HONEY BUCKET BLUES

          One of the most pivotal events engraved upon my memory of the early years in Japan, did not actually happen to me.  The ripple effects of this incident reached out to a vast number of  us ignorant foreigners living in Japan at the time. It forever changed my perception of some of the most influential people in my life.  It is a story that you may not wish to read because I seriously doubt that you will be able to forget it, and if you are squeamish...let's just say it may bring to your mind images that you would rather not harbor. 
          Let me set the scene for you.  Japan in the mid-sixties was a place with a frantic pace of modern development at every turn.  A high speed rail system, sky-scrapers, Nikon, Sony and a multitude of other companies were growing at a dizzying speed.  But in odd corners here and there were still pockets of the old world.  One of these old world oddities was  "Honeybucket".  How do I explain this to you? A few

random farmers clung to the old methods of fertilizing their fields by contracting with collectors of human waste. This prized commodity was transported in covered wooden buckets.  It was not difficult to tell when the "Honeybucket" man was near because the odor wafted out in front of him like an announcement for what was coming. Occasionally there were just two buckets dangling from both sides of a wooden yoke. As he approached, the honey bucket man called out some sort of exclamation.  I never knew if he was trying to find a buyer for his unusual wares or if he was warning people of the stench.  Even rarer was the glimpse of a Honey bucket cart, where the hard-working transport man pulled an entire wagon full of these distinctive containers.

          This "Honeybucket" had to end up somewhere.  We discovered exactly where when we moved to Chofu, which was (at least back then) on the outskirts of Tokyo. Tucked among the fields of produce on the neighboring farms, were earthen reservoirs filled with "Honey Bucket" sort of like swimming pools where the farmers mixed their own concoction of waste, soil and mysterious liquids right in the ground.  The evil brew would crust over, deceiving the unsuspecting soul into thinking it was solid ground.

          As an adolescent, I knew that there was no one to be admired more than my big sisters and their cool friends. Shirley was the dark-haired beauty and Lynda, the gorgeous blonde.  They were never unkind to me (well....except for those times they told me I was adopted), but I was the pesky younger sister, so I rarely got to enjoy their adventurous escapades.  It seemed they were always doing something wondrous and exciting with friends who were laughing and having fun.
         One day Shirley and her friends Melinda and Barbara set out on one of their adventures. They were armed with one Walkie Talkie and Johnny and Billy had the other. The guys, being clueless about the interest of girls were merely concerned with testing the range of the devices, while the girls were more interested in spying on the boys. Johnny and Billy sat inside a "soba" shop (noodle shop) amazed that the wakie talkies were so clear when the girls were supposed to be at Melinda's house. Little did they know that the girls lurked right outside of the soba shop.  The girls were very proud of themselves until they realized that the guys were about to hop on their bikes and go to Melinda's house. They took off running to try and beat them there. They had to find a way to improve their odds, so they decided to cut through a farm field.  The girls saw a big concrete platform about the size of a king-sized bed and Shirley, who was in the lead, stepped up on the edge and ran around the outside perimeter.  This is where their stories differ a bit.  Shirley insists that she called out, "Watch out for the Honeybucket!", but strangely neither Melinda nor Barbara heard it. (Now is a good time for those of you with weak stomachs to quit reading) 
          Melinda, being a very practical girl stepped up on the block and started straight across.  She made it more than half way before she started sinking. That is when she realized that this was not a concrete platform at all, it was the crusty top of a pool of Honeybucket!  She sank to her armpits, and held the walkie talkie high above her head.  Now, where was Barbara? She was no where in sight! Barbara was shorter so she had climbed up onto the "platform" but her arms plunged straight through the crust and she fell in head first!  All the way in.
          Shirley was still balancing on the edge of the narrow rim around the cess pool when she saw the others splashing around in the Honeybucket.  Meanwhile, Melinda's life was flashing before her eyes, so she began yelling into the walkie talkie for help.  The boys heard the panicked cries, hopped on their bikes to rescue the girls that they feared were being attacked.  Barbara popped up through the surface and backed her way out of the crap and rolled to the ground, which unfortunately was actually a country highway.  Imagine the surprise of the truck driver who came to a stop when he saw what looked like a tree trunk that was slowly walking with its arms stretched out to its sides.  Add to that image, the intense smell that permeated from it!
            About the time Melinda was pulling herself out of the Honeybucket, Billy and Johnny arrived on their bikes.  Where were the attackers?  Why were the girls covered in brown gunk?  The Japanese couple who lived on the farm came outside to see what was causing the commotion.  The woman could not quit exclaiming, "Ara, Ara!" (loosely translated, "What the heck?" but she said it like, "What are you doing in my Honeybucket!?") Billy tried to reassure her by saying, "Machigaishimashita!" (They made a mistake!)  The woman kept her distance and no doubt drew some firm conclusions about the crazy foreigners.
           There are so many more interesting details left untold in this story, but let me close by explaining that this was the day that my Goddess of a sister became human to me.  I still admired both of my sisters, but somehow I realized that they were in fact fallible, and therefore even approachable.  I may have felt that Shirley was more approachable, but apparently that was not the reaction of others as the word spread at school.  The girls were the brunt of a silent and humorous campaign.  When they were seen in the halls, the kids would scoot to the other side, as though driven by the smell.  
          Now every year or so my sisters and I try to get together for a sister trip.  We still like adventures! 

GLORY

               I have a great appreciation for athleticism.  I can trace the roots of this reverence to 1969.  That is the year we moved to Abilene, Texas.  I was the “new girl in town” at Madison Junior High.  Actually I was still the “new girl in country” since it hadn’t been very long since we moved back to the U.S. from Japan.  I may have been a proud American who looked like an American and spoke like an American, but everything about my school was totally foreign.  Like most 14 year old girls, I wanted to belong.  I looked around my new little world to see who seemed to personify greatness, and realized it was…Jazen Wood.  She was tall, blonde, athletic and beautiful. 
She played volleyball competitively and was a cheerleader, and most importantly, she “belonged”.  This was surely what I should aspire to!  The evidence of her greatness was worn proudly on an athletic sweater with a giant “M” emblazoned above its pocket.  I decided then and there that I too would have a garment that displayed my greatness.

          My first shock came when I learned that you only received a “Letter” if you played a sport.  This was a predicament.  The only sports for girls were volleyball and cheer-leading.  The cheerleaders had been selected the previous year, and the volleyball I was witnessing at Madison was so much more competitive than anything I had ever seen before.  These girls were tall and ruthless and had been playing for years already.  I was not likely to grow any taller, nor reach the level of skill that these girls had attained in just a few short weeks. I shelved my goal for the moment, but did not forget it.          The next year was Cooper High School.  I was no longer the “new girl”, but the sports options were still limited.  I attempted to learn to play Tennis, but my potential was no better than with Volleyball.  I made many wonderful friends, served in Student Government, was active in drama and many other activities.  But I wanted to wear my greatness emblazoned on a jacket.  It seemed I had no options left…until my senior year.  That is when the state of Texas began to give girls more opportunities in sports.  I heard the announcement over the loud speaker that Cooper was to have a girl’s track team.  I was giddy with excitement.  It was still early spring and I could anticipate the feel of that warm jacket. 

          I joined about 20 other girls out on the track after school that day, and the workouts began.  Sprinting, jogging, sprinting some more, practicing passing batons: the endurance game began.  No matter how hard it was, or how many other girls dropped out, I never would.  In my mind, I could see that jacket, enticing me to continue. 

          One tragic afternoon after running until my legs cramped up (again) I learned a very disturbing fact. Bill, who

worked out with the track guys at the same time we were trying to organize our girls team, explained one horrifying detail to me. Being on the track team was not sufficient to earn a letter.  Apparently, you actually had to excel.  Winning and placing in your event would earn points which would be tallied at the end of the season.   Those who earned enough points would receive their letter.  The beautiful image of the enticing jacket began to morph into a taunting loudmouth. The jacket was moving farther and farther out of my reach!

           With some helpful coaching by Bill (who obviously felt sorry for me after destroying my hope), I began to be competitive. And when the season ended, I was one of the first four girls to letter in track at Cooper High School.  I had done it!  I would have a letter jacket!  Of course, it was now well past spring, and down-right hot in West Texas, but I would have my treasured jacket forever.  I would take it with me to Baylor University and impress everyone with my “Jacket of Excellence”. I would show it to my children and they would weep with emotion over the pinnacle of achievement that it represented!

          Did you know that High School letter jackets are an unspoken “NoNo” on a University campus? Did you know that when one doesn’t wear a jacket, one can easily loose it? Somewhere between Waco and Abilene, Texas, is a High School letter jacket that was earned with blood back in 1973.  I sometimes think about the time and effort that I spent on something so fleeting, and I am convicted about the lack of time and effort I spend on things of real and lasting value.  To me, the missing letter jacket is a symbol of misplaced values.  What I achieved when running track my senior year was truly valuable, but it had nothing to do with a jacket.  I was forced to exercise determination, focus, and hard work which turned out to be the reward itself.

CONFESSIONS OF A NEAR THESPIAN

       
          It is interesting to look back at the twists and turns that have shaped our lives.  What seems to be a spur of the moment decision can actually be a pivotal point in the direction of our lives.   When I graduated from High School in Abilene, Texas, I was destined to be an actress.  After all, I had received "Best Actress" recognition and I knew in my heart that greatness was in my future.  So, I packed my worldly possessions into my ancient hand-me-down car, "Abner", and moved to....Waco.  Yes, I was going to Baylor University, and I was pretty sure that I would be the darling of their drama program in no time!  

          I remember the excitement and chaos of class registration.  The two most exciting classes on my schedule were Introduction to Theater and Stage Movement.  All of my other classes were to be endured so I could get to the important business of acting!  In the Introduction class, I quickly learned that if you expected to be any part of the Drama Department at all, your every waking moment belonged to the Theater.  Everyone worked on costumes and sets and sound and agreed to play bit parts in a variety of One Act plays produced by the near-graduates. (I once played a ninety year old black vegetable peddler in Member of the Wedding) Then there was "Stage Movement" on Fridays only. Our little class of about fifteen Theater students were made to sit cross-legged in a circle on the stage while our Professor, let's call her Trelawney, (of Harry Potter fame) sat with us looking proudly at her new batch of mold-able little hopefuls.  I kept looking at the other students in wonder at their ability to keep a straight face.  After all, I had been in classes at Baylor for almost a week, and no matter how "progressive" some of my professors may have considered themselves, they all dressed professionally and sat in actual chairs, at actual desks.  Our Trelawney-esque professor was wearing leotards, jingley jewelry, hair that she may or may not have combed, and an expression that seemed to indicate that she was not altogether present. 

           We learned that we would not just act like trees or rivers or forest animals....we would BECOME them.  We would develop our "Kinesthetic Sense" (that would be some wierd combination of kinetics and aesthetics .  I learned that I too would have to wear leotards and leap like an animal across the stage.  I learned that I could forestall our fearless leader with certain questions and comments (which actually did develop my acting skills).  When asked what emotions certain movements evoked in me, I learned to look earnestly into her eyes and say, "Well...Professor Trelawney, it is just so hard to pin point exactly."  Then she would launch into her favorite speech about how we have so many complex emotions that we have not even given names to most of them.  This speech was good for at least 10 minutes.   After one of my successful stall tactics, I received a fair number of subtle "high fives" from my grateful associates.  
          As the end of the semester began to draw near, I had to pray about my major.  I had to ask myself if I loved drama enough to endure the whole package of classes, activities, and time commitment that the Theater demanded.  The answer was "Heck, No".  So...I packed away my Theater accouterments and ambitions and looked around to determine what lucky department would receive my devotion in the future.   Out of curiosity, I took a journalism class and broadcasting class in the next semester.  I was hooked immediately.  I loved everything about it.    Isn't it strange the way everything in one's life can take an about-face because of one decision.  I had to face the truth...I was not a Thespian.

GENETIC MISFIRE

   

        There are people, we've all met them, who keep their homes and offices so clean that it almost looks like they have them staged for a photo shoot.  Don't misunderstand me.  I am not criticizing; I am in absolute awe! My mother always kept our house looking beautiful.  Of course, my father was right there sucking up wayward crumbs with a dustbuster before they even had a chance to hit the floor. Somehow they managed to do this without loosing their joy and humor ...this just can't be normal.  My big brother, Billy, was a neat freak who left a trail of cleanliness everywhere he went.  My sister Shirley, can have her house perfectly clean and decorated, feed a crowd of 20, have the dishes done and a scrapbook created before everyone even goes home!  My sister Lynda, likewise entertains so many friends and family at her ranch house, that she really ought to install a revolving door!  She also keeps her house and guest rooms ready at all times.  
          Then there is me (and possibly my brother, David).  I KNOW that this gene of cleanliness and organization skipped right over me!!  David may have it, but he pours it into computer applications rather than his environment.  So I have to wonder. Has it been irrevocably removed from my branch of the family tree? My fear for my children stems from experiences way back in their earliest endeavors. Let me give you an example that occurred when my sons were one and two years old. 
          Back when we naively believed that one could keep a clean house with young children and a dog, my husband had a brilliant idea.  We acknowledged that we were very hard on carpets, but as a condominium developer he was on the cutting edge of all of the latest amenities for the home.  He realized that we might be good candidates for commercial grade carpet, and he had seen a beautiful Berber that he acquired for our home. The day it was installed, I gleefully rubbed my hands together and said to myself, "Let me see you destroy this one...hee...hee...hee." I THINK I said it to myself, but clearly my little babies were listening and must have thought I was challenging them.
          The carpet looked amazing.  I began to entertain thoughts of having friends over again. Perhaps I was NOT such a bad housekeeper.  In fact, my house looked amazing. I picked up all the carpet scraps which were laying around and made a mental note to vacuum up the extra fuzzies in a little while.  The boys wasted no time in bringing their favorite toys into the den.  They were enjoying the new soft and bumpy fibers beneath their toes.  Steve was in his office just a few steps away and called to me to bring him some insurance papers.  I gathered them up and walked up the short staircase into the office to help my husband find the information he needed.
          Ten short minutes later I walked down the steps into the den and looked in stunned silence.  My brain could not process what I was seeing!  There was a large red liquid stain all around the coffee table deeply absorbed into the new carpet!  That would be the new carpet that I hadn't even vacuumed yet!  What was that crimson flood, and why were my two little diaper clad angels sporting bright red hands and mouths?  AAAAHHHH!!!  The noise ripped from my diaphragm and Steve came running to find out what had attacked me.  
          We followed the red drippy stain into the kitchen where we found the abandoned one gallon Tupperware pitcher on the floor.  I had mixed-up an entire gallon of red Koolaid just that morning.  The pitcher was empty. Looking into those innocent little red-stained faces I had to face the fact that Preston, the one year old with the muscles of Bam Bam (That is a Flintstones reference for you young folks), had managed to open the refrigerator door and pull out the heavy one gallon pitcher.  Stephen was an idea man, the mastermind, no doubt.  The stain told the story of their trek from one room to another.  The den was perfect because the coffee table was nice and short.  Just their size.  No cups to drink out of?  Not a problem.  Just pour it on top of the table, place your face and hands in the pretty red juice and slurp!  When there is no more juice on the table, just pour some more!  So easy!
          I quickly read the directions on my carpet cleaner and got busy.  Considering the permanent nature of red Koolaid, it worked pretty well.  Of course there was a slight pink cast to the carpet in that location for the rest of its life, but more importantly I learned that I was doomed not to have a clean house.  I am bad enough on my own, but I also gave birth to some anti-clean influences and that tipped the scale.
          You may think that this is an isolated incident and I should not jump to conclusions so quickly.  Let me assure you that I have many other illustrations where that one came from!  To be fair, I should say that my girls color-coded their closets and have showed many wonderful symptoms of the clean and organized gene.  Even my boys have shown a few signs of effort in their adulthood.  I am so proud.  Now that they have grown up and moved out I should start exerting a greater effort to keep my own house clean.  I know I should, but I'd rather write in my blog!