Noticing

July 2025

Artwork by Anna Brones

July Noticing

Soba, Shaved Ice & Shadow Puppets

You might notice that this month’s Noticing blog was not posted timely on the first. It is because I have been in Santa Fe at the Modern Elder Academy studying under Krista Tippett and just coming home from a week away. Thanks for your patience. 

I forget how excruciatingly hot it can be in the summers in places other than my air conditioned home here in Seattle. I was just reminiscing last night about, hot summers in Japan where I spent my childhood. Then as the Universe always does, it sent me this article from Colossal, which is the inspiration for the blog this month.

As expats in Japan, our homes were always Western homes. The last home we lived in was a high end prefab, well before its time, that my dad was able to customize to include AC. Even Tinker Belle, my beloved St. Bernard, had her own air conditioned room which was the library at one point, that she ended up claiming the first summer she was with us. 

Every summer, my grandmother and I would go to stay with my Aunt and her family for two nights. Now that I look back, I realize it was during Obon, a Buddhist holiday honoring the spirits of the ancestors in the summer. As an only child, I loved being able to see how another family lived. My aunt, uncle and cousin lived in a Japanese style home. This meant in the summer months rooms were kept dark and heat was regulated by opening and closing the various shoji windows and doors throughout the day along with oscillating fans that were moved from room to room. It felt like everything moved a bit slower than at home. 

My cousin and I were allowed to sleep in late and then everyone had a Japanese breakfast except for me. I was made a meal of hotel bread, scrambled eggs and ham slices. I know they were trying to be accommodating but I would have loved a Japanese breakfast. After dishes were washed we were encouraged to get ready for the day and tag along to the stores. Not one grocery store back then but a series of mom and pop stores that specialized in one or two items and the truck parked with produce fresh from the field. We always stopped for fresh green tea, then the rice cracker store, then the fishmonger and the tofu shop: my personal favorite. It was always cool in the tofu shop and the deep metal bins always had hoses of running water and the shopkeeper wore rubber boots. When my aunt asked for silken tofu, I knew we would be having hiya yakko or plain tofu atop ice cubes topped with shaved bonito. Every Japanese housewife had a bonito shaver box with a blade similar to a carpenter’s plane and a drawer with a dried fillet of bonito. It would be topped with a glug or two of high quality finishing soy sauce. Delicious!  This was usually followed by zaru soba, buckwheat noodles served cold in a room temperature dipping sauce. On the way back up the hill, we would stop at the produce truck and the farmer would make a big show of picking the very best and might I say heaviest watermelon for my beautiful Aunt. It was my cousin’s and my job to carry home the watermelon by each grabbing one handle of the netted bag with the heavy, round watermelon. 

After this light delicious lunch, we were encouraged to take a nap as an exciting evening was yet to come. I remember trying to go to sleep on the hot futon upstairs with the towelket, which is a blanket made of thick cotton towel material used in the summer months. Even with the room darkened by lowered blinds and open windows and two fans going, it was hot. I can still remember the sweat going down my back and beading at my temples. I could hear the wind chime when a rare breeze would blow and suck the blinds against the window frame. The cicadas were having an obnoxious concert of their own. I could hear the faint sound of the soap operas and my grandmother and aunt’s conversation and the waft of mugicha or roast barley tea. And just as my eyes would start to close, I would be startled awake by the urgent ringing of the hand cranked bicycle bell of the food delivery drivers on their bicycles with lacquer boxes piled high on back with a feast of ramen, somen, tempura and sushi deliveries to various homes. 

An hour or so later, we would awaken in a pool of sweat and stay quiet and busy reading manga so as not to be tasked with any dreaded chores. Before we knew it, it was time to get ready for the Obon Festival at the park. My grandmother would hand sew our summer yukatas made of cotton in traditional indigo dye. I had a soft pink sash for an obi and my cousin got red. Each summer we would get new gettas for our footwear and each summer my mother would mock exasperation at our growth spurts that caused us to outgrow anything from a mere year ago. 

Without waiting for my Uncle to return from work, we ladies would make our way to the park, which had been transformed into a carnival-like setting. Tons of food booths and opportunities to try our luck at scooping goldfish with paper scoops. Modern glass boxes with huge claws that we could try to maneuver to claw out a stuffed toy; but it was harder than it looked. 

We ate our fill of teriyaki skewers, yakisoba made to order, and  okonomi yaki; which I never tried. All washed down with ramune which is like a clear ginger ale with a unique bottle design, where you pushed the glass ball down into the bottle to drink. Only after “dinner” were we allowed a shaved ice which seemed a humanitarian necessity at that point. If some of the foods I mentioned are new to you, here is a little guide :) 

Before we knew it, the sun had gone down and the lights had gone on making things seem even more festive. Then the thunderous pounding of the huge taiko drums would signal for the real show to begin. This signified the time to gather for the start of a communal dance done in unison. The Bon Odori or dance of the Obon festival. My aunt stopped us long enough to give us each or own folding fans that are used in the dance. We were awkward novices for the first dance but by the second dance we were total pros even knowing how to use our fans and holler the perfunctory shouts. So much fun! 

But all good things must come to an end. One last cotton candy for our walk home along with our prize goldfish. I could hear the popping of firecrackers when we were within two blocks of home. I could see ahead a group of unsupervised boys. The oldest not any older than middle school. The youngest had hand held sparklers and the older boys, unsatisfied with such mild entertainment, were shooting off rockets and scary sounding poppers. I am the quintessential rule follower and I was recounting how every summer there would be some story on the news about injuries with unsupervised fireworks. I could feel my stomach tighten. I looked down and directed my cousin to the far side of the street. I could tell by her death grip on me, that she was as scared as I was. I looked back to see where my aunt and grandmother were.  They were waylaid by having to polite talk to the neighbors they ran into. Then it began. The taunting by the older boys. “What have we here! A rice cracker or a banana? Stop so we can check you out.”.  No way was I stopping. Much to my dismay my cousin had wet herself. She was mortified, humiliated and scared. There were 8 of them and two of us with only half eaten cotton candy and gold fish to defend ourselves with. I was burning up inside with an anger that I would come to experience numerous more times in my life but didn’t know then. The emboldened younger boys started throwing firecrackers at us and the oldest boy started shoving me on the shoulder. Never had I wanted to know judo, karate or aikido or anything where I could level him and put my getta on his neck. But instead, I kept a fierce grip on my cousin’s hand and kept trying to proceed while willing my fear and panic down. No luck. Then I hear from behind us the loudest, fiercest growl. I saw the ring leader’s eyes widen and he said the equivalent of “Oh crap!! Let’s go!”. My uncle sent all the boys running for their lives. My uncle had been on his way home from the public bath and hating small talk with the neighbors, had taken a shortcut and ended up right behind us. He accompanied us home and my cousin took a bath and we never spoke about it again.

As the adults shared a large, cold, Kirin beer, we were to go to bed early. Not too many words were exchanged between us. My cousin was ashamed she had wet herself. I was ashamed for something I could not put my finger on. So when words failed us we started to play shadow puppets. This was my last fond memory of my cousin. Playing shadow puppets that hot summer night and giggling. Trying to bring levity into the room and make things go back in time as they had been.  But that was the last summer of Obon for me and I have no recollection of visiting their home thereafter. 

I hope you enjoyed a slice of my summer childhood memories. Wishing you a good summer in spite of the state of affairs of our country. In my August Noticing, I hope to share with you what I learned from Krista Tippett. I just looked up the title of the workshop Becoming Wise: An inquiry into the Mystery and Art of Living. I am thoroughly enjoying her current podcast topic on her show On Being called Hope, Imagination and Remaking the World. It is some of the best of her work. Her interview with Ocean Vuong is not to be missed.

XOXO,

Coach Diane