I'm not one to shamelessly plug anything, but I'm always willing to make an exception. If you have a moment and $9.95 to spare, please considering logging onto Amazon.com and look for Mayor Futoshi Toba's (Mayor of Rikuzentakata) book about the days and months post March 11th as he experienced them. Entitled, “Let’s Talk About It: What Really Happened In The Disaster Area” this is book is brutally honest (at times painfully), emotional, real, and a must-read for anyone (politicians especially) who need to understand disaster prevention, relief, and management. That yours truly translated the book isn’t the point. Mayor Toba’s humanity, the decisions he made and now questions, his resolve, and dedication are something to behold.
But this is not why I’m writing about him. At least not solely. In a recent conversation we had, he shared the following story with me. Again, it’s one of these I-can’t-make-this-up vignettes. This one will make you love him all the more.
“So, my son, the older one, comes to me the other morning and says, ‘Dad! My uniform is still wet!’ Not knowing what he’s talking about, I wander into his room where he’s packing for his basketball tournament that he has to leave for in about 30 minutes, and he’s holding up this clearly wet uniforms. I don’t know what to do with this. How do you dry something quickly, as in 30-minutes quickly? Clothes dryer, right? I’m annoyed, but I go into dad-mode, and take the uniform tops and shorts and stick them in the dryer.” He looks at me here. I nod. Yeah. What’s the big deal? I’m not seeing where the drama is in this story.
“Except, I didn’t hit the ‘dry’ cycle. I hit ‘wash’ and not just any ‘wash’ but the ‘long wash.’” I laugh. “Hey!” I stop laughing. Sort of. “It’s not funny!” I swear that’s a mock pout I’m seeing.
“I’m sorry. You’re right. It’s not funny,” I say and know I’m not the least bit convincing.
“I didn’t know what to do. My son’s standing in the bathroom looking at me with this, ‘Daaaad!’ look, and I know I’ve screwed up, and I know I can’t drain the washing machine and get it to spin and dry and all that in 30 minutes. Rather, I don’t know how to.” I’m grinning, but don’t say anything because after all, it’s not funny. Right?
“So, I make some calls to get suggestions on how to dry this right now. The consensus from the mothers I trust not to repeat the story,” and now he’s grinning too (sort of) “was that there’s no way to dry the uniform in 30 minutes. I tell my son to get on the bus, that I’ll deliver his uniform before the game. He’s annoyed with me, but shuffles off and now I’m in pretty much serious panic mode. Can I microwave clothes? Iron them? I mean, they’re soaked. I’ll end up with some major steam bath if I do that, won’t I?” I’m not being asked so I keep grinning. Smiling. Not grinning. Just smiling.
“Long story short, I ironed them. I got all the tops and bottoms to him in time, too. I called the mothers to thank them.”
He pauses. “This is when I miss my wife.” Then, quickly correcting himself, “It’s not just that I miss her when I don’t know how to run the washing machine.”
“I know. I know that’s not what you meant.”
“ I relied on her so much. It’s hard being both mayor and dad.”
We’re both silent for awhile.
“Your sons love you. They respect you. They get it. They may not always like it, but they get it.”
“You think?”
“I know.”
With that, we’re both quiet agian. I bring up another topic in another minute or so, and we spend the rest of our time together working through projects, strategizing, and getting things done. The Mayor or Rikuzentakata, of the city essentially wiped off the map, is an incredible father and dedicated mayor. For his friendship and trust I’m grateful. I hope you can meet him some day, through his book if not in person. He’s one of the good guys.
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