Several years ago, the passing of Johnny Carson gave me pause. He touched many people, and the outpouring of affection from fans and friends was incredible, but it’s a shame that he wasn’t around to receive it. It made me realize that we often say great things about great people when it’s too late for them to hear it, and that’s what is really sad. It also made me realize that I have a chance to say great things about a great man who’s still very much alive, my dad.
My dad is a man of humble beginnings, a man whose own father died at a young age. Born in Tennessee, he moved north to New Jersey as a teenager. Even after sixty-some years, he still has a tinge of a Tennessee twang. When World War II struck, he was drafted into the army during his high school junior year. He never went back. His army service did, however, give him an opportunity to either go to college or learn a trade, and he chose the latter.
He and my mom reared six kids, three boys and three girls. We each had our quirks, and each posed a challenge for our parents. I was second oldest, so my older brother had broken the ice for me. Then again, I think he broke the ice on me. We bickered a lot as kids, but that changed as we grew older. My mom's desperate refrain, "Just wait 'til your father gets home," made us all a dad-fearing bunch.
My dad was a small residential building contractor as I was growing up. I remember going to work with him, helping when I could, but mostly just watching. My older brother got to help with the more complex stuff, like operating power tools and doing trim work. I was the guy with the shovel or the broom most of the time, but when we were installing subfloors or sheathing, my dad entrusted me with a hammer and nails. More than once, I heard him say, “Bob, you hammer like lightnin’ – never strike twice in the same place!”
When I was in high school, my dad acquired an in-ground swimming pool franchise, and we became pool builders. All my years of experience with a shovel paid off, as we had a lot of digging to do. We poured a lot of concrete in those days, and built a few cabanas along the way.
As I was growing up, my dad spoke with some disdain about engineers. Since he was a bright guy with a lot of practical experience, most engineers couldn’t match his pragmatism and simplicity. So, of course, when I decided to go to college, I went into engineering. It wasn’t until well after I graduated that I realized that he was proud of my achievement, and that he really didn’t think that engineers were useless.
I recall in high school and college, thinking about how different my dad and I were. That was then, this is now. Now I realize how similar we really are. Some of it is genetic, but some is from the example he set, and the many things he taught and I learned with neither of us realizing it. He taught me responsibility and independence, integrity and tenacity. And he taught me the building trades.
We never had the father/son talk, but by his example, he showed me what to look for in a wife: a woman with charm, intelligence, strength and warmth. My parents have been married more than 55 years, and care for each other deeply, although at times they see things differently. They’ve always been good together.
My dad taught me loyalty and humility, and showed me that while they don’t always produce the best results, they always matter. He's hit a few bumps along the way, but he's always taken the high road, where the bumps are there to give you a better view. He’s always been there for me, and I’ll always be there for him, a sort of in loco parentis quid pro quo.
He’s a creature of habit, some more endearing than others. We used to get a kick out of his annual trek to Florida to visit family. He always stopped at the same hotel in Dunn, North Carolina. And for the longest time, we could always predict what he would order at a restaurant: prime rib, end cut. Until recently, he awoke in the wee hours of the morning, and went to bed in the late afternoon. And for the past fifty years or so, he’s always had an Oldsmobile. Now that they’re no longer made, he’s vowed to keep his ’89 running as long as he does.
He has a wry sense of humor, and a quiet demeanor. He generally keeps his opinions to himself, but every now and then, makes a thoughtful and profound observation. Of course, having been raised in the era of the Depression and the Second World War, he harbors a few prejudices and occasionally says things that just aren’t politically correct. Nevertheless, he treats people with dignity, and appreciates the goodness in them.
Over the past few years, my dad has had more than his share of medical problems. He’s scored a hat trick against cancer, surviving skin, prostate and lung cancers. After the first two encounters, he still had enough gumption to, almost singlehandedly, reroof the house he built almost 50 years ago. The house was a great home to all of us growing up, and surely it will be his home for the rest of his life.
Nowadays, with all he's been through, he feels that he’s not half the man he used to be. Oddly enough, he’s still twice the man I am.
Monday, June 11, 2007
Monday, May 28, 2007
Life's Lessons Learned
Every now and then, I think back to some of the defining moments of my childhood, and some of the lessons my parents taught, or tried to teach me. Two incidents really stand out, each with its own distinct conclusion and meaning. Of course, as time heals all wounds, it also has a way of changing history, so maybe it didn’t really happen this way…
I was in the third or fourth grade, trying to find a way to fit in with the other kids. The youngest in my class, a bookworm with a birthday three days before the cutoff, and a middle child, I just didn’t have that rebel gene. But I wanted so desperately to be cool. Mom and Dad smoked and that seemed cool. I would soon find out how wrong I was. One day, as my mother was sending me off to school, she reached in to my coat pocket to insert money for the Scholastic books that I wanted to buy. To my horror and her dismay, when her hand emerged, it held one of her cigarettes and a book of matches. What ever divined her to reach in to that pocket at that time, I’ll never know or understand, but what happened next, I’ll never forget.
My father was still home, just about to leave for work. As the kitchen fell silent, he said, “Bob, when I get home, you and I are gonna sit down and have a smoke, man-to-man.” I remember my emotions, not of pride, but of shame and fear. I knew I was in big trouble, and figured I would be severely punished. I don’t know how I made it through the day, but I know I put the time to good use trying to think of all the angles possible to garner sympathy and understanding. A loose tooth managed to get a lot looser that day, and just before my father came home, it managed to “fall” out, and it was a bloody mess. No humane parent could mete out punishment to a child in that state, right? Wrong!!!
He gave me a little time to get myself together, then the family gathered in the kitchen. I was to be used as an example to my older brother and four younger siblings. Dad sat me down on a chair opposite his, and pulled out his pack of Pall Malls. This was not looking good – these were not on the same level as the mild, mentholated, filtered Salems that Mom smoked. Nevertheless, Dad was determined to, as he put it, “teach you to smoke like a man.” He lit one up for himself and drew it in deeply, slowly exhaling for effect. He then lit one up for me, and told me to do the same thing. It was hard to do, bawling as I was, but I had no choice – there was no way out of this. So I did as I was told, and choked and coughed like there would be no tomorrow. The lesson was learned, and I wouldn’t touch another cigarette until college, when the peer pressure overshadowed the lesson I’d learned so well.
The second incident occurred when I was about thirteen or fourteen. I had a newspaper route, with about twenty customers, a route that covered about a mile between Shrewsbury and Little Silver. Just off the route was the Little Silver railroad station, with its newspaper, magazine and candy stand. As a kid with a little bit of money, the lure of candy was strong. Eventually, though, the lure of the Playboy magazine on the rack behind the counter became too great to resist, and I bought a copy. I remember hiding it under my bed. One day, my mother confronted me in front of my father with the magazine she had found while cleaning my room. Again, I was horrified and ashamed. I was in big trouble!
This time, though, and I’ll never forget it, Dad said, “Bob, I don’t want you to be buying this kind of stuff and hiding it around the house. From now on, I’ll buy it and you can borrow it.” I think I can still hear the sound of two jaws simultaneously dropping to the floor, mine and my mother’s, but maybe she was complicit in this. There may have been a momentary elevation of my pride, but somehow the magazine never seemed the same after that, and my growth in maturity was instantaneous.
These two incidents are among many that helped shape me, and their impact was both profound and lasting. I recall them with humor and fondness, but most of all with the deep respect for two parents who taught me so much.
I was in the third or fourth grade, trying to find a way to fit in with the other kids. The youngest in my class, a bookworm with a birthday three days before the cutoff, and a middle child, I just didn’t have that rebel gene. But I wanted so desperately to be cool. Mom and Dad smoked and that seemed cool. I would soon find out how wrong I was. One day, as my mother was sending me off to school, she reached in to my coat pocket to insert money for the Scholastic books that I wanted to buy. To my horror and her dismay, when her hand emerged, it held one of her cigarettes and a book of matches. What ever divined her to reach in to that pocket at that time, I’ll never know or understand, but what happened next, I’ll never forget.
My father was still home, just about to leave for work. As the kitchen fell silent, he said, “Bob, when I get home, you and I are gonna sit down and have a smoke, man-to-man.” I remember my emotions, not of pride, but of shame and fear. I knew I was in big trouble, and figured I would be severely punished. I don’t know how I made it through the day, but I know I put the time to good use trying to think of all the angles possible to garner sympathy and understanding. A loose tooth managed to get a lot looser that day, and just before my father came home, it managed to “fall” out, and it was a bloody mess. No humane parent could mete out punishment to a child in that state, right? Wrong!!!
He gave me a little time to get myself together, then the family gathered in the kitchen. I was to be used as an example to my older brother and four younger siblings. Dad sat me down on a chair opposite his, and pulled out his pack of Pall Malls. This was not looking good – these were not on the same level as the mild, mentholated, filtered Salems that Mom smoked. Nevertheless, Dad was determined to, as he put it, “teach you to smoke like a man.” He lit one up for himself and drew it in deeply, slowly exhaling for effect. He then lit one up for me, and told me to do the same thing. It was hard to do, bawling as I was, but I had no choice – there was no way out of this. So I did as I was told, and choked and coughed like there would be no tomorrow. The lesson was learned, and I wouldn’t touch another cigarette until college, when the peer pressure overshadowed the lesson I’d learned so well.
The second incident occurred when I was about thirteen or fourteen. I had a newspaper route, with about twenty customers, a route that covered about a mile between Shrewsbury and Little Silver. Just off the route was the Little Silver railroad station, with its newspaper, magazine and candy stand. As a kid with a little bit of money, the lure of candy was strong. Eventually, though, the lure of the Playboy magazine on the rack behind the counter became too great to resist, and I bought a copy. I remember hiding it under my bed. One day, my mother confronted me in front of my father with the magazine she had found while cleaning my room. Again, I was horrified and ashamed. I was in big trouble!
This time, though, and I’ll never forget it, Dad said, “Bob, I don’t want you to be buying this kind of stuff and hiding it around the house. From now on, I’ll buy it and you can borrow it.” I think I can still hear the sound of two jaws simultaneously dropping to the floor, mine and my mother’s, but maybe she was complicit in this. There may have been a momentary elevation of my pride, but somehow the magazine never seemed the same after that, and my growth in maturity was instantaneous.
These two incidents are among many that helped shape me, and their impact was both profound and lasting. I recall them with humor and fondness, but most of all with the deep respect for two parents who taught me so much.
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
If Not for Moms
If not for moms, I wouldn’t be here to write this and you wouldn’t be here to read it. This statement of the obvious aside, consider the roles mothers play in our lives, and indeed the world we live in. When we do that, simply loving them and appreciating them will seem wholly inadequate.
Before we are born, mothers provide us with a safe, comfortable, yet cramped environment. They nourish us without thought or hesitation. After we are born, they continue to nourish and protect us, through an invisible umbilicus. They’re there to teach us, to mend our hurts, and to instill the beginnings of our belief systems. They tell us the truth, generally, and show us how to take care of others.
In terms of what’s best for us, mothers are seldom wrong. And while they may not necessarily be nosy, mothers don’t miss much. As Spanky said in the Little Rascals, “You can fool some of the people some of the time, but you can’t fool Mom!” Even when our mothers are not around, the moral compasses they’ve set for us guide our subliminal conscience.
As we grow, they continue to take care of us, both emotionally and physically. Though relations may become strained, their love is almost always unconditional and complete. As young men grow older, they look to their mothers for examples of what they want in their own partners. As young women grow older, they often find themselves mimicking their mothers, a silent and subtle tribute to their influence.
In world affairs, though women can be as tough as nails, they often show a tenderness that portends motherhood, demonstrating patience and a willingness to understand, yet a resoluteness to stand up for what is right. It’s difficult to imagine a mother as a dictator, but easy to imagine one as a fair and humane leader.
Several years ago, my wife and I had the privilege of being recognized and honored by President George W. Bush for our volunteer work. When I introduced my two sons to him, he issued an Executive Order to them, which was to me a most profound message: “Listen to your mother.” Imagine the world if everyone did so!
Before we are born, mothers provide us with a safe, comfortable, yet cramped environment. They nourish us without thought or hesitation. After we are born, they continue to nourish and protect us, through an invisible umbilicus. They’re there to teach us, to mend our hurts, and to instill the beginnings of our belief systems. They tell us the truth, generally, and show us how to take care of others.
In terms of what’s best for us, mothers are seldom wrong. And while they may not necessarily be nosy, mothers don’t miss much. As Spanky said in the Little Rascals, “You can fool some of the people some of the time, but you can’t fool Mom!” Even when our mothers are not around, the moral compasses they’ve set for us guide our subliminal conscience.
As we grow, they continue to take care of us, both emotionally and physically. Though relations may become strained, their love is almost always unconditional and complete. As young men grow older, they look to their mothers for examples of what they want in their own partners. As young women grow older, they often find themselves mimicking their mothers, a silent and subtle tribute to their influence.
In world affairs, though women can be as tough as nails, they often show a tenderness that portends motherhood, demonstrating patience and a willingness to understand, yet a resoluteness to stand up for what is right. It’s difficult to imagine a mother as a dictator, but easy to imagine one as a fair and humane leader.
Several years ago, my wife and I had the privilege of being recognized and honored by President George W. Bush for our volunteer work. When I introduced my two sons to him, he issued an Executive Order to them, which was to me a most profound message: “Listen to your mother.” Imagine the world if everyone did so!
Saturday, February 10, 2007
At First Sight
When I first saw her across the crowded room at a college dance, it took my breath away. But then a friend brought me back to earth with, “Morgs, give it up – she’s taken.” She was way out of my league. Who was I, anyway, to think she’d even acknowledge my existence. Little did any of us know, she would define my existence.
I made a point of talking to her that night, although I’m sure I made no impression. She and her friends were friends with my friends, and our paths would surely cross again in the future. I remember telling my compadre, “I’m in Luuuvvvv…,” something we kidded each other about any time we met a girl we wanted to get to know, but this was different.
This girl who captivated me had been dating a guy for several years in high school and into college, and although I was discouraged, I wasn’t deterred. A year or so later, my opportunity arose. She was no longer “taken,” and in fact, had dated another friend of mine. As it turned out, I had dated a friend of hers, so our paths did continue to cross. When I finally mustered the courage to ask her out, we settled on a safe date, dinner with mutual friends. The significance of the calendar date, February 14, was lost on me.
We attended different colleges, about fifteen miles apart. Mine was a predominantly male school, hers one hundred percent female. When I arrived at her school at the appointed time to pick her up, the girls at her dorm told me that she had gone home for the weekend. A lesser man might have taken that as a sign and given up on the spot. Not me – I didn’t even know where “home” was, but I was determined to see this through. Someone gave me her phone number, and I called her. She gave me directions to her house, and I was on my way.
When I arrived at her house, she gave me some more troubling signals. She said her father had become ill and had been taken to the hospital, but she would still go out with me. At about nine o’clock, she would have to call in, and might have to go home. I thought this was quite an elaborate ruse, but I was really spellbound. We met our friends and had dinner, and at about nine, she excused herself to make a phone call. I anxiously awaited my fate, wondering if I had passed the test, or if her father’s illness was going to be her excuse to end her suffering gracefully. She came back to the table and announced that everything was fine. As is turned out, her father had really been taken to the hospital, and this was for real!
What started out on such shaky ground eventually blossomed, and we married and had two wonderful boys. We still keep in touch with many of our old friends from those days, and every now and then, we reminisce about how we got together.
She’s the type of person who lights up a room when she enters it. She’s not a showboat, and shies away from being the center of attention, but she has a warmth that makes everyone feel comfortable around her. She’s classy and sassy, and sometimes a bit brassy. She more than makes up for my quiet demeanor, and makes me proud to be with her. She’s a great mother, and as a teacher (now a school librarian), she touches the lives of many young children. I don’t mind sharing.
Recently, she arrived at a meeting that I was also attending, and sat across the room so as not to disturb the meeting. As I sat and looked at her, I thought, “I’m in Luuuvvvv…” Oh, and by the way, Valentine’s Day 2012 is our thirty-seventh together.
I made a point of talking to her that night, although I’m sure I made no impression. She and her friends were friends with my friends, and our paths would surely cross again in the future. I remember telling my compadre, “I’m in Luuuvvvv…,” something we kidded each other about any time we met a girl we wanted to get to know, but this was different.
This girl who captivated me had been dating a guy for several years in high school and into college, and although I was discouraged, I wasn’t deterred. A year or so later, my opportunity arose. She was no longer “taken,” and in fact, had dated another friend of mine. As it turned out, I had dated a friend of hers, so our paths did continue to cross. When I finally mustered the courage to ask her out, we settled on a safe date, dinner with mutual friends. The significance of the calendar date, February 14, was lost on me.
We attended different colleges, about fifteen miles apart. Mine was a predominantly male school, hers one hundred percent female. When I arrived at her school at the appointed time to pick her up, the girls at her dorm told me that she had gone home for the weekend. A lesser man might have taken that as a sign and given up on the spot. Not me – I didn’t even know where “home” was, but I was determined to see this through. Someone gave me her phone number, and I called her. She gave me directions to her house, and I was on my way.
When I arrived at her house, she gave me some more troubling signals. She said her father had become ill and had been taken to the hospital, but she would still go out with me. At about nine o’clock, she would have to call in, and might have to go home. I thought this was quite an elaborate ruse, but I was really spellbound. We met our friends and had dinner, and at about nine, she excused herself to make a phone call. I anxiously awaited my fate, wondering if I had passed the test, or if her father’s illness was going to be her excuse to end her suffering gracefully. She came back to the table and announced that everything was fine. As is turned out, her father had really been taken to the hospital, and this was for real!
What started out on such shaky ground eventually blossomed, and we married and had two wonderful boys. We still keep in touch with many of our old friends from those days, and every now and then, we reminisce about how we got together.
She’s the type of person who lights up a room when she enters it. She’s not a showboat, and shies away from being the center of attention, but she has a warmth that makes everyone feel comfortable around her. She’s classy and sassy, and sometimes a bit brassy. She more than makes up for my quiet demeanor, and makes me proud to be with her. She’s a great mother, and as a teacher (now a school librarian), she touches the lives of many young children. I don’t mind sharing.
Recently, she arrived at a meeting that I was also attending, and sat across the room so as not to disturb the meeting. As I sat and looked at her, I thought, “I’m in Luuuvvvv…” Oh, and by the way, Valentine’s Day 2012 is our thirty-seventh together.
Thursday, January 11, 2007
Land Of The Rising Son
Last summer, soon after he graduated from The College of New Jersey, our oldest son, Jason, decided to move to Japan. His mother and I didn’t take it as an affront that he was going to live just about as far away from us as he possibly could, but the thought did cross our minds. Before Jason even got on the plane in August, Chris and I conspired to visit him for Christmas, and take our younger son, Adam, with us. Back from our whirlwind Christmas tour of this fascinating country, we now understand why Jason has chosen to make it his home for a couple of years, and we are quite proud of the man he is becoming.
So if not just to get as far away from his parents as possible, you may wonder, “What in the world would make him want to live there?” Well, at TCNJ, he majored in biology and minored in English, but studied Asian culture and Japanese language. He studied for a semester in Japan, and along with several friends (including his girlfriend from TCNJ, Caitlin, who now lives a short tram-ride away), signed up with the Japanese government’s JET (Japan Exchange and Teaching) program to teach English. How ironic that he was going to Japan to teach English, a language we rarely heard him speak!
In the few months leading up to our departure, Jason offered meager advice about what we should study and what travel arrangements we should make. Before he left, he had handed us one of his Japanese language textbooks from TCNJ and told us to study some Japanese lettering so that we would be able to find our way around. Of course, we didn’t do that. As our departure time drew closer, he offered more advice over the internet, which in toto, was just about perfect. He made suggestions about conversion of cash, train travel, places to visit and places to avoid, and what to expect in terms of English-speaking people.
The airline tickets were earned with frequent flyer miles, not from decades of travel, but from miles and miles of credit card receipts (more aptly, “Frequent Buyer Miles”). I was concerned about how easy the online ticketing process was, and thought for sure that we’d be bumped, the flights would be cancelled, or in light of recent carry-on restrictions, our seats would be removed to make room to stow more checked luggage owned by paying customers. As it turned out, except for one small incident, the flights were terrific - on time, surprisingly good food, and very pleasant flight attendants. The one small incident occurred after our brief changeover in Chicago. Chris and Adam are both white-knuckle flyers, and as we ascended back into the storm clouds over the Windy City that day, our plane was struck by lightning. It sent the flight attendants scurrying, and after a couple of minutes, the captain announced over the intercom, “You may have noticed that we were just hit by lightning. The flight crew has checked everything, and we don’t see any problems, so we’re going to continue on our way.” I could be mistaken, but I think I also heard him mutter, parenthetically, “(We’ve only got about 6000 miles to go, most of it over open water, so we’re gonna give it a shot…).”
We also experienced time travel, almost like, “Back to the Future.” We initially traveled from Newark to Chicago, then from Chicago (struck by lightning) to Japan. Because of the travel time and the time differences, we left on a Friday morning, and arrived on a Saturday afternoon. On the way home, though, we left Tokyo at 3:00 on a Sunday afternoon, and arrived in Chicago at 1:00 that same afternoon! As we were about to leave Japan, I remarked to Adam, “We’re going to arrive in Chicago two hours ago!”
In addition to flight arrangements, I also made hotel arrangements at four different hotels online, which normally wouldn’t have concerned me, except that the information available about the hotels was somewhat sketchy. During the trip, I sheepishly approached each registration desk, wondering if there would be room at the inn. I really lucked out, though, and almost everything worked out perfectly. The hotels were clean, well-appointed, efficiently small, and staffed by very nice English-speaking people. Most of the hotels were within walking distance of trains, arguably the best means of travel around the country. In fact, in Kyoto, our excellent accommodations, the Hotel Granvia Kyoto, were at the train station.
As an aside, for anyone planning to visit Japan, we heartily recommend obtaining a Japan Rail Pass, which only visitors can obtain, and only by purchasing vouchers at select locations outside the country and exchanging them at select locations in Japan. They don’t make it easy, but they do make it worthwhile. The trains are clean, the bullet trains are spacious, and they are all ON TIME! The rail pass is valid on many of the bullet trains and many local trains, trams, buses and ferries throughout the country. Just flash your pass and you’re on your way! Some of the train stations, including the one in Kyoto that included our hotel, were teeming with people. The choreography of the masses looked like that of a gargantuan ant farm, with people crisscrossing at breakneck speed. A couple of times, I was swept some distance out of my way, as I feared one misstep might cause the whole cast to tumble.
We found it fairly easy to find our way around, particularly in the big cities, and especially in Tokyo. Many signs are in English, and things are well marked. In fact, we had less difficulty following signs and directions in Japan than we did when we returned to Newark Airport and tried to follow the signs to the shuttle bus for the remote parking lot.
Jason and Caitlin met us in southwest Japan on our second day, after we’d warmed up our shiny new rail passes with several legs of the trip from Tokyo. While we were visiting their home town of Kumamoto and then nearby Kyoto, Jason and Caitlin acted as tour guides, taking us to some of their favorite haunts and eating establishments. The scenery was incredible, the food was excellent, and the shopping was amazing. We even went to a karaoke bar. When asked if I would try to sing karaoke, I replied, “There isn’t enough beer in Japan to make me do karaoke!” Well, apparently there is…and allegedly, there’s a video.
Some of the cultural differences we encountered were fascinating. The Japanese seemed almost obsessive about washing hands before eating, handing out wet towels or towelettes whenever we sat down at a restaurant. But they didn’t offer us any napkins, so I guess the idea is to pre-emptively wipe your hands and face. Also, in lavatories, there were sinks, but generally no towels or dryers to dry with. So you either had to wring your hands dry or wipe them on your pants, which of course weren’t dirty because you had pre-emptively wiped your hands at mealtime.
It also seemed as though the Japanese were preoccupied most of the time, because they seldom looked us in the eye unless they were either serving us, or it was otherwise part of their job. Normally, I try to make eye contact and say, “Hi,” as I pass people. In our travels, most of the people either looked down or straight ahead, as if oblivious to us. Maybe they are just overwhelmed by the sheer number of people they encounter every day, and are just operating on overload. When they were serving us, though, they were held in rapt attention and almost tripped over themselves to help us. One exception was a cabbie in Tokyo who, although apparently Japanese, was the quintessential cabdriver from hell, never leaving the comfort of the driver’s seat of his smoke-filled cab, and driving at about 50 mph through the busy streets of Tokyo. He must have gotten his training in New York City!
We also found that many Japanese people smoke cigarettes, and look like they only recently started, ever conscious of this powerful new thing between their fingers, and puffing furiously. At a couple of restaurants, the smoke was so thick that I longed for the smoke-free restaurants in New Jersey. At one place in particular, a young woman chain-smoked, and even the nearby exhaust hood was no match for her.
We were also struck by the young adults, whose dress ranged from school uniforms to western styles. Apparently, school uniforms are considered attractive among students, and play an important part in their adolescent mating rituals. On the other hand, we saw many young men dressed in the gangsta look, with their baggy jeans hanging at mid-butt, and their baseball hats askew. I wondered if they’d one day emulate Jason’s eclectic style of dress – bright colors, plaids with stripes, too-small tee shirts, etc. (I used to say that he shopped at Barnum & Bailey).
The streets and countryside were essentially devoid of trash and graffiti, largely due to the work ethic of the people employed to clean up such things. But keeping these things under control serves as a deterrent to others, who are less likely to create a new mess rather than just add to an old one. I can’t recall noticing any chewing gum crushed into the sidewalks, like so many stars that mark the entrances to our shopping malls, so apparently it’s not a problem either.
After about a week in Japan, we finally began to understand the language that Jason and Caitlin spoke with some fluency. By then, we had mastered, “Domo Arigato,” while choking back, “Mister Roboto.” Perhaps the most useful phrase we learned was, “Nihongo ga wakarimasen,” which means, “I don’t understand Japanese.” But the most important phrase was, “Otearai wa dochira desu ka?” meaning, “Where is the bathroom?” The Japanese vocabulary is a fascinating mix of old Asian and adapted western words. In the Japanese language, there are limited sounds; their vowels don’t have both long and short versions, and some consonants don’t exist, so adapted western words are the closest they can come. For instance, taxi is ta-ku-shi, and milk is mi-ru-ku. In many cases, the “u” at the end is nearly silent, although I think it’s still there (the Japanese don’t waste much). One very popular word is “gozaimasu,” which doesn’t translate well, but is a polite form meaning, “to be.” It’s used in greetings, thanks and instructions, and seems to punctuate a lot of Japanese sentences.
We also learned about currency exchange, with the Japanese yen being about equal to a penny, and figured out how to negotiate with automated tellers to tap our bank accounts back home. The international MAC machines are only found at the post offices, and are lined up like slot machines, with customers queued up to wait for the next available one.
At 6’-2” with a full head of not-too-short red hair, Jason stands out among the crowds in Japan. Though he’s generally quiet, he enjoys a bit of attention, and being firmly in the minority in heavily Japanese Kumamoto, he’s really hard to miss. At 5’-4” with dark hair, Caitlin blends in a bit more. They both live in areas that are safe and secure, even for a city environment. They’re fairly well-paid, and hold some sway in their respective school systems. They’re both enjoying teaching for now, and will probably return home and continue their own education before moving on in their careers. Most of all, though, they’re independent but still have each other to lean on.
The experience of visiting Japan for Chris, Adam and me was an adventure of a lifetime. Visiting Jason was wonderful in so many ways. Leaving him to come home was more difficult than seeing him off in the first place, though. He’s doing quite well, and is proving that he doesn’t need his parents as much as we’d like to think. So I guess we did okay after all…
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Here are a few of our pictures. The rest can be viewed by scrolling back to the top of the blog and clicking on the link, "Bob's Pictures" in the sidebar on the right.
So if not just to get as far away from his parents as possible, you may wonder, “What in the world would make him want to live there?” Well, at TCNJ, he majored in biology and minored in English, but studied Asian culture and Japanese language. He studied for a semester in Japan, and along with several friends (including his girlfriend from TCNJ, Caitlin, who now lives a short tram-ride away), signed up with the Japanese government’s JET (Japan Exchange and Teaching) program to teach English. How ironic that he was going to Japan to teach English, a language we rarely heard him speak!
In the few months leading up to our departure, Jason offered meager advice about what we should study and what travel arrangements we should make. Before he left, he had handed us one of his Japanese language textbooks from TCNJ and told us to study some Japanese lettering so that we would be able to find our way around. Of course, we didn’t do that. As our departure time drew closer, he offered more advice over the internet, which in toto, was just about perfect. He made suggestions about conversion of cash, train travel, places to visit and places to avoid, and what to expect in terms of English-speaking people.
The airline tickets were earned with frequent flyer miles, not from decades of travel, but from miles and miles of credit card receipts (more aptly, “Frequent Buyer Miles”). I was concerned about how easy the online ticketing process was, and thought for sure that we’d be bumped, the flights would be cancelled, or in light of recent carry-on restrictions, our seats would be removed to make room to stow more checked luggage owned by paying customers. As it turned out, except for one small incident, the flights were terrific - on time, surprisingly good food, and very pleasant flight attendants. The one small incident occurred after our brief changeover in Chicago. Chris and Adam are both white-knuckle flyers, and as we ascended back into the storm clouds over the Windy City that day, our plane was struck by lightning. It sent the flight attendants scurrying, and after a couple of minutes, the captain announced over the intercom, “You may have noticed that we were just hit by lightning. The flight crew has checked everything, and we don’t see any problems, so we’re going to continue on our way.” I could be mistaken, but I think I also heard him mutter, parenthetically, “(We’ve only got about 6000 miles to go, most of it over open water, so we’re gonna give it a shot…).”
We also experienced time travel, almost like, “Back to the Future.” We initially traveled from Newark to Chicago, then from Chicago (struck by lightning) to Japan. Because of the travel time and the time differences, we left on a Friday morning, and arrived on a Saturday afternoon. On the way home, though, we left Tokyo at 3:00 on a Sunday afternoon, and arrived in Chicago at 1:00 that same afternoon! As we were about to leave Japan, I remarked to Adam, “We’re going to arrive in Chicago two hours ago!”
In addition to flight arrangements, I also made hotel arrangements at four different hotels online, which normally wouldn’t have concerned me, except that the information available about the hotels was somewhat sketchy. During the trip, I sheepishly approached each registration desk, wondering if there would be room at the inn. I really lucked out, though, and almost everything worked out perfectly. The hotels were clean, well-appointed, efficiently small, and staffed by very nice English-speaking people. Most of the hotels were within walking distance of trains, arguably the best means of travel around the country. In fact, in Kyoto, our excellent accommodations, the Hotel Granvia Kyoto, were at the train station.
As an aside, for anyone planning to visit Japan, we heartily recommend obtaining a Japan Rail Pass, which only visitors can obtain, and only by purchasing vouchers at select locations outside the country and exchanging them at select locations in Japan. They don’t make it easy, but they do make it worthwhile. The trains are clean, the bullet trains are spacious, and they are all ON TIME! The rail pass is valid on many of the bullet trains and many local trains, trams, buses and ferries throughout the country. Just flash your pass and you’re on your way! Some of the train stations, including the one in Kyoto that included our hotel, were teeming with people. The choreography of the masses looked like that of a gargantuan ant farm, with people crisscrossing at breakneck speed. A couple of times, I was swept some distance out of my way, as I feared one misstep might cause the whole cast to tumble.
We found it fairly easy to find our way around, particularly in the big cities, and especially in Tokyo. Many signs are in English, and things are well marked. In fact, we had less difficulty following signs and directions in Japan than we did when we returned to Newark Airport and tried to follow the signs to the shuttle bus for the remote parking lot.
Jason and Caitlin met us in southwest Japan on our second day, after we’d warmed up our shiny new rail passes with several legs of the trip from Tokyo. While we were visiting their home town of Kumamoto and then nearby Kyoto, Jason and Caitlin acted as tour guides, taking us to some of their favorite haunts and eating establishments. The scenery was incredible, the food was excellent, and the shopping was amazing. We even went to a karaoke bar. When asked if I would try to sing karaoke, I replied, “There isn’t enough beer in Japan to make me do karaoke!” Well, apparently there is…and allegedly, there’s a video.
Some of the cultural differences we encountered were fascinating. The Japanese seemed almost obsessive about washing hands before eating, handing out wet towels or towelettes whenever we sat down at a restaurant. But they didn’t offer us any napkins, so I guess the idea is to pre-emptively wipe your hands and face. Also, in lavatories, there were sinks, but generally no towels or dryers to dry with. So you either had to wring your hands dry or wipe them on your pants, which of course weren’t dirty because you had pre-emptively wiped your hands at mealtime.
It also seemed as though the Japanese were preoccupied most of the time, because they seldom looked us in the eye unless they were either serving us, or it was otherwise part of their job. Normally, I try to make eye contact and say, “Hi,” as I pass people. In our travels, most of the people either looked down or straight ahead, as if oblivious to us. Maybe they are just overwhelmed by the sheer number of people they encounter every day, and are just operating on overload. When they were serving us, though, they were held in rapt attention and almost tripped over themselves to help us. One exception was a cabbie in Tokyo who, although apparently Japanese, was the quintessential cabdriver from hell, never leaving the comfort of the driver’s seat of his smoke-filled cab, and driving at about 50 mph through the busy streets of Tokyo. He must have gotten his training in New York City!
We also found that many Japanese people smoke cigarettes, and look like they only recently started, ever conscious of this powerful new thing between their fingers, and puffing furiously. At a couple of restaurants, the smoke was so thick that I longed for the smoke-free restaurants in New Jersey. At one place in particular, a young woman chain-smoked, and even the nearby exhaust hood was no match for her.
We were also struck by the young adults, whose dress ranged from school uniforms to western styles. Apparently, school uniforms are considered attractive among students, and play an important part in their adolescent mating rituals. On the other hand, we saw many young men dressed in the gangsta look, with their baggy jeans hanging at mid-butt, and their baseball hats askew. I wondered if they’d one day emulate Jason’s eclectic style of dress – bright colors, plaids with stripes, too-small tee shirts, etc. (I used to say that he shopped at Barnum & Bailey).
The streets and countryside were essentially devoid of trash and graffiti, largely due to the work ethic of the people employed to clean up such things. But keeping these things under control serves as a deterrent to others, who are less likely to create a new mess rather than just add to an old one. I can’t recall noticing any chewing gum crushed into the sidewalks, like so many stars that mark the entrances to our shopping malls, so apparently it’s not a problem either.
After about a week in Japan, we finally began to understand the language that Jason and Caitlin spoke with some fluency. By then, we had mastered, “Domo Arigato,” while choking back, “Mister Roboto.” Perhaps the most useful phrase we learned was, “Nihongo ga wakarimasen,” which means, “I don’t understand Japanese.” But the most important phrase was, “Otearai wa dochira desu ka?” meaning, “Where is the bathroom?” The Japanese vocabulary is a fascinating mix of old Asian and adapted western words. In the Japanese language, there are limited sounds; their vowels don’t have both long and short versions, and some consonants don’t exist, so adapted western words are the closest they can come. For instance, taxi is ta-ku-shi, and milk is mi-ru-ku. In many cases, the “u” at the end is nearly silent, although I think it’s still there (the Japanese don’t waste much). One very popular word is “gozaimasu,” which doesn’t translate well, but is a polite form meaning, “to be.” It’s used in greetings, thanks and instructions, and seems to punctuate a lot of Japanese sentences.
We also learned about currency exchange, with the Japanese yen being about equal to a penny, and figured out how to negotiate with automated tellers to tap our bank accounts back home. The international MAC machines are only found at the post offices, and are lined up like slot machines, with customers queued up to wait for the next available one.
At 6’-2” with a full head of not-too-short red hair, Jason stands out among the crowds in Japan. Though he’s generally quiet, he enjoys a bit of attention, and being firmly in the minority in heavily Japanese Kumamoto, he’s really hard to miss. At 5’-4” with dark hair, Caitlin blends in a bit more. They both live in areas that are safe and secure, even for a city environment. They’re fairly well-paid, and hold some sway in their respective school systems. They’re both enjoying teaching for now, and will probably return home and continue their own education before moving on in their careers. Most of all, though, they’re independent but still have each other to lean on.
The experience of visiting Japan for Chris, Adam and me was an adventure of a lifetime. Visiting Jason was wonderful in so many ways. Leaving him to come home was more difficult than seeing him off in the first place, though. He’s doing quite well, and is proving that he doesn’t need his parents as much as we’d like to think. So I guess we did okay after all…
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Here are a few of our pictures. The rest can be viewed by scrolling back to the top of the blog and clicking on the link, "Bob's Pictures" in the sidebar on the right.
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