On Tuesday, June 4th we received the painful news that Onobu
Kato, Sumie’s grandmother, passed away.
We
knew it was coming – Sumie’s mother had left for Japan to be by her side two
days before – but that foreknowledge has done little to lessen the blow. It’s simply too hard to imagine the world
without her.
At 103, Mrs. Kato, “Obachan” to Sumie and me, had lived a
full life. And when one takes that
remarkable life into full account, it’s safe to say she lived at least two if
not three. During a century of unprecedented change and historical upheaval, Mrs. Kato raised Sumie's mother...
...five boys, and minted not one, but two of Japan’s premier politicians:
her husband and her youngest son. She
was an amazing political supporter, continuing to open her doors to the
community and to discuss the political stage well into her 90s. I can still recall her striking up a conversation
about politics with complete strangers while waiting outside the banquet hall
of her grandson’s wedding.
She was one
of the few people I’ve ever met who had a clear passion, and knew how to tap
it.
Coming late to the family, and speaking little Japanese,
there’s no way I can even begin to sum up this woman’s tremendous life, but
perhaps I can share a little bit of what made her so remarkable. I only spent a few days with her in total,
but, being the woman she was, they were enough for me to pick up her
indomitable spirit – the spirit I see everyday in my wife and daughter.
I’ll never forget the first time Sumie and I stayed with
Obachan in her hometown of Tsuruoka, just east of the sea in northwest Japan. We arrived to find Obachan’s substantial driveway
covered by two feet of snow. Within an
hour of our arrival Sumie and Obachan had slipped deep into complex conversation
that I couldn’t even attempt to follow, so I decided to be the helpful
foreigner and shovel the drive. This
took four hours. Neighbors still recall
the day the fat “gaijin” came out of Mrs. Kato’s house to clear 50 metric tons
of snow.
When I came back in, it was time for dinner. Obachan figured that I would be hungry, as I
later learned, not just because of my work outside, but because of my more than
ample gut. Apparently, the surprising
size of my waistline was one of her favorite topics of conversation with Sumie. Perhaps thinking that my stomach was somehow
linked to cooking ability, Obachan let me help her prepare the evening
meal.
This amazed me. Here was a Japanese woman in her mid
nineties, who had lived through World War II and the American occupation, inviting
a shabby American, whose name she couldn’t quite pronounce (she called me
“Stove” instead of “Steve”), to share her kitchen and her home. And she was smiling. To have lived so long and yet still be so
open to new experiences and new people was genuinely inspiring.
Our second outing together took place at a Japanese-style
hot spring (onsen) overlooking the Sea of Japan. As we drove into the small resort town,
Obachan became enthralled with all the “new” hotels. Most of these, though, had been around for at least ten
or twenty years, but for Obachan, who had vacationed in that same town on the
sea as a young girl each summer, the landscape was completely transformed. Later, in our room, Obachan asked the
chambermaid about all the new hotels.
The girl looked a bit perplexed.
Perhaps because most of the new hotels had been there since before she
was born.
Each evening during our stay, following a long and luxurious
soak, Sumie, Obachan, and I would gather in our room to watch the sunset and
enjoy a traditional Japanese dinner.
Sumie would pour a glass of beer for me, and one half glass for Obachan,
who would then take her seat facing the setting sun and the sea. She’d take a sip of the beer and let out a tremendously
satisfied “Oishii!” (Delicious!).
As one
might imagine, this made for a rather quiet vacation, but also a tremendous
one. Watching how Obachan not only
enjoyed the simple joys of our stay, but soaked them up entirely, opened my
eyes in a way no one had before. Here
was the good life, pure and simple. After
nearly 100 years, it was apparent that Obachan knew how to live it.
Seeing Obachan
this last February was bittersweet. We
knew it would be both Mimi’s first and last time to meet her. After one hundred years of adventures,
Obachan’s memory finally began to let go.
So too did her body. By the time
of our visit, Obachan didn’t recognize most family or friends and had taken to
sleeping most of the day. We didn’t know
what to expect. There had been days when
she’d hardly stirred prior to our visit.
Would she wake this last time for us?
True to form, she did.
Sumie sat by Obachan’s bed and gently stroked her hair as I held a
curious Mimi just behind. Obachan began
to stir as Sumie called out her name.
Ever so slowly she turned her head and then opened her eyes, catching
her first glimpse of Sumie in over three years.
She didn’t know who the woman stroking her hair was, but the way she
smiled at her hinted that they must somehow be connected. It was too big and too sweet for a mere stranger. Obachan’s
gaze eventually shifted from Sumie to me and Mimi. She was definitely intrigued by the presence
of a gaijin in her room. Perhaps she
thought I was on a break from shoveling the drive.
During our stay in Tsuruoka we were able to visit Obachan
three times. Despite her condition, she
always woke for us. Mimi was growing
closer to her with each visit. We could
see it in the way she would whisper “Obachan” when it came time for the visit to
end and then blow her kisses.
There had
been heavy snows during our trip, and each visit to Obachan’s convalescent home
meant a trudge through the snow. To this
day, Mimi calls out “Obachan!” whenever she sees a snowy landscape. We had many adventures during our snowy trip
to Tsuruoka, but for Mimi, Obachan is what stuck.
It’s entirely irrational thinking that those brief
encounters between Mimi and Obachan have somehow put Mimi on a better path, but
I can’t help but believe that’s the case.
These two women, one hundred years apart, are inextricably linked in
blood and spirit. That kind of
connection transcends memory, transcends logic. I have no doubt that, in the
years to come, Sumie will catch the occasional glimpse of her grandmother in
Mimi. And in that way we know she will
always be with us. We will miss you, Obachan!
