Snow days
The memories that snow brings
Nashville
We’ve had an entire week of snow here in Nashville. Our driveway and nearby roads were completely snowed in, so all of us in the neighborhood have spent our days in complete lockdown. Weirdly enough, the pandemic (and last year’s tornado) prepared us well for this. Thankfully, we never lost power or clean water—basic necessities that residents in Texas have been lacking for days on end. Still, we know from experience to keep our phones fully charged, and our pantries are full of propane for the portable stove, batteries for the weather radio, and canned foods to last several days, just in case. 2020 has turned us into survivalists. The neighbors exchanged phone numbers last year, and we check in on each other, especially in times like these. One of them gave out fresh eggs from his chickens yesterday. We leave containers of baked goods on each other’s doors, because we all bake too much now. We wave from the windows and watch the children and dogs leave footprints in the snow. Today, the sun is turning the snow into slush. Everyone is hopeful that the cars can get out safely by the end of the week.
Gunma
My mother grew up in Gunma, a rural prefecture slightly north of Tokyo. It’s an area that’s renowned for its hot springs and ski resorts. Needless to say, there was always heavy snow in the winter months. I remember visiting my grandparents once or twice a year throughout my childhood, and the winter was always my favorite time to visit them. They lived in a large, traditional house, where the bath could easily fit three adults, and the kitchen always smelled of grandma’s nukazuke (fermented rice, used to pickle all sorts of vegetables). The living room was centered around a rectangular kotatsu, a table with an electric heater attached underneath, and blankets spreading from the edge of the table to the floor so that your feet always stayed warm. At the center of the table, there would always be a bowl of mandarins, a tissue box, and individually wrapped candies scattered here and there. The whole family would spend days sitting together at the kotatsu, watching comedy specials on TV, eating snacks, and napping, only to wake up sweating from staying in the kotatsu too long. My father and grandfather would play Japanese chess on the side, while my mother and grandmother prepared meals. When I got bored, I would walk over to their neighbor’s house, and the grandma there would let me stay in their kotatsu where I would do the same thing: watch TV, eat their mandarins and candy, and listen to all the gossip the grandma had to offer.
My grandfather was incredibly proud of his possessions. Like everyone in his generation, he was a young adult during WWII, and he witnessed his country transition over and over again, from prosperity to nothing, to the Occupation, back to a different kind of prosperity. He was a seaman in the navy during the war. One day, he passed a written test that let him transfer to the engineering department. On the first day of his new job, a bomb took out an entire fleet containing all of his friends. After the war, he studied architecture and eventually founded a firm that built tunnels and bridges around Gunma. He also served as a councilman at one point. He learned to play golf so well that he earned multiple amateur championships. He was gregarious and intimidating. When he visited us in California, he went out by himself one day, and with his limited English, managed to befriend some golfers at a club that let him play with them. “I just kept saying Nice shot!” he said. “They even bought me a fancy orange juice.”
Because of his architecture background, my grandfather had perfected his house to the last inch. There was a bonsai in the front yard, and a rain chain that clang right next to it. He had a machine that pressed his pants, even on days when he never saw anyone outside the house. He went to the car dealership to get the “nicest car,” returning with one that had curtains for the back seats, unaware that he ended up looking more like a chauffeur than a rich person. But he loved it, and took everyone out for a drive at every opportunity. He had snow tires put in. We went out, even in the thickest snowstorms, just to humor him.
New York
I met Jin when I was a freshman at Barnard. He was a junior at Columbia’s engineering school. We had met through a mutual friend, who was also Japanese. Even though I had chosen to study in New York to get as far away as I could from Tokyo, I found comfort in spending time with fellow Japanese expats who could relate to the culture shocks, as well as the longing for home. We had always hung out as a group.
One day, I got a text from Jin saying he was going on a walk to Central Park. Would I like to come along? It was freezing. It had snowed recently. I was about to eat dinner at the dining hall. I showed the text to my friend. “Is it just the two of you?” she asked, with a smirk.
We met at the college gates and began walking down from 116th street to 110th towards the edge of the park. We talked the entire way, though I have no memory now of what we talked about. It was dark, but the street lamps were on. At one point, we approached a lake that looked mostly frozen. It wasn’t the reservoir, but one of the smaller ones. There was a sign that said “Warning: Thin Ice.”
I distinctly remember the look on Jin’s face when he said, “Let’s go,” nodding towards the ice. It’s the same look that I see now on our almost-3-year-old son, every time he says something silly. There’s a seriousness in the eyes, but a little glimmer that gives away the joke. I, ever the pessimist with the ability to conjure up worst case scenarios wherever I look, was adamantly against it. But alright, I remember thinking. It looks frozen enough.
My memories are probably all wrong at this point. Jin might tell you a different story. But the way I remember it now, we both stood at the edge of the frozen lake, shrieking before running back to the concrete path. We walked back to campus and said goodbye. Nothing happened romantically, not then, and not for another several months. But looking back, I’m pretty sure this was our first date.
I’m reading a short piece for an event called Mirror House, hosted by Nashvillian writer and filmmaker Hilary Bell. The other lineups include poet Kashif Graham, and musical performances by rappers Namir Blade and SeddyMac. It should be a blast, and I hope to see some of you there!
Wednesday, March 10, 7-9 pm (US Central Time) on Zoom. Free, with the option to donate, with the money going to Gideon’s Army or another local organization. Register at this link.
Some upcoming writing classes:
Intermediate Creative Nonfiction at The Porch (Online), 8 weeks on Thursdays, April 8 - May 27, 7-9 pm CT. This class is designed for people who have already taken Foundations of Creative Nonfiction, or a similar nonfiction workshop. We’ll continue to do Focused Free-Writes, study from various texts, and workshop each other’s writing, but with the goal of revising and polishing a single essay (or memoir chapter).
Writing About Home, a one-day class through Hub City Writers Project (Online). Saturday, April 17, 11 am - 1 pm CT. A good way to dip your toes into creative nonfiction for just one day, especially if you’ve been thinking (and re-thinking) what “home” means in a post-pandemic world.
I’ll be doing a couple free youth workshops in late March, one that’s geared for Grades 9-12 on Writing Big Ideas, and another for Grades 3-5 on Alien Encounters, where we’ll have fun reading and writing some sci-fi together. I’ll include the links in my next newsletter, or you can stay tuned via The Porch website or newsletter (scroll to the bottom for link).