Love Letters in the Hand

Donna Louise here continuing the heart-wrenching story of a small town Missouri girl and a Japanese boy.

The day before Ito returned to Japan, Clematis took him to the city park for catfish sushi, his favorite local fish. She had worked very hard on the meal and laid it out on the picnic table. She poured the hot tea after performing a tea ceremony she’d read about. She sat the teapot down and looked up at the street. Her father drove by, saw her and jammed on the brakes.

She intercepted him because she was afraid what he might do. He slapped her, picked her up and carried her back to the truck screaming racist insults at the top of his lungs. He forbade Clematis from seeing Ito off the next day.

She snuck off to the bus station and found Ito before he caught the coach to the Kansas City airport.

Clematis sobbed and begged him to forgive her. “My heart is broken.”

He looked at her with tears in his eye. “My heart is broken too. I love you. I promise that when I graduate university in Tokyo, I’ll take you away. You are like a precious pearl in an ugly place.”

They kissed as he boarded the bus. She waved until it disappeared into the sunset.

Years passed, Ito never returned, never wrote. Clematis moved on, married a nice man and settled down in her small town to live a long, dull, childless life.

Ten years after they married, her husband hit a herd of armadillo crossing the dark highway. Losing control of his vehicle, it plunged down a steep embankment and crashed into a hickory tree. He died.

Shortly after that, her father passed away. As the only child, she cleaned out the house. In an old trunk she found packets of letters from Ito. He had written every week for five years.

He had begged her to write, even if it was to tell him she didn’t love him anymore. His letters were filled with longing. In his last letter he wrote, “I’ll always love you. You, my pearl, have been the only good thing in my life.”

“Donna Louise, I cried for a week–solid.” 

Clematis has decided Ito joined the yakuza at that point in his life.

She hopes to reach him and redeem his soul.

What can I say? I’m a sucker for love stories.

Now back to meditation.

Rounding First Base

Donna Louise here wishing I was snug in bed. At zazen yesterday I sat  through the silent meditations filled with sneezes, snores and assorted body noises. Jikijitsu kept busy applying the stick to backs and buttocks.

When I confronted Clematis a couple of days ago, she told me a heart-wrenching story which I will tell you now. Pull out the tissues. It’s a weeper.

As a teenager in south central Missouri, she dreamed of fleeing the rural life to travel the world. Before she could leave, the world came to her. Ito Yamaguchi arrived as an international exchange student.

His host family received him cautiously. The local WWII veterans expressed their concern that Ito’s father might have fought against them in the Pacific. A few phone calls back and forth to the exchange program’s national offices allayed their fears, but everyone regarded him with suspicion.

The host family fed him the same food they ate which included lots of wild game and greens of every kind and description. He’d never eaten so much food in his life. He didn’t like it and wanted to go home, but that wasn’t allowed. He grew very homesick.

At school the kids taunted and teased him, all of them, except Clematis who befriended him, ate lunch with him, and tried to explain the locals customs as she took him under her wing.

To make him feel more at home she learned how to steam rice and make a fairly decent sushi assortment from local ingredients. She’d make the pieces in the morning before she left to catch the school bus. They would share them at lunch.

Clematis could never had told her father because he was at the attack on Pearl Harbor and harbored a deep-seated hatred of the Japanese which she understood. Still she had fallen in love with Ito.

Before a month passed, Ito had developed a love for Clematis. He asked her to go out. She accepted and they went on several dates to the movies and on picnics next to the river. She fell madly, deeply in love.

She assured me they never went beyond first base. To make her feel better, I told her that Mark McGwire once said, “I sort of missed one big thing, I failed to touch first base.” She rolled her eyes. Maybe her first base and his are two different things. I’ll google it.

There’s a New Boss in Town

Donna Louise here dressing for a 5 a.m. meditation at the zendo. Clematis has a plan. Part of it involves joining the morning and evening meditation sessions. We will sit zazen in an attempt to overhear information about the illegal activities she thinks are going on.

After she explained her plan to me, I hesitated too long and she jumped in. “What will it hurt to try my way, girl? We can both use a little quiet times.”

I must have experienced some spiritual growth in the last twenty-four hours because I did not point out that, when I’m at home snuggled in my bed at 5 a.m., I have all the quiet I need. But why bother? Clematis has all these plans and nothing will stand in the way of her realizing the successful completion of them. Nothing.

“Dress in black or some other dull color. They frown on distractions in clothing.”

Great. Not only am I out of bed in the middle of the night, now I must wear a drab color to boot. Jikijitsu better go light with the 2×4 this morning. Being whacked by his big stick so early might push me to violence, thus ending my Zen career before it gets started.

Here’s the plan Clematis has devised:  we become fixtures at the center, wheedle our way into Roshi’s company and eavesdrop on his conversations. Because no one knows we understand Japanese they will talk freely in front of us.

“Clematis, we can understand Japanese but we can’t speak it.”

“We don’t need to speak it. Why would we ever need to?”

I shuddered. When anyone asks a question like that or any of the following questions, trouble awaits the questioner:

What’s the worst thing that could happen?

Can we get any lower/worse off/sicker/poorer etc?

The Universe wants us to know the answers to these questions so we understand when we have a good life.

My research on Ito Yamaguchi said he heads the American operation of the Yakuza. Because the Mafia did so well in America, he decided to move operations into U.S. cities with large Japanese populations. Those proved so successful that he proposed spreading to other cities likeKansas City. We are a test market (so to speak).

Usually based in San Francisco,  he took over the local organization because local Japanese and Japanese-Americans have learned the stubborn independence of Missourians. He’s come to change all that.

Kuso!

Donna Louise here luxuriating in a hot tub at the local Japanese spa after confronting Clematis. I had a great massage from a lovely woman who twisted and turned me in ways I never thought possible.  When she finished and I’d become an unrecognizable lump of flesh and bone, she wrapped me in a warm blanket and put me in the sun where another woman tended to me—all in silence. What a gift.

Later they placed Clematis next to me and all quiet vanished. “Donna Louise, you asleep?”

I didn’t even bother to turn and look at her. “No, Clematis, I was enjoying the warmth—and the silence.” I thought she’d take the hint, but, no, she had something she wanted to say to me which trumped anything I wanted.

“That Zen center’s a front for something illegal like gangland protection, prostitution or drug dealing. At least that’s what I think. What did you think?”

Sigh, so much for peace and quiet. “With the headmaster giving instructions from Mr. Yamaguchi, I’d say something’s wrong, but why not turn the matter over to the Kansas City Police Department and let them handle it? For once I’m staying out of trouble.”

“Oh, right! That’ll be the day.”

She stopped talking so I focused on the heat and drifted away in my mind.

Her voice brought me back to reality. “Do you know how many Japanese speaking officers they have on the force?”

“None.” I have never seen an Asian-American officer on duty.

“Bingo. None. You are the only person I know who understands Japanese and English. You have a mysterious translation system in your head.”

“You call a possible brain tumor mysterious?” All the relaxation had drained from my body leaving me tensed up and angry. “And I’m not the only one who understands Japanese and English.”

“Yes, you are.

“No, I’m not. You understand them both too.”

“I do not.”

“Do too.”

“Do not.”

“Kuso!”

“What did you just say? There’s no reason to use foul language.”

“Kuso!”

“You know how I hate that word?”

“What word? All I said was, ‘Kuso!’”

“That’s ‘shit’ in Japanese.”

“See, I knew you understood and spoke the language. Now tell me what’s going on.” I looked over at her.

She had set up like the mummy in that horror movie where it comes to life. “Oh, poo.”

Potty Break

Donna Louise here sitting in a meditational pose, but obviously not meditating. Clematis picked me up and took me to Zen-do-kai. “There’s something you need to hear and see.”

We arrived at the place in time for noon meditation. The next thing I know we’re in the zendo (the meeting hall) sitting on a tiny round cushion on top of a big square one. I’m out of practice doing the full lotus so I settled for a half-lotus and put my iPad in my lap where I could type unseen by others.

Clematis grabbed her pillows, arranged them, sat down and hasn’t moved since. She might have been dead for all I knew, except I heard her snore occasionally.

I typed when the zendo policeman, Jikijitzu, had his back to me. If he finds that you’re sleeping or not paying attention he can strike you with his stick named Kyosaku. Let me tell you Kyosaku wakes you up quick. I saw it bring some students back to life.

Some ditzy woman fussed with her hair. Jikijitzu smacked her with the discipline stick and she was back to meditating in a second. Isn’t it the Christian Bible that says, “Spare the kyosaku and spoil the child”?

A young man fell asleep and tumbled off his cushion onto the floor without waking up. I thought he had passed out, but Jikijitzu walloped him on the buttocks and that young man rose off the floor and landed in perfect meditation position. Kyosaku acts as a reminder of our human failings.

When meditation ended, Clematis told me to sit still because Roshi Hoki Doki would give a dharma talk, a Zen sermon if you will. He faced us and motioned for his assistant to interpret for him.

He said, “Brothers, I have the plans for the fish bombing of several Japanese restaurants that have not pad their dues to Mr. Yamaguchi.”  The people on the front row listened intently to what Roshi had to say. The rest of the crowd listened to the interpreter who talked about living life like a stream that runs over and around obstacles in its path. It was two different things happening at the same time.

Clematis glanced over at me. “Confusing? You can understand what Roshi is saying, can’t you?”

I nodded.

“Good. Remember everything. It’s very important. We can stop these bombings.”

I just wanted to go to the bathroom.

The Spam Solution

Donna Louise here wondering what happens when a person falls ill and needs a doctor? Yesterday I called my internist for an appointment to see if I have auditory xeno-dyslinguia (AXD). I told his nurse that a possible cause of the syndrome was a brain tumor and I needed to know if I should have an MRI.

She said, “Doctor can see you on March 26 at 10 a.m. Is that okay?”

No, that wasn’t okay, but, in the past, when I’ve expressed my dismay at how long it takes to see the doctor for an acute illness, which I won’t have by the time I see him, and my disbelief that an earlier appointment isn’t available, Nurse has said, “If this is an emergency, please call 911 or go to the nearest hospital emergency room.”

Really? Spend $1,000 at the ER to see a doctor who will give me two aspirins and refer me back to my treating physician? Or perform an MRI of my brain for $3,000 and tell me to see my treating physician for the results?

The March 25 appointment didn’t sound so bad. I’ll see my treating physician, pay the $20 co-pay and have him tell me I’m a hypochondriac. Before I said “good-bye” I let Nurse know that, if my head burst like a giant pimple, I would not hold her or the doctor responsible.

As soon as I hung up the phone, I measured my head. Every morning I will record the circumference. If my head swells more than four inches, I’ll go to the emergency room.

The AXD may be going away as I haven’t heard any Japanese for twelve hours. Of course, I haven’t left my house all day.

At the same time, I’ve had this desire for Japanese food:  futomaki, a spiderman roll, ahi, sake (salmon, not rice wine), and sunomono (octopus salad).

It’s a good thing I don’t have any goldfish. I fear I might have turned them into sushi for lunch today. What a horrible thought. They wouldn’t even make an appetizer portion.

I sipped the teriyaki sauce I found in the fridge. My cravings lessened. I’ll switch to the low-salt soy sauce when the sauce is gone.

OMG, I have a can of spam. If I steam some white rice, thinly slice some spam and put it on rice, I could make American sushi.

Clematis left a phone message. She needs to see me today about something VERY important.

Trouble with the Audio

Donna Louise here admitting yet another faux pas. I googled “turning Japanese” and discovered The Vapors were unconcerned about actually becoming Japanese. The phrase means something sexual which I will not describe here lest it be associated with me forever.

Once I discovered my inadvertent error, I figured I should find the technically correct name for what’s happening to me. I googled it and have diagnosed myself as having Auditory Xeno-Dyslinguia (AXD), not a life-threatening illness unless a brain tumor has caused it (diagnosed by an MRI of the brain). I have a call in to my internist to see what he thinks. 

He tends to discount my complaints as hypochondria. Just because I was convinced I had anthrax one time and it turned out the white powder which I believed contained the bacterium was only talcum powder.

Then there was the time I believed I had been bitten by the Black Widow spider, but the “bite” proved to be an infected hair.

Then…well, never mind. Perhaps he does have good reason to believe I have imaginary illnesses. Mama lived a long life and probably would have lived into her nineties had she not taken up hot tubbing with a younger man. At least she died with a big smile on her face.

The first recorded case of AXD involved Baxter Jonah, an English tourist on holiday at the Welsh seaside town of Aberysthwyth(a-brist-with). One day, while walking on the beach, he found himself surrounded by locals who threatened to slit his throat because he was a British intelligence agent. They tied him up and carried him to the town square where, seconds before the leader of the mob would have ended the poor man’s life, a local minister ran into the crowd and declared the “spy” to be a brush salesman on holiday.

Mr. Jonah took the next train back toLondon. He noticed on the train that most of the people spoke Welsh which seemed quite natural given the origin of the trip. When he arrived at Victoria Station, he discovered many of the Londoners spoke Welsh. He had never noticed before, but shrugged it off as his inattentiveness.

When he arrived home, his mum greeted him with a kiss and a “hello”—in Welsh. Shortly thereafter he sought treatment from Dr. James Reed Hanover, a noted, British brain specialist, who studied the man for the rest of his life in what became known in neurological circles as the “Case of Jonah and the Wales Incident.”