This may be about the only matter I can remember about my father. After he died, I felt the same admiration I had for my father toward my oldest brother. For that reason, I had peace of mind and relied on him and never once felt lonely for not having a father. However, as I got older, I disrespectfully speculated about my father's personality. My father also appeared in my dreams during my naps in the thatched hut in Tokyo. He actually had not died and was hiding for some political reason. He was a little older and more tired than the father I remember. While I longed for his presence, talking about dreams is inconsequential. At any rate, my interest in my father intensified recently.
All of my father's brothers had weak lungs. My father did not have tuberculosis but died after vomiting blood caused by some kind of obstruction in his respiratory tract. He died at fifty-three years old. With my child's mind, I believed someone was senile at that age and had a peaceful death. Now, I've come to consider death at fifty-three as being far from a peaceful death in one's declining years but a horrible death at a young age. If my father had lived a little longer, I had the conceit that he may have accomplished great work on behalf of Tsugaru. I wanted to see the house where my father was born and the town where he grew up.
The town of Kizukuri was only one road with houses standing on both sides. Fine paddy fields were cultivated behind the houses. Poplar trees stood scattered around the paddy fields. This is the first time I saw poplar trees on this trip to Tsugaru. Although I have seen them many times, no vivid memories remain of the poplars of Kizukuri. The light green, young leaves of the poplar swayed in a light breeze. Tsugaru Fuji seen from here is not very different than the view from Kanagi and has a fragile, graceful form. The legend goes that rice and beautiful women are produced in locations where this beautiful mountain profile can be seen. Rice is certainly abundant in this region. On the other hand, I wonder about the beautiful women. Like Kanagi, this place is also a little desolate. Concerning this point, I suspect that legend may be the reverse. In lands where the beauty of Mount Iwaki is visible, no, I will say no more. This sort of talk is liable to cause problems, so it may not be reasonable for a traveler passing through to make hasty conclusions.
The weather was excellent on that day, too. A misty smoke hovered like a fine spring haze over the straight concrete road leading from the railway station. I was affected by the spring heat and walked with my brain in a fog. I mispronounced the kanji characters on the bulletin board at the Kizukuri Police Station as the Mokuzou Police Station, a police station made of wood. Of course, I was convinced the building was made of wood mokuzou and anxiously gave a wry smile.
Kizukuri was a town of komohi sheltered sidewalks. Long ago, komohi protected against the afternoon sun rays in Ginza. A tent to block the sun was stretched in front of every shop. The reader could walk under the tents to cool his face and think of it as a long, unplanned corridor. That long corridor was not constructed from tents but from the eaves of each house extended about six feet out and well built to last. There's no doubt the komohi are from the north country. They were not built to ward off the sun's rays. They aren't stylish. The eaves built close to each other make contacting neighbors easier when snow accumulates in the winter, and long corridors are created. And during blizzards, you can go out and shop with ease without fear of being exposed to the snowstorm. The most useful aspect is the absence of the danger found when children use Tokyo's sidewalks as a playground. On rainy days, this long corridor is a godsend to pedestrians. And for a traveler like me who's beaten by the spring heat will fly inside to cool off and be glared at by the annoyed people sitting in the shops. These corridors are appreciated. Although it is generally believed that komohi is the local word for komise (small shop), I think it fits the kanji for konose (hidden shallows) or komohi (hidden sun), but is not easily understood. I pondered this to amuse myself. While strolling down the komohi I came to M's Pharmaceutical Wholesale.
I didn't stop but passed by, as I walked straight down the komohi, I wondered what to do. This town's komohi is rather long. Although there are structures called komohi in the old towns of Tsugaru, few towns are like Kizukuri that depends on komohi that run through the entire town. Finally, I decided Kizukuri was the town of komohi. I walked a little while longer, and the komohi ran out at last. I did an about-face, sighed, and went back.
I never visited M's house before, not once, or Kizukuri. Perhaps, someone brought me here to play when I was young, but I have no memories now. M, the head of the house, is an energetic man, four or five years older than me and a friend who visited Kanagi now and then for many years. Even if I visited him now, he would not look displeased, but my visit would be without warning. If I called on M for no particular reason as I groveled and smiled, he may
