×

Sharing Mana‘o

The recent visit by the Japanese tall ship Kaiwo Maru launched me on a voyage of my own, a return to my childhood and days spent with my maternal grandfather. As noted in a previous column, this year is the 150th anniversary of the arrival of Hawaii’s first Japanese immigrant workers, the Gannenmono (first-year men), so named because it was the first year of the Emperor Meiji’s reign. Oji-chan wasn’t among that original group, but he, too, came to the islands as a contract worker.

He was 49 when my mother, the youngest of his children, was born, and Mom didn’t have me until she was in her 30s, so by the time I came along, Oji-chan was already an octogenarian. He spoke very little English, and I knew even less Japanese, but our mutual affection was all we needed to communicate.

Because of the stories my mother told, I knew he had been a jack-of-all-trades. He worked for a time as a chimney sweep, cleaning the soot off the tops of the sugar mill smokestacks. He was also known for his vegetable carving skills and was often called upon by his Makawao neighbors to prepare food for special occasions. His signature dish was a whole fish, covered in a net that Oji-chan carved from a single daikon. He was a carpenter, too, and I still use a four-shelf bookcase he built over 70 years ago.

Mom also passed on several of his sayings, my favorite being, “Eat until you want just one more bite, and stop there.” Thanks to that philosophy, I was never admonished to finish my plate or to “think of all the starving children in China.”

My earliest memory of Oji-chan is of him bathing me in the furo (Japanese bath) when I was 4, maybe 5 years old. My aunt had a modern furo, with hot and cold running water, in a shed separate from the main house. The bathhouse was large enough to fit a family of four or more at once, with a long wooden bench alongside one wall and the blue plastic furo in a corner. But everyone bathed separately, except for Oji-chan and me. To keep from getting chilled, we always took our baths before sunset, while Auntie Sachan was busy preparing dinner. I was glad that I didn’t have to brave the darkness and the Upcountry wind like the adults did, walking to and from the furo at night.

Oji-chan was — and still is — the oldest person I’d ever seen naked, and I was fascinated by the crinkly skin on his arms and especially his stomach. He barely had a belly; he was lean but not bony, and his posture was excellent, considering he was in his mid-80s. While he scrubbed me with a soapy washcloth, I’d run my fingers along his forearms, marveling at the softness. His skin looked like brown crepe paper but felt like velvet. I remember framing my own tummy with both hands and crimping the skin, trying to duplicate the look. I don’t do that anymore. I don’t need to. But let’s not digress.

His days were spent out in the yard, weeding and watering while I played alongside. In my recollections, we were silent soul mates, each enjoying the fresh air and sunshine while lost in our own thoughts. But my mother tells me that Oji-chan used to remark that I was quite a chatterbox. “How can she talk so much?” he supposedly asked my parents. If it annoyed him, he never showed it, at least not to me.

On family outings, he and I were the stragglers, always a short distance behind the others. Oji-chan walked slowly, using a cane he fashioned out of a gnarled chili pepper branch, and it was my responsibility (and pleasure) to stay next to him and keep him company.

His last days were spent in a hospital bed on the first floor of Maui Memorial. My cousin Kiki and I, being 8 or 9 years old, weren’t allowed in, so we stood outside his window and he passed us handfuls of fried horse beans, a favorite treat of ours.

Oji-chan died on New Year’s Day, a few months before his 90th birthday. I inherited his cane and, for years, it stood in a corner of my bedroom, a reassuring reminder of the quiet support we gave each other.

Last week while shopping, I saw a package of horse beans, which I hadn’t seen in years. I’ve been enjoying a handful each day, stopping, of course, when I want just one more.

* Kathy Collins is a storyteller, actress and freelance writer whose “Sharing Mana’o” column appears every Wednesday. Her email address is kcmaui913@gmail.com.

NEWSLETTER

Today's breaking news and more in your inbox

I'm interested in (please check all that apply)
Are you a paying subscriber to the newspaper?
     
Support Local Journalism on Maui

Only $99/year

Subscribe Today