Off the Beaten Track: Grandmas Across the Ocean

Novel Adventurers is pleased to welcome our guest this week, Mary Beth Horiai.  Mary Beth has 32 years of experience living in and around Japan and it's culture. She a has a BA in Political Science with a Minor in Environmental Studies and a MA in International Relations. The research for her graduate thesis was on the challenges and responses to aging societies and declining populations with Japan as her case study. She is presently working on a personal manuscript about adjusting to life in an aging world. How will you grow old?  Mary Beth has established a not for profit organization that raises funds to assist Yamada families whose lives were impacted by the March 11th tsunami.  Visit Renew Yamada or Mary Beth's personal blog, Driver of Change for more information. 

My husband, Toshiaki, and I have been married nearly 27 years. Today, it's hard to believe that both sets of parents were not so thrilled about this union at the beginning.

Our upbringings were so very different. His mom and her nine sisters were rice farmers in Northern Japan, and his dad was a lumberman. Their hometown of Yamada is one the many rural fishing villages located 250 miles north of Tokyo on the very coastline recently destroyed by the March 11, 2011 tsunami. Toshiaki’s diet growing up consisted of what was caught by his brothers from the nearby sea and what was grown on their land.

I had a middle-class, American upbringing. My father was an executive in Los Angeles and my mother was a Leave it to Beaver housewife. My mother was always curious about my in-laws. Once while my daughter was admiring my mom’s high-heeled shoes, my mother innocently asked Miki whether her grandmother in Japan, her obaachan, wore high heels. Miki  diplomatically replied, "Grandma, this is America. Japan is Japan."

Our whole married life, I have wanted my family, especially my mom, to meet Toshiaki's family, or at least his mom. We have tried for many years to get Obaachan to agree to make the journey to the States, to no avail. I still hold out hope for my mother to visit Yamada someday, but the tsunami has changed the landscape in so many ways. While the homes of Toshiaki's parents and his three brothers are all on high ground and were not damaged, the majority of Yamada was washed away and still remains flattened and unchanged. Minus of course, scattered mountainous piles of random household trash and tall weeds and sunflowers growing where homes and small businesses once stood.

Toshiaki and Obaachan

On a visit to Yamada last summer, Ojiichan (Grandpa) met us at the door of their home with his usual big smile. Toshiaki brought our bags inside, while I started to walk next door to his brother’s house. From experience, I knew that my sister-in-law, Kazuko, had probably prepared some dishes to contribute to that night’s dinner, and I could help carry them over. On my way, I greeted Obaachan, who was watering her unusually dry batch of daikon, one bucket at a time. Unlike my homecomings in the states, there was no hugging or small talk. Instead, I quickly became her relay-woman, shuttling buckets of water to her fields of thirsty vegetables, as she grumbled on about not having enough rain this year. I tried to be more helpful and gingerly attempted to join her in the field, but she warned that my “city-slicker” shoes would get muddy (my words, not hers). I shamefully agreed and stuck to water patrol.

Later in the evening, another sister-in-law, Miwako, brought over additional dishes to add to the feast. The women knew that their husbands (my brothers in-laws), would all gather tonight to catch up with Toshiaki and their parents. Over the years, I have found my groove among the Horiai women. Somehow it was understood that I was excused from any cooking duties (phew), and I have gratefully settled into the role of setting the table with an assortment of tiny dishes then handling the washing and clearing afterwards.

After somewhat of a peaceful night’s rest (with only two mini-quakes to wake us), we woke to sounds of roosters squawking and people chattering. Obaachan and her 90-year-old sister, Setsuko, were downstairs in the kitchen. Setsuko usually made her rounds in the afternoon, but it was too miserably hot to walk around that August day. She knew we were visiting, and 6:30 am seemed as good a time as any to drop by to welcome us.

While Toshiaki and I joined them for a breakfast of fish, pickled vegetables, miso soup, and rice, it occurred to me what time it was in the States. I quickly contacted my mom via e-mail to set up a time to Skype then tried to explain the technology to my in-laws. They were intrigued and agreed to journey next door to Kazuko's Wi-Fi’d house.

As my mom's bright face and excited voice entered the room, she could see two sun-drenched farmer women shuffle into seats facing the screen. My sister, Meighan, stood beside my mom and Toshiaki, his brother, Satoshi and Kazuko, popped in behind Obaachan and Setsuko. At first, they all just smiled at each other, both sides commenting in their own language on how beautiful and young-looking their counterparts were. After I made all the introductions, we ventured into the three topics older people all over the globe hold dear: health, weather, and grandchildren. After we established all of their ages and when they recently stopped riding bicycles (late 70s for Obaachan and Mom, and 86 for super-Aunt Setsuko), we discussed weather conditions on both sides of the Pacific. There was a pause, where we all took in the incredibleness of the moment.

Then I asked Toshiaki's mom if she had anything she wanted to ask my Mom. After a moment, she leaned toward the screen and said, “Do you get to see our grandchildren, Emi and Miki, and are they well?” My mother gave a glowing “proud grandmother” report, and I knew that nothing could top that connection. Cyberspace has minimized the distance between our two worlds, but maybe they weren't so different after all. Everyone smiled and waved goodbye, and to me, it seemed both sides were changed. I know I was.