Judy Iacuzzi
A Japanese woman became my “mother” the summer of 1966. For that short time – a two-month “homestay” courtesy of the American Field Service -- I joined her four other natural children in calling her “okasan” and following her gentle lead.
Nabui, her first name that I never heard spoken, was skilled in handicrafts, the crocheter of these two sweaters she gifted me days before I caught the train for Tokyo on my way back to America. The day my tears flowed as I realized I was leaving “our” Hiroshima home, probably never to see it, and possibly the special family and mother again.
The sweaters follow different patterns and result in different shapes and sizes. When she gave them to me, Okasan suggested the one with the balls was for me, the other for the husband I promised to bring back to Japan – to Hiroshima – someday. (My Italian husband today looks lovingly at the covering meant for him, realizing that he will never be small enough to wear it as a Japanese man would.)
The sweaters have accompanied moves from apartments (3) to homes (3) over the last 60 years; I wear mine as the weather encourages, and the finer days it holds a prominent place in my sweater closet, stirring up memories that grow more precious with time.
Memories of people and places and events, and especially memories of one industrious woman, the one with the high giggle, graying hair, and crochet talent who carried the purse for the family, yet walked behind her husband each Saturday on the way to the market.
When I first arrived in June that year -- into a blistering 100 degrees heatwave that never let up -- she and I were alone in our little home in the hills. Neither of us spoke the other’s language, but I had brought a Japanese-English dictionary and explained with the help of the book and some sign language that I’d be fine writing letters while she did her work.
A few days later I joined my sisters on their trek to school, two bus rides and a walk to the three-story edifice. We all carried the same lunch in boxes prepared in the wee hours each day by Okasan –- cheese and cucumber sandwiches sliced into thirds, grapes or pears, a sweet and box of milk.
When we returned from school and others were studying, I would approach Okasan in the kitchen. “Do you want my help?” (Tetsudai-iru?) She would nod, ask me to pour water or milk, bring out o-hashi to the table, and once in a while, help with the stovetop cooking of tempura. Every afternoon I asked, and every afternoon she obliged me with a smile, a giggle and an assignment.
From the first hot lonely day where we “signed” our languages, she made me feel welcome. Like those special sweaters she crocheted in the evenings, on bus rides and even at the beach, her love was generous, tightly woven and enduring.