Stories From The Living Honoring The Dead (Some Graphic Content)

The circular building with classrooms facing the playground in the middle, windows surely filling the rooms with light stands still, alone, and silent.  I'm here to plant an elm tree honoring the 74 children and 10 teachers lost at Ohkawa Elementary School outside of Ishinomaki.  Of the 108 children and 11 staff, 84 are dead or missing.

"You'll bawl," I'm told.  I probably will.  "It's holy.  You'll feel it as soon as you get there."  I'm sure I will.  I drive down the hill with the looming and tall embankment to my left.  The wave rushed up the river on the other side of the bank, spilling over with force that swept 84 people away in an instant. Ohkawa Elementary School is right there, on my right.  No one ever assumed this was a dangerous place to build a school.  Hindsight.  Again.

My host greets me.  I look at the building, the hill right behind the school grounds, the emptiness of it all, taking it all in.  "Pray first," I hear my host say.  Right.  There's a series of altars, stone, marble, concrete, with fresh and artificial flowers covering them all.  The lilies, carnations, chrysanthemums in white and yellow remind me of the funerals I've been to in Japan.  Bottles of juice, soda, a tray of coins, a rin bowl (a small metal bowl to gong before offering prayers), and an incense holder dot the altars.  There's a statue to the far right of a woman cradling a child in her arms that reads "Statue of the Child Protector."  Fat lot of good that statue did.

Large signs in front of the ropes strung around the building read, "Do Not Enter (Except Family Members of the Deceased)."  I'm allowed in thanks to my host, so I go.  I crawl under the rope and enter hallowed ground.  People, many people died here.

Round containers, huge flower pots, line the outer walls of the classrooms, facing into the playground.  I like this architect.  The children must have planted flowers, watching them grow, scent and color filling their rooms.

I walk around the grounds.  I'm alone.  Wondering what the hell must have happened here, I enter a classroom.  The floors are swept clean.  Pieces of plaster fallen from the ceilings are the only debris on the floor.  Someone is taking great care to keep this place clean.  It's all unreal.   It's so quiet.

I leave the classroom and find myself outside again.  It's a bit of a maze, this design.  I would have loved that about this school had I been a student here.  I would have found hiding places--closets, nooks, secret passages--escaping pirates and evil men on horseback.  Outside, I see pillars holding something up that are broken at the base.  This is wrong.  I feel tears.  Fair enough.  I was told I would bawl.

Making my way back to the group of people I'm here with, I frantically wipe away my tears.  I don't want to make a scene.  They're sitting on a concrete wedge.  A tour bus pulls up.  This is a tourist spot.  We all stare.  Sixty or so elderly people get off, all huddling around the altars listening to a tour guide explain in a low voice what happened here.  We talked later about this.  Is this a good thing?  It's good to be remembered.  It's another thing to be a spot on a tour.  They mill around, and we overhear them.  "Why didn't they just escape to that hill over there?"  Pointing to the hill behind the school, an elderly man heads towards it.  My host whispers, "See that tree?  That one right behind the white truck?"  I see a tree with branches shaped like Ys.  Is it a sycamore?  "There was a kid stuck in that tree for days."  We all look at him, the same question we dare not ask.  "Dead, of course.  They couldn't get heavy machinery in here to get him down."  We all stare back at the tree.  "The families of the kids hate that question.  That 'Why didn't they run up the hill' question.  Ten out of eleven teachers died.  The kids, they're kids, how do you not panic?  They did run there.  It's just that most of them didn't make it."  We don't say anything.  "The bodies of the kids were laid here..." and he gestures over to the right, "Here on the ground for days.  The police and firefighters didn't have extra blue tarp to place the kids on or cover them up with.  Relief supplies wouldn't come in for days."

I'm introduced to one of the parents and the groundskeeper.  The mother lost her daughter and is still searching for the remains.  She says she has something to show me.  We walk in silence to a classroom.  She points up to the wall.  "That's when it hit," and for a minute I don't know what she's talking about.  Then it becomes obvious.  The clock stopped when the tsunami hit the school.  "Is it alright if I take a photo?" I ask.  "Please do.  We want people to know."

I decide to walk through the rooms again.  I notice again how all the floors are swept.  In one larger classroom up against the wall I see what surely must be items belonging to the kids.  Unicycles?  These kids rode unicycles?  How cool is that? 

The mother and the groundskeeper and I walk back to our group.  There's another tour bus.  More elderly people crowd the altars praying.  I see a grandpa wiping away tears.  They fan out.  I see one of the men walking towards the hill.  He stands at the foot of the hill facing it.  He's urinating.  We all stare.  What do we do?  What do we say?  Don't pee?  My host again starts to speak.  "The kids who climbed that hill were found on the other side of it several days later by residents of the town over here."  These are stories we don't hear unless the speaker knows for a fact this is what happened.  He heard it from the parents of the kids.

It was an exhausting day.  I came away drained.  Glad I went, grateful to be given an insider's perspective on what happened and how those left behind feel about those of us who come to visit, but I'm crushed by what I saw.  The pain was palpable, real, and still raw.  On days like this, I still don't know what to say.  "I'm sorry for your loss" seems wrong, hollow, and too simple.

If you go to Ohkawa Elementary School, and I suggest you do, know the parents of the children need to know you're there out of respect.  If at all possible, avoid the tour bus that takes you there.

記憶の力。ちょっとしたきっかけでまた思い出す震災後の日々。

その夜の出来事はまったく思いがけないものだった。簡単に夕食を食べ、楽しむつもりで外出した私たちは、5人で陸前高田のラーメン屋さんに入った。私を養母と慕ってくれ、私も我が子のように可愛がっている女の子ふたりとその両親とでテーブルを囲み、何杯注文するかを話し合っていた。

「一杯が大きいのよ」とママが女の子たちに言った。「絶対食べきれないわよ」

「食べられるよ」と妹が言い返し、「うん。ママ、お願い！」と姉も加勢する。

「絶対だめだね。食べきれるわけないさ」とパパが言うと、「この子たちが残したらあなたが食べることになるのよ」とママ。

「またかよ？」

ここで一同大笑いとなった。

「餃子も頼んでいい？」妹は今夜はとことん食べるつもりだ。

「アミアさん、明日は何か予定がある？」と聞かれ、私は面くらった。

「予定？　どうして？」

「この店の餃子はすごくニンニク臭いんだ」とパパが言った。

「あら」と言って私は少し考えた。明日は確かにミーティングが入っている。ニンニク臭いってどのくらいだろう？

「ひとつだけ食べることにするわ」

おいしい餃子を逃すわけにはいかない。

私たちは注文をすませ、またおしゃべりに戻った。ラーメンが運ばれてきたとき、私はその大きさにびっくり仰天。こんなに大きなラーメンはこれまで見たことがない。

私は「うーっ」と声を上げ、目の前を見降ろした。そして女の子たちのほうを向き、「本当にこれを全部食べるつもり？」と聞いた。

「な？食べれるわけない」とパパが言うのと同時に女の子たちが「食べれるよ〜！」と答え、また大笑いした。

ラーメンをすする音のほかは静かで、カウンター席に座っているおじいさんのことには誰も気がついていなかった。突然、ざわめきがして、厨房から人がどやどやと出てきた。スタッフの一人がおじいさんのそばに立って声をかけている。おじいさんが倒れたのだ。

「どうしたの？」と姉が立ちあがろうとした。

「座っていなさい」とママ。

「すぐ戻ってくるから」と言ってパパは立ちあがり、おじいさんとその周りの人だかりに向かって行った。

おじいさんからは応答がない。厨房スタッフがおじいさんの口にスプーンで砂糖を押し込んでいる。「糖尿病性機能障害よ」とママが言い、私は頷いた。

まもなく救急車のサイレンが聞こえてきた。ママと私は顔を見合わせた。

ママの視線は私の両隣りにいる娘たちに注がれている。私も女の子たちを見た。まず左、そして右。妹は涙を浮かべ、動揺を隠そうとしている。姉は青ざめている。こんなに蒼白な顔をしている人を見たのは久しぶりだ。

「大丈夫よ」とママが娘たちに声をかけた。姉は強がって見せようとして頷いた。妹が私の隣で急いで涙を拭く気配がした。

私は彼女の頭を撫ぜ、「私の膝に座る？」と聞いた。頷いた彼女を抱きあげ、それまで見ていなかったテレビの前に移動し、おじいさんに背を向けて座った。

「あなたもアミアさんの膝に座ってきなさい」とママが姉に言った。私は妹を左の膝に移し、姉を右膝に引き寄せた。彼女は震えていた。

「大丈夫よ。」私はこう言ってさらにテレビに近寄り、画面に映るAKBに話題を移した。

救急車が到着し、おじいさんをストレッチャーに乗せ、急いで出発した。女の子たちは救急隊員を盗み見しようとしていたが、私はそのたびにテレビ画面に注意を引きもどした。

店内がまた静かになると、私たちはまたテーブルに戻った。女の子たちは食欲をなくしてしまっていたみたい。

「救急車を見ると怖いのよね。パパが消防隊の活動をしていたのを思い出すんでしょう？」ママがやさしく言った。

女の子たちは頷いた。パパは消防団に入っていて、津波のあと何日も家に帰らずに生存者を捜し、遺体を回収していたのだった。女の子たちはパパが何をしていたのか十分理解はしていなかったが、ひどく心配していた。そういうわけで、緊急車両が怖いのだ。

ちょっとしたハプニングから楽しいはずの外出がトラウマ的体験になってしまい、記憶のもつ力を改めて思い知らされた。ここでは、痛ましい大惨事後の父親の安全に関する心配が、その夜の私たちの外出を台無しにしたばかりか、覆い隠されていた痛みを呼び戻すきっけかにもなった。

東北の人たちのため、継続的な癒しをもたらす現実的で頑強なメンタルヘルスプランが見つかりますように。それまではこの子たちを、そしてママとパパを、私がずっと抱きしめておく。

Baby Names Japanese Style

Hanging out with kids in Japan over the past nineteen months, I've learned a thing or two about trends in kids' names.  Parents of every generation tend to gravitate towards the same names thinking they've some how picked the most unique name out there.  Japan is no exception.  Perhaps all parents in all countries go through a "let's-name-our-kid-this-incredibly-different-sounding-name" thing, only to find out other parents had that exact same idea.  This was certainly the case for us.  We thought the name for our son was so special, unusual, new, and bold.  It didn't take long for us to find out there were boys in every class with the same name, K-12.  How does this happen??

Japanese parents seem to have found a new crop of names for the kids of this generation.  I'd not heard of most these until I started spending time here.  Here's a partial list of the most unusual names I've come across to date.

Girls

Kokoro (heart)
Lin
Minto (mint??)
Hina
Juli (Julie?)
Miyu
Luna
Noai
Lea
Anon
Nagi
Karen
Sherin (Sharon?)
Kokoa (Cocoa?)
Kokona
Yubi

Boys

Shion
Linku (link?)
Alen (Allen?)
Taiyo (sun)
Kaze (wind)
Noa (Noah?)
Ren
Ginga (galaxy)

...and so on.

Step aside, Emily, Alexander, Brittney, Jake, and Ava.  These new Japanese names, some made up, some borrowing (presumably?) from other languages make western names sound bland.  Not a criticism of parents who borrow heavily from the Bible or any other What To Name Your Baby book mind you.  Just my random Sunday musings.

The Worst Possible Catch 22

This is one of those I-can't-make-this-up scenarios.  Honestly, I don't know how I would handle being in a situation like this.  I don't know how I'd keep going.  It's bad.  It's really bad.  Let me explain.

Homeowners in Tohoku whose houses were either totally destroyed (washed away or deemed unlivable), or partially damaged (still livable but needing repair) have the following options:  move into temporary housing (if they qualify), rebuild their home, or repair their home.  This post is about the latter two.

Here are the facts.  If a house was categorized as "completely destroyed" or "partially destroyed" but the owner has an outstanding mortgage, they are still responsible for paying that off.  Not having a livable home does not mean the loan magically disappears.  Now let's say they want to rebuild or repair their home.  They are responsible for repayment of the loan they take out for that, too.  That means they now have dual-mortgages.

There's good news.  Sort of.  Not really, actually, but there is an option pitched to these dual-mortgage homeowners that's meant to alleviate their financial burden.  Let me break it down for you.

If Mrs. W owes 20,000,000 yen (let's just say $200,000) on her original loan (for the house that's now gone), she can have her debt forgiven.  Again, sort of.  She can keep up to 5,000,000 yen ($50,000) of her own money (savings, if she has it).  Any other savings she might have goes to repay the original loan.  The bank will forgive the remainder of the loan if she hands over whatever savings she has beyond 5,000,000 yen ($50,000).  If she has land, say she owns the land the home was on, she must also give the bank that land.  She can buy that back from the bank over five years.  If she can't buy it back in that time, she loses it forever.  Any other land she might own (place of business) also goes to the bank.  She's left with the loan for the repair/rebuilding of the new house, plus the 5,000,000 yen ($50,000) she has in savings.  That's it. 

Here are some more stats.  The government initiated this program with the assumption 10,000 Tohoku homewoners would be interested in taking part.  To date 84 people have signed up.  There are two things wrong with this picture.  First, with hundreds of thousands of people displaced, the government created a debt-forgiveness program that would attract only 10,000 people?  Why?  Why not make it something that would appeal to 500,000 people?  Second, only 84 people have taken part?  Why?  Here's why.  Initially, the amount of money homeowners were allowed to keep from their savings was 990,000 yen ($9,900).  Everything else they had in savings had to go to bank.  Again, including land.  How are people supposed to live on $9,900?  Get a job?  Where?  What if they were fishermen or farmers?  To say the program had a very bad reputation from the start is being generous.  Add to this, most people don't know they are now allowed to keep 5,000,000 yen and not the originally reported 990,000 yen.  Why?  Many people, many people up north don't have a laptop, much less internet access.  They use e-mail only on their cell phones.  How would people who don't routinely surf the web ever find out about options available to them?  Then there's the problem of farmers getting up the courage to sit down in front of a banker to negotiate.  I'm most certainly not implying farmers are less intelligent.  I'm saying bankers have a tendency (generalizing here) to use big financial terms, throw around numbers and "Here's Plan A" and "Here's Plan B" as if it's no big deal.  Bankers are not knowing as the most empathetic bunch around.  For those who spend their days on a boat or in mud, the prospect of sitting down in front of a finance person is intimidating.

There's so much wrong with this, the worst possible catch 22.  I honestly don't know where to begin.  Let go of land and cash to have one mortgage forgiven?  Or, hold a dual-mortgage and work to pay it off (how?) over the remainder of their lives?  How and why isn't there another more creative solution?

The Japanese Government created this option and then handed it over to the banks with a "You handle this" message.  What's in it for the banks?  They can write off the loan they're forgiving, but is that enough incentive?

I find this catch 22 the worst example of inability to think outside the box.  Perhaps civil servants and bankers aren't the most creative group of people around, but the lack of empathy for those who have lost so much--even in a country as Japan with its rigid and strict adherence to rules--this is not okay.  I listen to those around me who honestly don't know what to do next and I ache for them.  I'm speechless all over again.

Flashback

None of us could have anticipated the events of that night.  Our outing was meant to be a fun, casual dinner.  The five of us were at a local ramen shop in Rikuzentakata.  The two girls, my adopted daughters whom I love like my own, and mom and dad all sit around the table negotiating how many bowls to order.

"It's a big bowl," mom says to the girls.  "I don't think you can finish it."
"Yes we can," younger sister protests.  "Yeah.  Mama, please?"  Older sister chimes in.
"You never do," dad objects.  "You'll have to finish what they don't eat," mom says to dad.
"Again?"  We all laugh.
"Can we have gyoza, too?"  The younger one is determined to eat tonight.
"Do you have any appointments tomorrow, Amya-san?"  I'm taken back my mom's question.
"Appointments?  Why?"
"The gyoza here is really garlicky," dad says.
"Oh."  I think for a minute.  I do have meetings tomorrow.  How garlicky are they?
"I'll just have one," I reply, not one to pass up good gyoza.

We order, continuing to chat.  When the bowls arrive I am shocked at the size.  This is possibly the biggest bowl of ramen I've ever seen.
"Woooow," I say, looking down at what's in front of me.  Turning to the girls, "You're really going to eat all that?"  "No," dad says as the girls say, "Yes!"  We laugh again.

Silent except for the slurping, none of us notice grandpa sitting at the bar.  Suddenly, there's a buzz.  The chefs come out from the kitchen, moving quickly.  One of the servers is standing near grandpa, calling out to him.  Grandpa is slumped over.

"What's going on?" The older girl starts to get up.
"Sit," mom says.
"Be right back," and dad jumps up heading towards grandpa and the small crowd.

Fast forward three minutes, we piece together what's happening. Grandpa is unresponsive.  A chef is spooning sugar into grandpa's mouth.  "Diabetic shock," mom says to me.  I nod.  Soon we hear an ambulance.  Mom and I exchange looks.  I see mom looking at the girls sitting on either side of me.  I look down at them, first left and then right.  The younger one is in tears, trying hard not to show how upset she is.  The older one is pale.  It's the first time I've seen someone this white in a long time.

"It's alright," mom says to the girls.  The older one nods, trying to be brave.  I sense the younger one on my left quickly wiping her tears.  I touch her head and say, "Do you want to sit on my lap?"  She nods.  I pick her up, move myself in front of the television we've all been ignoring, and turn my back towards grandpa.  "You sit on Amya-san's lap, too," mom says to the older one.  I move younger sister onto my left knee, and pull older sister onto my right.  She's shaking.
"It's alright.  Everything is going to be okay," I say and turn them more towards the television, talking about the AKB girls we see.

The ambulance arrives, puts grandpa on a stretcher and quickly leaves.  The girls try to sneak glances towards the paramedics, but I bring their attention to the television screen each time.

Once the restaurant is quiet again, we all sit around the table.  The girls are no longer hungry.  Mom says in a very soft voice, "I know it's scary for you to see ambulances.  It reminds you of daddy being away with the fire brigade, right?"  They nod.  Dad is a volunteer firefighter, and was out for days following the tsunami, looking for survivors, recovering bodies.  The girls don't fully understand what dad was doing, but were worried sick.  Emergency vehicles now scare them.

How an unexpected incident can turn an otherwise happy outing into a traumatic experience is a stark reminder of the power of memories.  In this case, the fear over a father's safety in the aftermath of a tragic and terrible disaster ruined not only our night out, but served as a trigger bringing back buried pain.

I hope for those in Tohoku we are all able to find a realistic and robust mental health plan that allows for lasting healing.  In the mean time, I will keep hugging these girls.  Mom and dad, too.

Hug, Bow, Shake, Peck, or Kiss?

Public displays of affection (referred to as PDA, not to be confused with PDAs--the techno-gadgets that you're supposed to use to remember your schedule) ... see, I'm digressing already ...

Public displays of affection in Japan have become more and more visible.  I snuck a photo of a couple, early retirement age perhaps, who were walking down a sidewalk hand in hand.  I've snapped others on the sly.  Young couples cling.  Even people my age, I passed two yesterday, walk around with open and public displays of affection.  I don't remember seeing much of this growing up.  And, that's putting it mildly.

I've long taught Westerners to bow when doing business in Japan.  If you can bow and shake at the same time, that's even better.  "Don't do the double peck-on-the-cheek thing," I've had to tell many Europeans. 

Publicly showing affection, while more prevalent in Tokyo, in Tohoku is another story entirely.  Most up north know from movies and television foreigners are touchy.  "You gaijins hug a lot" I was once told by someone in Rikuzentakata.  I laughed and replied, "I guess we do."

This makes it all the more interesting that eighteen months after I first set foot in the disaster zone, my friends, friends of friends, and family members of friends are now starting to explore the idea of physical expression.  Not in a sexual way, mind you.  The jabs I get in my ribs (literally) from one man up north happen only when he's drunk--this is the only uncomfortable physical contact I've experienced in Tohoku.

Men and women now want to say hello and good-bye with a hug.  The first one is awkward.  We stand there both with a mental message "You go first" but neither of us move.  I don't want to be pushy by leaning into hug, and they want to but are shy (they don't hug anyone else in public) and yet still are hoping to connect.  Once we get past that first hug, awkward moments and all, greetings are now more physical.

To be sure, there are those whom I will not hug (it's not appropriate), and those who are uninterested in hugging.  I can just picture several of my male friends in Tohoku saying, "It's not manly."  It's not.  Where men are men, strong and stoic, there's no room for public hugging or pecks on the cheek.  That's okay.  For those who want to incorporate a more physical expression of affection, there's now a whole new method open to them.  On my trips to Tohoku I hug children, men, and women.  With big smiles and shy grins, they reach back.

Physical touch is a bigger deal in Tohoku if for no other reason, emotional healing is still a process many are going through.  Hugging creates warmth.  It bonds.  It leads to a faster, deeper connection.  The bonds of friendship become intense quicker and lasts longer, too.  Just yesterday, I hugged a woman and she gripped back, not letting go.  Touch is the fastest way to reach those wanting to feel whole, healthy, and loved.  I think back to the sensation of my grandmother's hand on mine, a peck on the cheek from a niece, my son jumping into my arms.  I smile.  Of course this is good.

Where rules are still rigid with predetermined expectations on who bows lower and raises their heads up first, hugging, holding hands, and kissing is still new.  Combine these, especially all at once (i.e. hug and peck, shake hands but then turn it into a "whassup" grip, bow and shake, etc.) and it's challenging to those here who want to experiment but don't know what to do with whom, or how, or when.

Except they're trying.  With more freedom to show love in public, old rules are changing with new ones being made up as life unfolds.  It's really fun to watch.  It's even more fun to be a part of.

A Quick Note to American Voters

My Facebook friends are and have been fighting over who is better suited to be US President.  For months.  Nasty words are posted.  Tea Partiers think Liberals are evil terrorists, ungodly, and love to kill babies.  Liberals think Tea Partiers are ignorant, narrow-minded, gun-loving people who stand around at funerals holding signs condemning gays and lesbians to hell.  I might be exaggerating.  Then again, you haven't seen my Facebook page.

I have a simple point to make.  Japan is discussing the pros (not as much the cons) about changing prime ministers.  Again.  If this happens, Japan will have had eighteen prime ministers in 24 years.  Read that line again.  This is reality in Japan.

Here's the kicker.  The public doesn't get to vote.  Read that line again, too.  None of the regular voters go to the poll to cast their ballot for prime minister.

I was asked over the weekend for my thoughts on Japanese politics.  I decided to be honest.  "If Great Britain had seventeen prime ministers in 24 years, would Japan take the British Government seriously?  Wouldn't the press mock them each time they brought in a new person?  What do you think people overseas think of Japan when you can't seem to keep a person in office for more than a year?"  We didn't end up having much of a discussion.  I don't think they were too happy with my statement.

So, to all my American friends, if you don't vote in November I don't want to hear any crap about who gets into office.  At least we have the option.  Take it.  Use it.  Try living in Japan where everyone I speak to is embarrassed about the revolving door of politicians who seem to, at the end of the day, get very little done.   And, while we're at it, let's please cut the nastiness, the mocking, the accusations, and the making fun of what the wives are wearing.

Mayor Dad

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 11^th 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.