OPINION

While visiting my sister, my three-year-old nephew grabbed my pant’s leg and hissed, “Heh, Unca Tim, down here. Heh come down here I have to tell you something.”
Careful not to be mislead by another of his childish pranks like being throwing up on or having the last few strands of hair plucked from my head, I asked, “What do you want?”
“Something very important,” he replied, “Come down here and I’ll tell you, it’s about Iran.”
I knew I had no choice in the matter as the boy was rigged with a bottle on both hips in a contraption that looked like a holster. He was a two bottle-slinging baby. The holster hung low on his hips and reminded me of Jack Palance in Shane. He was adept at using them too, as he could knock the cherry off an ice cream sundae from 40 paces with one while suckling the other from zero to complete in less than two seconds.
I decided to lower myself to his level and hear what he had to say besides, I knew that we shared like DNA, as we were both news junkies. His source being PBS children’s news programs and mine, listening to the major networks and putting my faith in Katey, Brian, and the rest of the corporate news actors.
“What have you heard,” I asked.
“Iran has a huge stockpile of nuclear weapons buried in the desert and are just waiting to take them out and use them on us.”
“Where did you hear such nonsense?” I inquired.
“It was on PBS news. Our Vice-President, Mr. Cheney was telling it.”
I was going to ask if he remembered Dick Cheney told us there were weapons of mass destruction in Iraq but realized he hadn’t been born yet when he piped up, “Mr. Cheney said that they also buried all the WMD’s from Iraq in Iran too.”
It was time to set this three year old straight. No more goofing about. He liked the news so I would fill him in on the truth. “Matthew, there were no WMDs in Iraq. Besides Iran and Iraq had been sworn enemies until now.”
“That can’t be true, Mr. Cheney said that Iran is bringing IEDs into Iraq to blow up Americans all the time.”
What a can of worms I had opened. I hated to disillusion the boy but knowing if I answered his statement and told him that one of the most powerful people on the planet was lying would be akin to saying, “Sorry, Virginia, there is no Santa Claus.”
I decided I had no choice but to take the coward’s way out and lowered my belly to the floor and told him to jump on for his horsy ride. He climbed on my back, circled his little fat arms around my throat securely enough to cut off ninety percent of the blood flow to my brain. and commanded “Giddy up, Unca Tim.”
As I headed west, toward the sunset, the swings and slide he would occasionally nudge me in the ribs with his cowboy boots yelling, “Giddy-up,”
I responded with a yell inquiring, “Matthew, when did your mommy buy you spurs?”

The Dodgers Are Going To Win

“The Dodgers are going to win. The Dodgers are going to win.” Whenever you went to Ebbets Field, he’s be there, wearing dark glasses, walking with a cane and selling copies of the Brooklyn Eagle with a scorecard and a two inch long, yellow pencil—all for a nickel.
The Dodgers are going to win,” he’d say—always predicting victory, eager to cash in on the ebullience of the crowd.
“He’s not really blind,” my friend Karl would say, reflecting the skepticism of a hardened fourteen year old city dweller.
Whether he could see or not never bothered me. He was part of the scene. So what if he was pretending to be blind. If it sold more papers, more power to him. “The Dodgers are going to win.” He was right more than half of the time.

By Reiss duPlessis

“Music has charms to soothe the savage beast, to soften rocks or bend a knotted oak.”
William Congreve

He was dying. He knew it. We knew it. Months, no, years of conventional treatment had failed. He and his wife had traveled across the country to participate in experimental procedures doctors hoped might save him. They did not. He was dying. He accepted the reality, but acceptance and happiness are only distant cousins, not blood brothers as were we.

I went to the house on the same day, at the same time, once a week to sit with him, talk with him and to allow my sister in law a small amount of time to get away, do some shopping and breathe air that was not polluted with the pending death of the man with whom she shared a Shakespearean love.

Our conversations, as I sat beside his bed, were challenging, not because of the situation in which we found ourselves but because any conversation under any circumstance, with my brother Roy, was a challenge. To say he was bright was not fair to his brilliance, charm and mischievous brand of humor. Those attributes were always lurking around the corner of his brain to override my argument in a debate, to test my long held beliefs or to, simply, prove his point. Rarely did I lose a discussion with him. Instead, I learned a different way of thinking about a specific concept. He was ever the teacher, the leader, the conductor of the drum corps to which he marched. He, you see, did not simply march to a different drummer, his varied interests, hobbies and careers required a full percussion section from a symphony orchestra. He was scholarly, a master of words, a leader, an athlete, a clown and he, everyone agreed, was a “genuinely nice guy,” who could be depended upon to do the unexpected.

At his memorial service, one of the teachers with whom he worked as the principal of and elementary school, told of an incident when she was in need of guidance on a touchy work related issue. They had discussed the point on several occasions and had not reached accord. One morning, she told the assembly of mourners, she was summoned to his office where the discussion was to continue. When she walked in, he was sitting behind his desk, in his dark three piece suit, looking very much the administrator. Walking freely across the surface of his desk was a very large, very live, very plucky duck! ?The teacher said she had gotten the message, learned what she needed to know and would love and remember him and that incident for the rest of her life. Between tears and smiles, I whispered to Jean, “That’s my brother!”

When he was in the Air Force, the military sent representatives to our city, home and schools asking questions about him. They even talked to me and asked if my “big brother could keep a secret.” There was no question that was one of the many facets that made his character . We later learned he had a special assignment in Korea. To the day he died, he never told me or anyone else, what that assignment was. He probably helped defeat the enemy with ducks!

As he lay dying, affected by massive doses of pain medication, our conversations took colorful and jagged curves. I remember the discussion we shared related to the meaning of the work “tryst.’ It seemed a priest who visited and enjoyed one of those challenging conversations with my brother, had used the word tryst in a religious sense. Medicated or not, my word-master brother, who never allowed me to win a game of Scrabble, needed to discuss and dig into the possible meanings of that word when used to make a religious point. That word will always roam my memory bank as that discussion was the last we were to have.

In the weeks before his death, depression, frustration and untold doses of pain killers, robbed him of his patience and sadly, at times, his humor. He was in pain. He legs that had served him so well as an accomplished athlete no longer worked, the only thing they knew was pain. I would massage his legs and, while that offered small bouts of relief, he was still in pain, and suffering his position as a bed-ridden, dying man. I talked, joked, laughed, and tried to get him to relax with every bit of inferior humor I could muster. It seemed to work but, I felt, only for short periods. I shared and suffered his frustration and wished I had Merlin’s magic wand.

One day, I brought a video tape of a concert with the two operatic divas, Kathleen Battle and Jessye Norman. I placed the tape in the machine and began my message therapy. Humm, his legs relaxed, his demeanor was relaxed, he was smiling! He was enthralled by the music. He was nodding in time to the music. He, it seemed, was happy! He watched the concert to the end and asked me to play it again. The music has done what I could not, it searched for and found the Roy we knew and loved all of our lives.

Mister Congreve was right, but then, Roy could have told me that.



Roy

I was reviewing the list of people with whom I corresponded via e-mail. I would send copies of my memoir stories to many of them. I then wondered why it was that the correspondence with my sister Keiko in Japan could not be made via this route. Such a correspondence would be more sustaining as there would be no cost of mailing bulk mail via e-mail.
Dad had made his small fortune in the states, enough to start a taxi business in 1928. He took three model A Fords back to Japan. Unfortunately due to bad timing (1929 world wide financial crash), he went bankrupt. So in 1929 my parents with just my older sister and me returned to the United States. (Thank God, thank God, thank God) Two siblings were left behind temporarily until Dad could re-establish himself. But one, Keiko, was left behind and eventually adopted by my cousin’s family.
When Dad died in 1943 and the extended family gathered together, I obtained Keiko’s address in Japan. The war was going on and I felt someday I would want to get in touch with her. I did not remember her when I was in Japan that one year, 1928 (I was five years old and she was two). The war ended in 1945 and I was sent to Japan for occupation duty as a counter intelligence agent in the US Army.
When I reached Japan I sent her a letter to the address I had kept. She responded almost immediately. The responding letter was written by a Nisei who had returned to Japan as an expatriate.
We exchanged a few letters in a period of one month. Then to my surprise Keiko and my Japanese Uncle appeared at my doorstep. They had traveled three days (only 400 miles). The US occupation forces had control of all railroad and overland travel and the natives traveled any distance as best they could.
Seeing that Keiko was going to be well taken care of, Uncle left for home the next day. Keiko remained with me for about a week. I fed her American food and after three days, she was telling me that her skin was oozing oil. She meant her skin felt oily. They lacked proper diet during the war.
I was amazed how similar her general personality was compared to my US born sisters. She laughed at the same stories I told her with the same expression on her face. My Japanese was minimal but I had interpreters available.
My US sisters were excellent ballroom dancers and Keiko excelled in Japanese dancing (Later in life she became a dancing teacher). I would joke with her as best I could, and she would make the effort to reciprocate. We had a great time together. The saddest thing she related to me was that when she was on the beach, she would sit facing eastward for hours watching the waves come in and out and wonder about her real parents and brothers and sisters that she never knew who lived beyond the ocean.
When it was determined that I would be returning to the states for discharge, I took the ten-day leave of absence to visit with her and to meet many of my Japanese relatives. I spent the time at the Mifunes (My sister Keiko’s home); my father’s household, the Yamasakis; and my mother’s household, the Yoshimuras. I took copious notes of the many cousins, nephews, and nieces. Some were killed in combat in the South Pacific wars. Others returned home wounded and still others returned physically okay but defeated. It was a difficult meeting between relatives. When I got close to a serious argument with my cousin, someone removed him from the room in deference to me. I guess I was bragging too much about how great America was. My cousin had been defeated enough without that. I was too young to understand this.
When I returned to the states and was eventually married to Betty, we would send Care packages of clothing and food periodically. Keiko would send back a photo of herself dressed in Betty’s hand-me-downs.
Years went by and Keiko married into a good family. As is customary, the Japanese did not take long vacations although they were entitled to it. For years I would try to have them come and visit us but it was only after her husband retired did they do so. Betty and I showed them the San Francisco area, where we lived at the time and had them fly to New York to spend a few days with our oldest sister. I had them return to us and we drove the length of California visiting various places including Yosemite. We visited with our son’s family and we all showed them Southern California. I also had them spend a few days going and coming with our sister living in Hawaii.
This of course was the trip of their lives, as Keiko later related to me. They saw three different households in three different parts of the US. While with us I took Keiko’s husband golfing to show how inexpensive golfing was compared to Japan.
I was hoping this would give Keiko some idea of what life would have been had she not been left in Japan. Was this cruel? I think not. She had married well and this broadened her perspective of how her family survived America. This was the short period when Japan began to out-do the US economically.
After their visit I wrote them the following: “I promised you an unusual and bewildering experience. I hope I lived up to that promise. It was heartwarming for me to have you experience a small portion of what living in America is like. Takeshi-san, I find you a very strong and conservative individual as most successful Japanese business men are. It was a pleasure to get to know you better. Your golfing improved on the back nine so I know that you will do well with more play instead of once a year.
“Kei-chan, what a delight it was for me to find you a very cheerful and uplifting person. With all the adversities you have faced, these wonderful characteristics make me feel ‘ureshi’ (very happy). It also speaks well of Takeshi-san to allow you to blossom in this way. My understanding is that Japanese mores require women to be not seen or heard, to put it in the extreme. It usually takes the type of freedom we have in the United States to attain such a warm and wonderful personality that you possess.
“It is remarkable that the humor that you see in everyday situation is brought forth and enjoyed to the fullest. I enjoy life in a similar way. I emphasize the humor that I find in every day situation. You, Kei-chan, have acquired the same method of enjoyment of life. And that is the reason I have been so pleased with your stay with us. It is too bad that I am not fluent in Japanese. It would have been very interesting to explore in depth the differences and similarities of life of our two cultures…...How wonderful it was to have both of you here. From the depths of my heart it was necessary for you to come see the U.S. for me to feel fulfilled. I think you need to come here again, this time at a more leisurely pace….”

Back to the present… Keiko’s daughter studied foreign languages including French and English. She has access to her husband’s computer so I have agreed to send them stories of my memoir in bits and pieces. It will be interesting to see how they respond. I have already received the latest photo of her daughter and family.

A CHOCOLATE ICE-CREAM CONE

I see a picture of my dad sitting on a bench, legs stretched out in front of him. And I see myself half standing and half leaning against him, smiling and looking quite satisfied and safe with his arm around my waist and my head resting on his shoulder. My dad and I are on the boardwalk in Brighton Beach heading towards Coney Island. My father promised me a chocolate Carvel ice-cream on a sugar cone dipped in chocolate sprinkles. And I remember by father ordering his in Vanilla and when I saw the black spots of vanilla beans my stomach turned a little because I thought the black spots were from the sand billowing up from the beach.

My mother was very sad that day and a dark, black film seemed to float above our heads blocking the sea breeze from blowing into the windows of our house.
“Come Diane,’ said my father, “let’s go get an ice-cream. If you can walk all the way to Coney Island that will be your gift along with a special surprise when we get home.”

Even though I was only six I felt torn between leaving my mother to whom I felt protective when she got sad like today. But the thought of spending a day alone with my father and running barefoot through the surf with my pants rolled up trying not to get them wet and then building mud castles in the sand with my dad won out. Of course my mother’s encouragement was a large factor in my decision making. “Go sweetheart” she said. “The fresh air and playing on the beach will be the best medicine on this perfect day to be out of doors. You need some color in your cheeks. You’ve been cooped up inside too long.” I knew her smile was forced, holding back tears welling up behind her eyes yet trying so hard to be cheerful. I knew her face lied, but she really did want me to go out and be with my dad.

I turned the photograph over and examined it. I wondered at the veracity of my memory. Was it mine, was it something I remembered hearing, or did I make the entire story up. But then I realized that it doesn’t really matter because after all, it is my story.