“Is not impermanence the very fragrance of our days?”
A lot of beautiful snow fell in early February!
I just bought a bag of Persian Trail Mix - a blend of mulberries, dates, nuts, sour cherries and golden berries sourced from around the globe. The trail mix reminded me of the fresh mulberries from a tree growing just outside my parents’ home in Kukaiau. It bordered the tall eucalyptus forest that replaced a century of Hamakua Sugar Plantation’s rows of tall green sugar cane.
That plantation supported a whole community of sugar workers and their families - mostly Japanese, Filipino, and Portuguese. They lived in small plantation green wooden houses with tiny yards and an incredible view of the Pacific Ocean.
My paternal grandfather, Sunao Tanoue, left Kumamoto, Japan in the late 1800’s because his family were all physicians, and he didn’t want to be a physician. Instead, he and his wife Yoshi - who I’m named after - came to Hawaii and worked very hard on the plantation to make a living. Supervisors rode on horseback with whips and wages were low. Grampa started making bootleg liquor, using the root of the ti leaf plant, to support his family of 11 children.
Aunty Madge, Dad’s favorite sister, told me that every now and then Grampa would get a tip-off that the prohibition authorities were going to bust his place. She was a young girl and would run, terrified, helping Grandpa carry the still deep into the cane fields. They never arrested him.
Grampa Tanoue was a tall, thin man who didn’t talk much. When my father brought us to visit him and gramma, I remember that he’d give me a quarter to buy candy at Paauilo Store. My most vivid memory of him is when he’d sit down to have lunch at their wooden dining table, his back to an open screened window. He’d pour cold beer slowly into a tall glass so it wouldn’t foam up too much. Gramma would serve him a bowl of steaming white rice over which he’d crack a raw egg. He’d smile.
I was ten years old when he died on his last trip to Japan. There’s a photo of Grampa’s funeral of a large group of people in front of Paauilo Hongwanji all dressed in black and somber. My grandmother stands behind the casket which is center front. My younger sister and I are the only ones dressed in white.
Dad loved the short, willowy mulberry tree along with the local sparrows that frequented it for food. Ma would make the best mulberry jam from the ripe purple red berries. She’d give it to me lovingly. “It’s good” Dad would say. He was right. Spread over a piece of hot toast with butter, the mulberry jam was da best! She had a stash of small canning jars full of the dark red berries in the hall closet. Some of those jars even made it to Chicago!
And then the tree was mysteriously cut down one day. My father told me why when I asked, but I didn’t understand his reason. Why would he cut down something that gave us all great joy? It was just another instance of impermanence gently slapping me in the face. Nothing lasts forever no matter how fleeting or solid it may seem. How do we appreciate people, confusion, and beauty when they’re here but then open our hands when it’s time to let go? Is not impermanence the very fragrance of our days?
Malama pono (take good care of body and mind),
June Kaililani Ryushin Tanoue
Kumu Hula, Sensei