I chose my Kyoto mug for my morning coffee today. It is a Starbuck’s souvenir mug. It is painted with colorful Japanese fans, a shrine, the serenity rock garden, a geisha walking across a bridge, and a splash pink Sakura. I love it because it brings back fond memories of that time when I saw all of these things.
I can’t believe that it was one year ago today that I left for Japan. It was such an adventure for me. It gave me so many memories of a country so beautiful that words escaped me to tell of it.
One year later and I still can feel the ocean breezes, see the Sakura in blossom, taste the rich food foreign to my tongue, smell the Starbuck’s coffee in a sea of green tea, and hear the soft tones of the foreign sing song Japanese language.
Jackie has since gone on to less greener pastures. That is she has exchanged her quiet country life in Onomichi for the fast pace living in one of the biggest cities in the world. She no longer teaches English to Japanese school children. She now works for the English version of Japan Times. She lives in Tokyo.
Recently she gave up another of her “Jackie apartments” for a “grown up” apartment in Tokyo. Her new place is a three bedroom apartment complete with hot running water for the shower and sinks. She even has a flush toilet. Although I did not specifically ask about that either.
It sounds very inviting and she has invited us. Jackie tells me it is nothing like Onomichi. She even thinks it might be somewhat overwhelming with the crush of people that live and work there 24/7. It sounds like a challenge to me. Bill and I are thinking of going to Tokyo this year. We are still in the planning stages.
One year later and I still want to go back to see Japan. I am sure that it will be quite different from what I saw the first time. However what will not be different is the reunion with my daughter that I see so rarely with her life of adventure so far from home.
WendyKH
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Every Picture Tells A Story
Black & White Photos
The box which was stored safely in the closet was opened. I had been anxiously waiting to look through these black and white photographs. Layer upon layer they were stacked in no apparent order. Atop of the photos was a short terse letter from our aunt and uncle who sent them to us for our pleasure as they really meant nothing to them. Patiently the photos waited for the right moment and right people to go through them.
My sister and I stared at the box of yellowed black and white photos supposedly of our maternal grandmother and family. They came in all shapes and sizes. Some were studio but most were taken by someone who thought the moment needed to be caught. The sad reality is that those stories will likely never be told. What we found was an assortment of people and places that were unnamed.
As hard as we tried, we could name very few of these people. They were pretty good looking photos from the 1920s, 30s, and 40s. A non restrained giddiness overcame us. Faces of stern men and women with children on their laps seemed to become all the same. Notes scribbled on the back such as “I suppose you can pick me out”, or “The Three Musketeers”, “little Betty” or “Our dog Johny with us” were not the least bit helpful. It did provide us with no end of comedy, but I guess you had to be there.
I packed them up to bring home. Someone, somehow must know who these long since dead but kind of funny looking people were. My first choice was to go to the oldest family member and have her scan them and see if she could name them. Luckily for me she agreed to meet one afternoon to help me go through them.
It must have looked overwhelming when I rolled up to her sidewalk with my 24 inch wheeled carry-on suitcase. This was the easiest way to carry around my dead relatives, believe me.
Slowly we went through the photos and she was able to help me sort them and put names to most of them. There are still a handful of questionable characters left hanging around in my suitcase, but I have another plan for that.
Pictures are the genealogists best friend when it comes to getting a story. As I poured through these with my sister Betty, stories poured out. Well some had to be pulled out while others needed to come out of the cob webs, but they came. The stories of family, farms, weddings, favorite brothers, working grandmothers, mother and sisters and more just flowed through the afternoon. I was overwhelmed and absolutely awestruck by the knowledge that people have locked inside of them just for the asking.
I loaded our pictures back into the suitcase careful not to dislodge the many sticky notes and organizational piles we attempted to put together.
I love a picture that tells a story. Not just the shiny one shown on the glossy side, but the story that hides on its not so shiny side. I want a story that brings to me pieces of “humanness” to the flat world it lives in. I want a story that extends beyond it's white boarders. I want a story that lies behind and around the picture.
I visualize in my bizarre mind that each picture extends outward in all directions; some wider, some longer, some deeper or more elevated in its meanings. I visualize that these individual pictures come together to form a connected story (like puzzle pieces falling together). I long for no missing pieces at all. Alas, it would take a miracle to piece all these pictures together into one coherent story.
Don't we all have pictures somewhere? Aren't they all unnamed and undated?. Now imagine your grandchildren or great grandchildren going through them. You can bet that the story that lies within them will not be the story that they will have. If every picture is worth a thousand words, then I plead with you to tell them in your words.
WendyKH
The box which was stored safely in the closet was opened. I had been anxiously waiting to look through these black and white photographs. Layer upon layer they were stacked in no apparent order. Atop of the photos was a short terse letter from our aunt and uncle who sent them to us for our pleasure as they really meant nothing to them. Patiently the photos waited for the right moment and right people to go through them.
My sister and I stared at the box of yellowed black and white photos supposedly of our maternal grandmother and family. They came in all shapes and sizes. Some were studio but most were taken by someone who thought the moment needed to be caught. The sad reality is that those stories will likely never be told. What we found was an assortment of people and places that were unnamed.
As hard as we tried, we could name very few of these people. They were pretty good looking photos from the 1920s, 30s, and 40s. A non restrained giddiness overcame us. Faces of stern men and women with children on their laps seemed to become all the same. Notes scribbled on the back such as “I suppose you can pick me out”, or “The Three Musketeers”, “little Betty” or “Our dog Johny with us” were not the least bit helpful. It did provide us with no end of comedy, but I guess you had to be there.
I packed them up to bring home. Someone, somehow must know who these long since dead but kind of funny looking people were. My first choice was to go to the oldest family member and have her scan them and see if she could name them. Luckily for me she agreed to meet one afternoon to help me go through them.
It must have looked overwhelming when I rolled up to her sidewalk with my 24 inch wheeled carry-on suitcase. This was the easiest way to carry around my dead relatives, believe me.
Slowly we went through the photos and she was able to help me sort them and put names to most of them. There are still a handful of questionable characters left hanging around in my suitcase, but I have another plan for that.
Pictures are the genealogists best friend when it comes to getting a story. As I poured through these with my sister Betty, stories poured out. Well some had to be pulled out while others needed to come out of the cob webs, but they came. The stories of family, farms, weddings, favorite brothers, working grandmothers, mother and sisters and more just flowed through the afternoon. I was overwhelmed and absolutely awestruck by the knowledge that people have locked inside of them just for the asking.
I loaded our pictures back into the suitcase careful not to dislodge the many sticky notes and organizational piles we attempted to put together.
I love a picture that tells a story. Not just the shiny one shown on the glossy side, but the story that hides on its not so shiny side. I want a story that brings to me pieces of “humanness” to the flat world it lives in. I want a story that extends beyond it's white boarders. I want a story that lies behind and around the picture.
I visualize in my bizarre mind that each picture extends outward in all directions; some wider, some longer, some deeper or more elevated in its meanings. I visualize that these individual pictures come together to form a connected story (like puzzle pieces falling together). I long for no missing pieces at all. Alas, it would take a miracle to piece all these pictures together into one coherent story.
Don't we all have pictures somewhere? Aren't they all unnamed and undated?. Now imagine your grandchildren or great grandchildren going through them. You can bet that the story that lies within them will not be the story that they will have. If every picture is worth a thousand words, then I plead with you to tell them in your words.
WendyKH
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