely in light of Friday’s earthquake, its terrible aftermath and the reaction of the Japanese people to the horror, the fear and the loss. In thinking about the Tom Cruise movie and the themes its story turns on, it was a natural step that I view at least one of those themes against the differences apparent in historical versus contemporary social conditions. In that light I suggested that many of the younger Japanese today lead selfish lives uncaring of others outside their immediate circle. Yes, that is perhaps oftentimes the case, but in the same breath I look at photos and video of the Japanese people struggling through the devastation that has become their world. What do so many of those images of the people show?

They show a people badly beaten but resilient, patient, humble and mindful of helping others. They reveal people with everything taken away, lost, and uncertain but still with what you can only call quiet courage. Who of us here in the US has looked at these images without at some point remembering similar devastation in New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina. Did the people of New Orleans face their hardship in ways that we can favorably compare to Sendai and Tokyo? For the most part I think not. I lived for many years among Japanese people and to my understanding one thing is certain—In times like these the rarest sight is selfish or unlawful behavior. The thought of stealing food or water, of taking from others or doing anything that obstructs is unimaginable for the average Japanese.

Consider one man’s experience… ‘Spurred on by my wife, I run to a convenience store nearby and find nearly empty rows of shelves and just ten bottles of water left. I am amazed that the owner is still selling the bottles at the regular price—$1 each—because I know I would pay twice as much. I briefly think about grabbing all 10 bottles, but decide to buy just five, because I know others will need them…I grew up in this country, but I am still amazed at the people’s patience and civility. But I also know how they can remain so civil. They trust that food will come somehow. They trust the government and know their share will come. They have faith.’

Gregory Pflugfelder, Director of the Donald Keene Center of Japanese Culture at Columbia University happened to be in Tokyo on the day of the earthquake. In a piece for CNN he wrote: ‘The layer of human turmoil—looting and scuffles for food or services—that often comes in the wake of disaster seems noticeably absent in Japan. “Looting simply does not take place in Japan. I’m not even sure if there’s a word for it that is as clear in its implications as when we hear ‘looting.’ Japanese have “a sense of being first and foremost responsible to the community.”

There are times when we all should wish for similar community spirit.

Discovering a Way of Life

Perhaps because Japan is so much in the news these days, or maybe because I have a Japanese visitor, last night I pulled out a movie we had both seen previously, both liked very much and wanted to watch again. The movie is The Last Samurai made in 2003 and starring Tom Cruise. As is usual with the movies of superstar Cruise, this one too got lots of publicity. It was nominated for and won a dozen or more awards and a look at box office reports on IMBd indicate that it must have made money after recouping its 140 million price tag. It was extremely popular in Japan, where I first saw it. There is a great deal of good work in The Last Samurai, and though I did not read any of the reviews that followed its opening, my opinion of the movie is high.

For the most part, aspects of the Japanese story and its production are well done and give a good sense of the authentic. Certainly things were dirtier and not always so ‘pretty’ in nineteenth century Japan, but when has Hollywood with a hundred and forty million to spend ever made anything visually unappealing? More to the point, the story is not bad at all despite a few holes, and the producers did well with the language and especially Tom Cruise’s use of Japanese. But for me it is the values that make up the story I found so appealing. Apart from it’s purpose of entertaining, of being a movie that offers grand escape with handsome actors and beautiful exotic Japanese beauties, apart from all the drifting cherry blossoms and mist shrouded mountains, there is a solid story at the movie’s heart.

The time is 1876. Captain Nathan Algren (Cruise) of the US Army is haunted by nightmares of massacring Indian women and children under orders from General Custer and another of his superior officers. No longer an officer in the field, Algren has become a drunk willing to do almost any kind of work to buy the next bottle of whiskey. He reluctantly accepts an offer to train new conscripts to Japan’s Imperial Army and prepare them for battle against a rebelling samurai (Ken Watanabe). Things don’t happen as expected, and in a strange and alien country Algren discovers the balm to soothe his nightmares and soften the self disgust over past actions. Forced into battle before his raw troops are prepared, the Imperial forces are badly defeated by Katsumoto, the rebelling samurai leader. Algren is captured by Katsumoto and taken to live in the enemy’s mountain village. Here he discovers a way of life that he had never imagined and over the course of months with his Japanese captors Algren finds an ethic and a man he is willing to give his life for.

When Japan entered what they call the Meiji Period of their history (1868-1912) leaders of that time were eager to push Japan into the modern world and to import ideas as well as goods from western countries. The Last Samurai is a very exciting story about the new ideas of Meiji pushing against the older ideas and values of Japan. At the heart of the story is the concept of bushido. Dictionaries as well as many Japanese will tell you that bushido means “the way of the warrior,” but what does that say to the modern westerner? What exactly is this “way” of the warrior? In it shortest definition it means that people who live by the code of bushido believe that a simple unadorned life of honor is best. The old texts teach that fear of death does not deter one from the pathway of loyalty and unselfish honor. Defeat without death in battle, or daily life without honor are both shameful.

The question comes to mind, does this time honored bushido still exist in Japanese society of the twenty-first century? Can we see the same qualities of honor, unselfishness and simplicity in the daily life of Japanese today? Unfortunately there is another word sometimes heard in connection with the younger generation of Japan. The word is “me-ism,” meaning living and doing only for ‘me’ with little or no consideration of others. It is a self-centered way of living and thinking seen in many societies today. Modern problems in Japanese society include a lack of interest in moral values. The old bushido values we see in The Last Samurai taught children to use manners always, to always think of other community members. Many might say that those older qualities are hard to find in societies everywhere now, that the same ‘living for myself’ idea knows few borders.

The Last Samurai was directed by Edward Zwick, has a lush score by Hans Zimmer, beautiful costumes, dazzling battle scenes and wonderful performances by Ken Watanabe, Hiroyuki Sanada, the gorgeous Koyuki, and yes, Tom Cruise.

The last words of Captain Algren in the movie are spoken to the Meiji Emperor. Asking about his teacher and lifelong retainer Katsumoto, the young Emperor says, “Tell me how he died.” Algren replies, “I will tell you how he lived.” A beautiful answer that sums it all up.