Relocating–moving–has always been a part of American life. Even before we became a country, our ancestors–for those of us with non-Native American heritage–had torn up their roots and relocated. Today, it’s unusual to find anyone who is native to the place they live as an adult. I’ve been transplanted many times.

The other day I was in a car with friends when we stopped at a light in front of a local book store. “Didn’t that used to be a restaurant?” asked one friend. “I think, so,” said another whose sister then reeled off three different types of restaurants that had occupied the space before the current business.

I’ve lived in Salem for 19 years. That store has always been a book store.

When people do this, I feel like Jason Bourne—awakening to find I have no past. Before I bought my house in Salem, I had lived no place longer than 4 years. We moved eight times while I was in school. A couple times we moved after only a few months.

The worst moves were the last two we made as a family. At the time of the first of those, I was 14 and had just graduated from a two-year middle school. I’d bonded into my first really tight group of close friends. Leaving them was like an amputation. We moved across the country to a small town in Ohio. Rather than moving on to high school, I was thrown back into junior high because the only middle school in town included ninth grade. Most of the girls in the very cliquish school had already known each other for two years—many of them had been friends since elementary school. I was an outcast, fitting in only with the rest of the outcasts.

Three years later I was looking forward to my senior year. I was just beginning to find a group of girls I really clicked with. A couple boys were actually showing some interest in me. I had already ordered my yearbook and had my class ring. Then my father announced we were moving back to California.

The high school I left had a student body of about 800; my graduating class would have been just over 200. The new school had a student body of more than 2400. My new graduating class was larger than the entire student body of my previous school. As I went from class to class, I never saw the same faces twice. I saw my brother in the halls once. He gave me a half wave of recognition and the quirked smile of a drowning man who sees his fate and is wryly resigned to it. Then he disappeared into a sea of anonymous faces.

My brother was in the same situation I’d landed in three years before. He had been about to move into high school with a couple of close buddies, when he was wrenched away from them. It was unfortunate that, being teenagers with different personalities, we had drifted apart. I had already suffered the loss he was about to endure. We could perhaps have helped each other through this one.

I gritted my teeth and finished school. I went through the graduation ceremony only because I knew it meant something to my parents. It was meaningless to me. I didn’t know any of the students and didn’t care. I never bought a yearbook or another class ring. What was the point? I didn’t belong there.

When I moved out at 20, I was glad to be on my own, mistress of my own future. I went through a lot of apartments, but when I bought my house my roots sank into the ground. My brother, too, stopped moving as soon as he was able. He’s been in his home for almost as long as I’ve been in mine. Neither of us is willing to give up the friends and sense of place we’ve established.

People say kids are resilient. And to some extent that’s true or none of us would survive. And there are times when a bread winner has to move–and move long distances–taking his or her family along. An economy during which jobs are in short supply is one of those times. These moves even kids can understand, if the situation is explained to them. But when the decision to relocate comes from a corporate office, made by executives only looking at the company’s bottom line, and regarding employees only as strategic chess pieces, it can be very cruel on the pawn’s family. Sometimes the pawn is made to choose between the health and vigor of his career and the quality of his family life. Even when the pawn decides to move across the board on his own, driven by the dream of becoming a knight or even a king, his spouse’s and his children’s dreams, needs, and desires for security must be considered and respected, or there will be a price to pay in a trail of lost and broken pieces.

The brakes of the Mercedes squealed as it stopped, bumper against the sawhorses in the driveway. Beyond them stood the power saw, right where it had been for months. A twenty-five-foot sailboat poked its prow out of the garage door.

“Goddamn it.” The driver slammed the car door and, jerking his silk tie loose, marched into the house.

Boat-building books lay open on the coffee table and spilled onto the floor, mingling with navigation manuals and travel books. Boat plans littered the dining room table. Embedded sawdust marked the carpet between the kitchen and the sliding glass doors to the lanai.

In the kitchen, a woman sang. “Down the way, where the nights are gay…”

“Lillian!” The singing stopped.

“In here, John.”

“I can tell,” he said, stepping over bundled blueprints. “Just follow the sawdust trail.”

“No sense in vacuuming. I’ll just track in more tomorrow,” Lillian said. She stood at the counter, dark, graying hair pulled into a ponytail, eyebrows frosted with sawdust. With wood stain-darkened hands, she was spreading mustard on a ham sandwich. She gestured with the knife. “Can I get you one?”

“I’ll eat on the plane. Lillian, this house is still a wreck. I told you I wanted to have Jack and his wife over for drinks next week, after I get back.”

“Nothing’s to prevent you from having them over.”

“You can’t be serious. How do you expect them to ignore all this?” He waved his hand at the dining room.

Lillian shrugged. “Drinks are always nicer on the lanai, anyway.” She took a bite of her sandwich.

“And while we’re out there, we’ll admire your ark? How am I supposed to explain that? And while we’re talking about boats, Lillian, let’s talk about garages.”

“Garages?”

“Garages. You said that when I brought the car home you’d get the boat out of the garage. Garages are meant for cars, Lillian. Not boats.”

“There’s no need for condescension, John,” she said, turning toward the refrigerator.

He closed his eyes for a moment, took a deep breath and let it out in a loud sigh. “I’m sorry, Lillian, but you just don’t seem to understand I’ve got a very expensive car out there that needs protection.”

Lillian took a carafe of iced tea out of the refrigerator.

“Lillian!”

“I’m listening, John. But I don’t understand why the boat upsets you so much. This was your idea, after all.”

“What? I never suggested you take up marine architecture.”

“You said a hobby might help me snap out of my depression over Mom’s death. So. I have a hobby.”

“I was thinking of knitting.”

“In Florida? What would I knit?”

“I don’t know. Baby booties, or something.”

“Babies wear tiny little Reeboks, nowadays. What would be the point of knitting booties?”

“What’s the point of that?” He waved his hand toward the boat, just visible through the kitchen window.

“Exploring the keys. Sailing to Cuba to rescue refugees. Harassing drug boats and running them aground. Making drug lords walk the plank.”

“Catching a white whale, maybe?”

“Maybe.”

“Get real.”

“I did. I got real when Mom died.” Lillian put her sandwich plate and a glass of iced tea on a tray.

“Lillian,” said John, then stopped.

“Yes?”

“Well, has this got something to do with the change?” he asked hesitantly.

“It has everything to do with change, John.”

“Well, maybe…Clyde thinks you need hormones or something.”

Lillian laughed.

“Clyde’s been sniffing too many Oreos.” She pushed aside a stack of dirty dishes. “Do you see my pocket rasp?”

“I wouldn’t know if I did.” John stepped out of her way as she moved across the kitchen. He bumped into the counter and turned to brush sawdust off his dark gray suit jacket. “When you said you were going to build a boat, I thought maybe a canoe. I never planned on the Queen Mary. We’re the neighborhood laughingstocks. Nell Jenkins keeps asking when you’re going to start collecting animals.”

“She doesn’t have to worry. I won’t take that miserable yapping poodle of hers.”

“This is even affecting people at work,” John went on doggedly. “Clyde calls you Captain Ahab. They’re betting on how long it’ll take the boat to sink. They want to know if you’ll name the ship after a man since a woman’s going to be the captain. They ask me if I’m going to be a pirate’s wench.”

Lillian laughed. “I like that. My childhood dream was to sail with Jean Lafitte. Make people I didn’t like walk the plank. Can Clyde swim?”

“I can’t get through to you,” said John, running a hand through his hair. “I just made general manager. With luck, I’ll be a vice-president in another couple of years. But I’ll never get another promotion if Jack thinks my wife is out of control.”

Lillian looked at him for a moment. “I’m not out of control, John. In fact, I’m actually more in control than I’ve ever been in my life.”

“Oh, yes,” he said, rolling his eyes. “You’re independent now that your mother left you all that money.”

“I’ve always been independent, John. You just never noticed.” She grinned. “Come to think of it, neither did I.”

“Talk about noticing. Have you noticed your ship of state won’t go through the garage door?” John jerked his head toward the boat. “How do you plan to get it out?”

“John,” she said, pulling open a drawer, “have you ever thought about how superfluous a garage really is in Florida?” She shook her head, then shoved the drawer back in.

“Superfluous? How can you say that? You’re using mine as a shipyard.”

“Superfluous,” said Lillian, stopping her search to look at him. “The weather’s perfect. What is there to protect a car from?”

“What about theft? Do you know what I just paid for that car?”

“What’s a car next to a dream?”

“That car is my dream.”

“That’s not a dream, John, it’s a thing, like an anchor, an albatross. Salt spray on your face, stars at night, the sound of a sail snapping–that’s a dream.” Lillian looked out at the boat. “My mother dreamed of being a dancer. Music. Movement. Applause.” She turned back to John. “I don’t want to die mourning my dream.”

“So you’re jealous of me having mine, then, is that it?”

“What is your dream, John?”

“That’s my dream!” John jabbed his finger toward the driveway. “That car is my dream, damn it, and I don’t want some punk stealing it for parts.”

“You can replace a car, John,” said Lillian quietly. “You can’t replace a dream.”

John rubbed his forehead. “Lillian, I don’t have time to get into a philosophical debate with you. I have a plane to catch. All I’m saying is that my car should be parked in my garage.”

“Ah!”

“What do you mean,`Ah!’?”

“I remember what I did with the pocket rasp.” Lillian opened the refrigerator and took the file off the top shelf.

“Jesus. Can’t you pay attention to what I’m saying for five minutes?”

“I am. You’re worried about the garage. Don’t be. You can always build another.”

“There’s nothing wrong with the one I have!” He threw up his hands. “This is going nowhere. Lillian, I want that boat out of the garage.” He reached into his pocket and slammed the car keys on the counter. “And I want my car in it.”

“I’m not finished.”

“I don’t give a good goddamn whether you’re finished or not! I want it out.”

“What about the garage?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“What you’ve been talking about. The garage. You just said the boat won’t fit through the garage door. How do you expect me to get it out?”

“Take the damn thing apart!”

“Of course.” She smiled at him. “It’ll take at least a week, though.”

For a moment, John looked puzzled by her sudden capitulation. “Fine,” he said, as there was a knock at the door. “There’s Clyde. Just make sure it’s gone by the time I get back from this trip.”

“Yes, dear. It will be.”

John hesitated a moment, then stalked to the front door. Lillian followed, pocket rasp in her hand. Clyde’s chubby red face grinned on the other side of the screen door.

“Hey, buddy,” he said to John. “Hey, Captain. Ahoy there!”

“Don’t encourage her,” said John.

“Hi, Clyde,” said Lillian. “Clyde do you swim?”

Clyde looked puzzled. “Sure Lillian, I swim. Everybody swims. Why?”

“Just curious.”

“Come on, Clyde, let’s get going,” said John, grabbing his packed suitcase from beside the door.

“Sure, buddy. See ya, Lillian.” The screen door slammed. “You talk to her about those hormones?” Clyde asked as the two men walked to Clyde’s car.

Lillian closed the front door. “Har, har, matey. Them’ll be the last funny words outta yer mouth. Prepare to walk the plank!” Lillian marched back to the kitchen, rasp thrust in front of her like a sword.

She stood looking out at the garage for a moment. “Um. Can’t avoid it,” she said. “Roof’ll have to come off first.”

She tossed the car keys into a drawer.

“Yep. Get the detailing finished and she’s ready to go.” Lillian picked up the lunch tray and headed out to the garage, singing.

“Sad to say, I’m on my way, won’t be back….”

Copyright 1998 Sharon Elaine Thompson

A conventional tank water heater is one of the largest energy vampires in the house. Keeping 40 to 100 gallons of hot water standing by, whether you need it not, sucks up an estimated 25% of every energy dollar. Yet most of us only draw on that reserve for morning showers, evening dishes, or the weekend wash. With the growing cost of utilities, many people today are considering the switch to a tankless water heating system.

Tankless systems, which heat water at the location where it is used, are standard in Germany and in Japan, where I first became acquainted with them.  These systems only heat the water when the hot water tap is turned on; some require that the heater be turned on first before each use. (Not a problem as water heating is instant.) When the water is not being used, very little or no energy is used either. Besides energy efficiency, tankless systems are a source of constant hot water—no running out when the family comes to visit. Because there is no standing tank to leak, there are no more flooded garages, basements or hallways.

Drawn by the lure of limitless hot water, eliminating the risks of a leaking tank, and the potential of saving 10 to 50% off my energy bill, I began researching tankless systems for my own home. I learned there are a number of things a woman needs to consider before buying a tankless system: which system will suit her hot water use best; what upgrades will have to be made to gas lines and structure; the initial cost versus long-term savings; whether or not the enormous tax credits available through the end of 2010 will make the system affordable. See the US Department of Energy website for more information. http://www.energysavers.gov/financial/70010.html  It may also mean some slight changes in water use habits.

Most tankless systems in the US are designed for whole house use. In other words, they are sited in one place, like a standard tank water heater, and heat the water any time a hot water tap is turned on–regardless of whether it is an upstairs bathroom or downstairs laundry room. There are also small on-demand, on-site electric water heaters that fit under a sink and hold 2 to 8 gallons of hot water for ready use. These can be a good option for a small bath/sink combination that is a distance from the rest of the water uses in the house. The system of on-site heaters I used in Japan is not available here; they would require plumbing the entire house for gas.

Most tankless systems are gas fired. Whole house electric tankless heaters can take more electricity to run than most houses are wired for. Gas systems are available with a standing pilot–which uses a small, but constant, amount of energy, that may eliminate any energy savings you might otherwise realize—or they are available with an electronic ignition—electricity triggers the ignition of the pilot when the tap is turned on. (These require an electrical outlet near the site of the water heater.) My favorite concept was offered by Bosch’s hydro-ignition system—the flow of water itself triggers the ignition of the pilot light. There is no energy use at all–gas or electric–until the water turns on.

You’ll also need to learn a little new language. Rather than the old tank system of measuring capacity by number of gallons, tankless systems are rated by the volume of water they can heat, from 4 gallons per minute (gpm) to 9 gpm. A small house, with a single occupant using a single function at a time (showering or dishes or wash) can get away with a system of lower capacity. But if you’re used to running a couple showers, or a shower and the dishwasher or washer at the same time, you’ll need a system that can heat a higher volume of water.

The volume a tankless system can heat depends on the ground temperature in the region. Colder water takes longer to heat. So where the ground temperature drops below 55 degrees in winter, the system has to be able to handle a larger volume of water. Most tankless heaters easily handle a jump of 70 degrees–from ground temperature to 120^oF. This may explain why, when I talked to family in the east and midwest, that they had not heard of tankless systems. Whole house tankless heaters may be something that works best in the west, southwest, and south.

Another thing that might affect the viability of a tankless system in your area is the water quality. One plumber told me their recommended system required a $200 professional servicing each year, to remove mineral deposits, a fee that would effectively wipe out any savings one might experience by switching to tankless. Another plumber said no servicing was required. Some online sites recommended an owner servicing periodically. My local water quality board said our water was so soft, mineral deposits would not be a problem. (A friend who has had a tankless system for more than eight years now has never serviced his and it runs like a charm.) However, those in areas of hard water might well find that a ritual cleaning might be in order. Why? These babies burn at very high temperatures. Mineral deposits on the heating elements can quickly burn them out.

Switching to a tankless system is not as easy as simply changing out an old tank, or as (relatively) inexpensive. The units themselves cost more, anywhere from $1000 (for a moderate system from a home improvement center) to $3500 for a higher end system from the local plumber. If your current tank is electric, you’ll have to switch to gas, which may involve running in a gas line if there is no gas in your house. If you already have gas and there are other uses on the line, you may have to add additional piping to ensure that the right amount of gas is available for the tankless burner. Either way, you may well be looking at venting–for the switch from electric, definitely; for the upgraded gas, quite probably. Again, this has to do with the amount of heat put out by these units.

When the costs start adding up, they can begin to take your breath away. However, from now until end of 2010, there are huge tax incentives from the federal government, up to 30% or $1500. Some states, too, are offering tax rebates or special programs of their own. Added together, tax incentives could bring the costs down by almost $2000.

Before you invest in a tankless system, be sure it will suit your usage patterns and lifestyle. Check out all rebates and incentives. You can install these yourself if you are an experienced DIYer and the federal tax credit will still apply on the cost of the heater. However, some other rebates and incentives only apply if you use a contractor–and that adds to the cost, even if you get some of it back. Be sure you’re clear on how the incentives work. Run the numbers. Get a couple bids. Talk to friends, contractors, plumbers, and the guys as the local hardware store. Read all you can online. Watch installation videos, even if you don’t intend to install the equipment yourself.

So if I’m such a fan of tankless systems, why did I finally decide against one?

First, money. By time I bought the unit and the supplies for venting the house, even with a friend doing the work, my cost was still going to be approximately $2000.

Second, maintenance. After talking to plumbers, one manufacturer, and reading discussions online, I realized that, if these units break down, the owner must troubleshoot and repair the unit with the aid of a voice on the phone. Most plumbers don’t carry the parts. (In one online discussion, a plumber said even he had to work with the manufacturer help line.) If parts are required, they must come from the manufacturer, a wait of several days if this happens over a holiday weekend–or any weekend. (And when else do water heaters break down?) That’s several days without hot water, assuming the part is the right one when it arrives.

Third, I could get no consensus on the heaters from plumbers, the guys who are installing them. Some frankly tried to put me off of them. I got different advice on cleaning, water softeners, repairs, installation, gas lines and reliability from every single person I talked to–even when two or more people worked for the same company.

Finally, in the end I felt that, while I truly believe we will come to the tankless water heater as the best solution in the future, for me for now, the whole house system was going to be an expensive choice with dubious backup.

However, for those building a new home, with the chance to plumb the house correctly for tankless, especially if there is a DIYer who is good with mechanical things, a tankless system might be worth its weight in hot water. They are well worth looking at and considering. It is something I will definitely reconsider when my current–new–water heater has run its course.

When I went to Japan in the early 1980s, I expected to love many things: the simplicity of the architecture and the art, the gardens, the calligraphy, the pottery, the flower arranging. But it came as a shock to me when I became a passionate sumo fan.

I’m not a sports enthusiast. I dreaded PE at school. I couldn’t catch, throw, run or hit. I went to high school football games to be with friends and because I liked our marching band, not because I understood or enjoyed the game.

The day my friend turned on the sumo tournament, I stayed to watch, determined to experience as much as I could of Japanese culture. Within a few minutes, I was hooked. I waited impatiently for the broadcasts of each of the six annual two-week tournaments and rushed home every day to catch the last hour or so. I learned the wrestlers’ names. I had favorites. I groaned when they lost. My Japanese friend thought my addiction was hilarious.

When you stop laughing (everyone does), you may gasp, “Why?” What is so fascinating about two men, naked except for a loincloth and usually weighing 200 to 300 pounds (occasionally way more), grappling together in a small ring?

Simplicity, for one. The first man who is forced out of the ring, or who touches the ground with anything but the soles of his feet, loses. No “downs,” no foul balls, no changing goal loyalties, no time out. This is a sport I can understand.

Second, brevity. The actual physical engagement may take only seconds. Long contests may last several minutes. During that time, amazing upsets can happen. Then it’s done. Move on.

Third, the ritual. The ritual run-up to the point where the wrestlers engage is much longer than the actual fight. This is one of the things I love the most about sumo, and many non-Japanese hate. What fascinates me is the way the wrestlers use this time to settle themselves, draw in their energy. They hurl salt into the ring (a symbol of purification), step in, move to the center, squat and confront each other for a moment, rise and return to their corners. They repeat this a number of times. There is no religious, historical, philosophical parallel in football, baseball, or basketball (the huddle doesn’t come close). The nearest thing I can think of is the quiet preparation and measuring of the green that some golfers make.

Fourth, the psychological game. After the salt is thrown into the ring, the wrestlers squat and face off and stare at each other, almost literally nose to nose. You can practically hear them thinking to each other: Dude! Give it up now. You won’t win this one. They are trying to psych each other out, and probably psych themselves up. They are seriously taking the measure of their opponent. Think about it. No uniforms, no weapons. Just two mostly naked guys sizing each other up. In front of an audience of millions. Talk about the need for self-confidence.

One thing that is intriguing about this ritual confrontation is that it takes place within a set amount of time. Eventually the ref will call time and the wrestlers engage. But the rules say that if the wrestlers mutually agree, they can engage before the time period is up. I saw this happen twice. Somehow, telepathically, the two wrestlers signal each other that it is time. No words spoken. No consultation. No hand signals. They’re just ready to engage. They both know it. And they do it. How cool is that?

Lastly, sumo has a certain dignity about it. No histrionics, no arm pumping, no bad boy/girl tantrums. No mouth. One wrestler falls or is moved out of the ring. The winner often extends a hand to help the loser stand. They retire to their corners. They bow to each other. They leave the arena with quiet dignity as if thousands of fans weren’t even there. Now that’s classy.

Since coming home, I’ve only seen sumo on television once. But as broadcast by ESPN, all the ritual has been cut away. Only the momentary action is shown. No wonder few non-Japanese care for sumo. They don’t know the whole story.

So don’t laugh at the sumo wrestler bobble-head dolls on the dashboard of my car. Bow respectfully to the passionate sumo addict. I have large friends.

Non-traditional practice garb

My sports ineptitude is legend. The phrase “can’t hit the broad side of a barn” was coined to describe my throwing prowess. So when my dad brought home a couple bows and set up a hay bale-backed target in the backyard, we all expected that I would wipe out half the squirrel population by accident. All of us were surprised (stunned, shocked, amazed) to discover that archery was something I could actually do. No neighborhood pets or small children were harmed as I practiced. It appeared that all I had needed for my latent athleticism to emerge was a sport that involved weapons.

I had almost forgotten archery, however, when I went to Japan. Then I saw a photo of a young woman practicing kyudo, Japanese archery, and I had to try it. To be honest, my infatuation with kyudo at the beginning had a great deal to do with the sheer beauty of the Japanese long bow: no pulleys and gizmos that make a compound bow so ugly. But I have to say it was also the clothes: a long, graceful pleated skirt—the hakama; the pristine white wrap shirt—the dogi; and the way-cool leather glove. A friend helped me find a practice hall and a teacher willing to take me on and I was ready to go.

Once a week I took the bus to the far side of town to a temple precinct near the Kyoto Craft Center. It was the high point of my week, a ritual that even now, more than 20 years later, brings me pleasure to remember. My first night, however, was almost my last.

I’d received instructions on how to raise the bow, sight the target, concentrate, lean a bit, and draw. All this was done in pantomime. My instructor, Oda-sensei, did not speak English and my Japanese had not even reached rudimentary stage. He finally indicated that I was to release the bow string—less the arrow. I let go.

My eyes snapped wide open and my mouth dropped. I only just stopped myself from screeching. Amazon archers were said to amputate their left breasts before learning to use the bow. Now I knew why. It was that or have the bowstring amputate it for them.

Oda-sensei saw the look of panic on my face and asked, “Nani?” (What is it?)

Now not only was I in pain in an embarrassing location, I was going to have to explain the situation in my almost non-existent Japanese to a virtual—male–stranger.

Pain won over pride.

“Itai,” I said, the Japanese equivalent of “Whoa, baby, did that hurt!”

“Doko?” (Where?) he asked. I’d reached the end of my appropriate vocabulary. I pointed.

“Ah!” he said with raised eyebrows. “Chotto mattei.” He ran off and came back with a muneate, a breast guard. Apparently I was not the only woman archer who had faced breast amputation. I was back in business.

The muneate Oda-sensei supplied was not perfect. I am much taller, more broad-shouldered, and more generously built than many Japanese women. So though the vinyl muneate did the job, it was, so to speak, a bit of a stretch to arrange it to cover the ground. And being vinyl, on cold evenings (and winter evenings in an open-sided dojo in Kyoto are very cold), the muneate could be a bit resistant to wear until it warmed up. (I learned not to roll it up, or bend it in half when I stored it in the locker.) And so I coped.

Until, that is, I came back to the US for Christmas to visit my family. Being a DIYer, I brought the muneate with me and enlisted the help of my parents. A visit to the leather supply store, a few experimental patterns, and some carefully placed darts, and I soon had a custom-fitted, white leather muneate. Good old American ingenuity meets Japanese practicality. And it looked very classy, to boot.

Traditional practice garb. Love the clothes!

When I returned to the dojo (practice hall), no one noticed, at least overtly. I did catch a couple of sidelong glances cast at my new piece of equipment. I didn’t care. I had everything covered. Finally, after many months, one woman carefully asked where I got my muneate. When I told her I’d made it, she nodded, but the look she gave me said, I don’t believe it.

I practiced kyudo for more than a year, one of only four non-Japanese at the dojo to do so. The others were two Swiss men and a French woman. I only ran into the French woman once. Her English and my French were on a par so we talked in Japanese, our common language, to the amusement of the Japanese archers.

I finally took the test for shodan, the first level in the kyudo ranking system, and passed—wearing my muneate. When I left Japan, I returned the borrowed hakama and the glove. I still have my dogi, my tabi, and my muneate, although I have no place to wear them. I was never able to find a kyudo dojo close to where I lived. For a long time, every Friday night, I was homesick for my bus ride across town.

Shodan!

Now my kyudo equipment lives in a cedar chest with winter sweaters and old toys. Every time I open the chest, I take out the muneate, and I can’t help smiling at the memory of my evenings in the dojo and the only sport I ever practiced.

It started when I was in junior high. President John F. Kennedy was determined to get us into shape. So we were condemned to physical education classes every day. Even if it wasn’t every day, it seemed like it because I spent the time I wasn’t in PE class dreading it. On top of that, every year we were confronted with Physical Fitness tests: softball throw, the broad jump, the 50-yard dash and other indignities I’ve blocked out.

I envied the girls who were good at sports. They made it look fun. And easy. But I was one of those who, when it came time to choose teams, was always left on the sidelines until the last minute. And with good reason. I couldn’t catch. I was once hit directly in the nose with a basketball that somehow slipped through my hands like an eel as I reached for it. I couldn’t throw. My thrown softballs tended to go pretty much straight up to land almost at my feet. (The only thing I can say in my favor is that I never was hit by one of my own softballs coming down.) I couldn’t hit. That didn’t mean I couldn’t be hit. The backswing of a baseball bat once caught me across the forehead. And we were only doing T-ball practice. I fell down when I ran. Somehow my upper body always ran faster than my feet and I’d go head over heels. Fortunately, I bounced well.

Despite all the obvious drawbacks to PE, namely personal injury, I might have come to enjoy it and even to achieve skill enough to be chosen next to the last when teams were drawn, if it hadn’t been for timing. PE classes are taught throughout the day. So why was I always assigned a class that met first thing in the morning? Should anyone, especially the more inept of us, be required to run around and move in a coordinated manner at 8 a.m.?

It seemed grossly unfair to have spent the night in curlers, and an hour or more getting dressed to compete with the other girls, only to have PE first thing. In a drafty locker room, I changed into an unbecoming outfit (always the worse for wear as the week went on), made a fool of myself for 45 minutes, got sweaty, showered, then struggled into stockings and garter belt (later pantyhose—not an improvement) in about a minute and a half, and rushed off to English or History or something. The girls who were good at sports managed to do all this gracefully and look good the rest of the day. I spent the rest of the day looking like an oil slick victim. So much for competing.

Ironically, water I could do.

The worst was my senior year when we moved to California from Ohio. Being a land of swimming pools, California had a requirement that everyone take swimming in school. Ironically, the one athletic thing I could do was swim. I wasn’t Olympic material, but I could swim. I’d even won a ribbon at camp for the back stroke. (I’d almost drowned myself doing it, but I did win.) We’d had a pool when my brother and I were younger, and although we had both learned to swim in our cousins’ pool, our parents conscientiously made sure we got professional classes.

None of this made any difference to my high school counselor. I had to take swimming. At 8 a.m. During a cold, foggy, California winter. In an unheated pool. I had hated PE before. I began to loathe it. For the first six months of my senior year, in a new school where I knew no one, I went to classes looking like I’d suffered a personal typhoon.

The experience scarred me for life.

To this day, I associate sports of any kind with damp, bedraggled hair, twisted stockings, and hypothermia. I think that if it hadn’t been for PE, I might actually have become an athlete, maybe a swimmer. At the very least, I might be able to throw a ball.

Mother’s Day was beautiful here in Oregon. The kind of day where my mom and I would have headed out for brunch, then headed for the coast, hit the iris gardens, or wandered through a nursery. But my mom is gone, so I had brunch with a friend instead.

Standing in the buffet line, I happened to see a woman at a table in the grip of helpless laughter. She was shaking all over and was holding her hand over her mouth as if her shout of laughter would rock the restaurant. I found myself smiling just to see her. And I remembered my mom, her laughter, her joy in laughing, and her joy in making others laugh.

Both my parents loved to laugh. Dad was great with stories and jokes. He knew a million of ‘em. But mom was a clown. She loved being silly. I don’t think I ever saw her embarrassed. One Halloween night, when I was in high school, we decided—she decided—to go trick-or-treating to our neighbors. We put on my dad’s big coats and boots, and pulled stockings over our heads. Looking back, we probably looked very sinister. We thought we looked so dopey, and we had such a hard time walking in dad’s boots, that we were in stitches before we were out the front door. We literally leaned on each other as we stumbled down the street to our good friends, Vivian and Al. We staggered up to their porch, and rang the bell. Mom struck a devil-may-care pose leaning, one hand on hip, against one half of the double doors. This just made us laugh harder, until neither of us could breathe.

Trouble was, when Al opened the door, he opened the half mom was leaning on. She immediately fell over the sill and lay sprawled on their hallway floor. That absolutely did us in. Al had no clue what was going on until I managed to gasp something out and he recognized my voice. It took us both to get mom off the floor, she was still laughing so hard.

Then there was the time we decided to make strawberry jam. We had three recipes. They said to cook and stir for 10 minutes, 15 minutes, and 30 minutes, until it thickened. Well, we cooked and stirred, and cooked and stirred, and nothing thickened. We finally figured we were doing something wrong, and turned off the heat. Almost immediately, the jam hardened until we couldn’t pull the spoon out. When my dad walked in, mom was leaning on one counter and I was leaning on the other, both in helpless gales of laughter, mom gasping, “I’m going to wet my pants.” My father took one look at us and said, “I don’t want to know,” and walked back out. And that sent us off again.

After Mom died, my brother John and I were sorting out things for the estate sale. Like anyone, my mom had things in her kitchen the purpose of which only she knew. At one point, John came to me with something in the palm of his hand. “What is this?” he asked. I stared at it. I hadn’t even the vaguest idea. Before I could say a thing, John said, “Gift with purchase?” I broke up. He broke up. And we could both hear Mom, still laughing with us.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. From both of us.

Cherry blossoms in Japan, 1983

It’s spring in the Northwest and the flowering plum and cherry trees are luminous against the gray-green of the firs. I never see the return of the cherry blossoms without getting homesick for Kyoto.

I had heard much of Japan’s cherry blossom time before I moved to Japan in the early 1980s, but I had lived in southern California too long to expect much show from spring. So I wasn’t disappointed, my first spring in Kyoto, when the cold wind and rain beat the blossoms to the ground almost as soon as they appeared.

The next spring was a long time in coming. It had been a brutal winter and it lingered late into April. Even the cherry blossoms remained tightly furled against the cold. But suddenly one day it was warm and dry and clear and the cherries were waiting. They exploded like pink fireworks. Overnight, every branch was loaded with blossoms and the air flickered with the drifting pink petals. The air stream from passing cars and buses whirled the petals piled in the street high into the air, like confetti from a long overdue celebration. Every tree, no matter how small, seemed to host its own party. The men were red-faced from sake, the women gossiped among the bento boxes, and the children, as giddy as their parents, ran amok.

Parties under the cherries

I strolled with a friend through an arcade of huge ancient cherries and was enchanted. The light coming through the dense canopy of petals was pink. Even the faint scent of the blossoms seemed pink. I reached for the petals as they drifted in the air and felt like a child reaching for dust motes. I was as giddy as anyone in the parties under the trees. And I hadn’t had any sake.

I finally understood the Japanese rapture over cherry blossoms. The coming of the blossoms meant we had survived Kyoto’s wet, raw, bitter cold. I’d flirted with pneumonia that winter, and been sicker than I’d ever remembered. The friend I lived with had been away on a business trip, so I had been alone through the worst of it, with only dark thoughts of the possibility of my death haunting me. I had recovered slowly. I’d finally been able to venture out in February when the flowering plums were blossoming under snow-capped temple tiles. But they had only hinted at spring. The cherry blossoms gave us a guarantee: Winter was over. Joy was in order.

Salem sakura

Every year when the cherry trees bloom here in the Northwest, I remember that spring in Japan, when I was glad to still be alive. I remember walking through fragrant pink air eating mochi, sweet rice cakes, wrapped in scented leaves from the sakura, the cherry trees. And in my heart, I reach again for the petals falling through the warm pink light.

Happy spring.

Our family had friends who collected. Not one thing in particular, but a little of lots of things in particular. Some of it was purchased with the thought of “investment” for retirement. Some of it (all the magazines and other etceteras) accumulated and was simply kept. Eventually, there was little living space in the house, as everything was packed floor to ceiling. Small trails let from sitting area to sleeping area. When they passed away, someone had a fearsome task to clear things out.

I’ve found that many people I talk to about our friends knows someone whose collecting has gotten just this out of hand, whether it’s family, friend, friend of a friend or neighbor. The topic makes some of us a bit queasy as we begin to wonder if perhaps our accumulation of “stuff” could get—or is getting–out of hand. The problem becomes worse when a parent or grandparent dies and we become the caretakers of things that we may not want or need, but for which we feel a sentimental or guilty obligation. A lot of this guilt is stored away in off-site storage units and is never seen again. We pay the rental fees, month after month, not wanting to deal with the problem. In fact, I recently read that off-site storage is a $20 billion a year business. There are a lot of us with “stuff.”

I experienced stuff excess when my mother died. Thank heavens she wasn’t a big collector of anything. (When someone asked her once what she collected, she said, “Penguins.” When the person wanted to know how many she had, she said, “One.” She had about 10 when she died—all of them gifts from family and friends.)  So we didn’t have the massive job that many adult children have: going through attics, basements, closets and storage units. But still, it was months of sorting, selling, donating and tossing.

Although I’m not a big collector either, since her death, I’ve felt awash in “stuff.” Multiples of this. Spares of that. Clothes that I can’t wear now but hope to wear again some day. And I keep thinking–if something happens to me, what kind of mess am I leaving for someone else to sort out?

So I’ve begun thinning out closets, shelves, garage, files. And I’ve been pretty aggressive about it. Every time I open a cupboard or drawer, I try to see the things inside with fresh eyes. Can I let go of something that I couldn’t release six months ago? If the answer is yes, it goes into the donation box immediately while the mood’s on me. I’ve found that, so far, I haven’t regretted anything that’s no longer in the closet.

And when I think about buying something, the question becomes: Do I really need it? Can I borrow it or rent it? Can I fix the one I have? If I do decide to buy it, what am I going to get rid of? When I do buy something, I’m trying to get rid of two of something.

It’s helping. I still have a long way to go, but I’m beginning to feel like I can breathe. When I open a cupboard, I can put something away without trying to wedge it in with a shoehorn. (Which is fortunate, since the shoehorn has already gone.) I will soon be able to donate some of the plastic storage containers in which that miscellaneous “stuff” has been tucked away.

As an added bonus, almost everything that has moved out of my closet has gone to someone who a) wants it, and b) can use it.  And I feel better because, if something sudden should happen to me, the job I leave to someone else will be that much easier.

Twenty years ago, when I decided to freelance full-time, my father wrote me a long letter extolling the virtues of corporate job security, medical benefits, paid holidays and 401(k)s. Not an unusual reaction for a parent concerned his thirty-something offspring had lost her mind. But it was unusual for my father who was always a little too incorrigible for the lock-step of big business.

Different and daring were my father’s watchwords. He worked his way to the top of his profession as a mechanical engineer with no high school diploma. His brilliant mind and unique approach to problem-solving were his keys to success and upward mobility. When my Dad thought over a problem, you could see him mentally take flight, like a soaring hawk, scanning the landscape of his past experience and present knowledge. Eventually his eyes would refocus on you as he swooped back from the distance with just the right answer.

Although his methods were as unpredictable as they were unorthodox, “Jack” Thompson became known as the man who could solve the toughest engineering puzzle. Every few years a new company would lure him from the firm he was with to unravel another Gordian knot. Ever restless for new challenges, Dad was always ready to go–despite promises of job security, seniority and fat pensions from his old firm.

His freewheeling approach to his career began when he came out of the service in 1947 and his family moved to Colorado Springs. My grandfather was too ill to work. Since sixteen, my father had been, along with his younger sister, Jane, the family’s primary breadwinner. Before going into the navy, Dad had worked as a draftsman for a small engineering company in Detroit, Michigan. In Colorado Springs, though, there was no work for draftsmen. Dad washed windows.

One day on a scaffold outside an open office window, he heard two men inside discussing their need for a structural engineer. My father was not a structural engineer. He had only been on the drafting board for a year or so. But he knew what structural engineers were and what they did. Most importantly, he knew they made a lot more money than window washers.

I can almost see him as he stood there–tall, lean, broad-shouldered, fair and freckled, his red hair already receding from his forehead–listening outside that window, arm frozen in mid-swipe, thinking at lightning speed, weighing options, calculating risks. He certainly had that intense look on his face as his mind soared and searched among the things he had learned on the drafting board, in the navy, and from his father, a builder. He made his decision. He stepped from the scaffold through the open window. “I’m your man,” he announced to the startled men. Although they were skeptical, to say the least, by looking older than his years, having a quick tongue, a little knowledge, and a lot of chutzpah, Dad got the job.

During the day, Dad made drawings. A natural designer and an excellent draftsman, he had picked up enough about structural engineering at the engineering company to make the drawings plausible to the casual observer. But he wasn’t a fool. He knew what was at stake. Under the table he kept a notepad and wrote down everything he didn’t know and needed to. Every night, he found the answers at the library. In the morning, he erased his errors, corrected his drawing, and kept going. Any moment he expected to be found out and fired. He never was.

How much of this story is true, I don’t know. But its truth doesn’t really matter. What matters is what I learned from the story he told: That it’s necessary to know your limits, but just as necessary to push them; that knowing where to look for the answers is sometimes as valuable as having them; that self-confidence inspires confidence in others; and that you can’t fail if you don’t quit.

As a freelancer, I’ve needed those lessons. Practically every job challenges me to push my limits. Although I’ve taken on many projects that have been beyond the knowledge and skills I had at the time, I knew I could get the skills and find the answers I needed to accomplish them. Knowing that, I could act confidently and get the job even if, privately, I had qualms and doubts. And despite the low times that come to every freelancer, I’ve never given up, because my father never taught me how to fail. That inability to believe in failure was my father’s greatest gift to me, besides his love.

Dad approached life as an engineering problem to be analyzed and solved. Nothing was impossible. If something doesn’t work, Dad said, you can always change your mind, change your direction, change your decision. You haven’t failed just because you decide to do something different.

That’s why it seemed strange that, when I decided to step through my own open window, my father would try to dissuade me. But at sixty, he was not as big on risk-taking as he had been at twenty. Not all the risks he’d taken had worked out well. And as the result of thirty-odd years of job-hopping, he had no pension, no 401(k). As his friends retired and played golf, Dad continued working.

It was out of love, then, to save me from his mistakes, that my father encouraged me to stick with a “real” job with sick pay and a pension plan. But it was his example, not his advice, I chose to follow.

The legend my father created with his story of becoming an accidental structural engineer has fueled my belief in myself and driven my life and my career. Even now, when work is slow, when clients don’t pay on time, when I wonder where the mortgage will come from (let alone my retirement), I still see my dad stepping through that open window with only his courage, his intelligence, and his determination to survive. And it gives me the strength to step through mine.