Willow Wife

This story is similar to those you will find in my book Old Japanese Tales. If you like this you can find more by purchasing my book by clicking here for the paperback from Lulu or here for the Kindle ebook.

Willow Wife

In a certain Japanese village there grew a great willow tree. For many generations the people loved it. In the summer it was a resting place, a place where the villagers might meet after the work and heat of the day were over, and there talk till the moonlight streamed through the branches. In winter it was like a great half-opened umbrella covered with sparkling snow.

Heitaro, a young farmer, lived quite near this tree, and he, more than any of his companions, had entered into a deep communion with the imposing willow. It was almost the first object he saw upon waking, and upon his return from work in the fields he looked out eagerly for its familiar form. Sometimes he would burn a joss-stick beneath its branches and kneel down and pray.

One day an old man of the village came to Heitaro and explained to him that the villagers were anxious to build a bridge over the river, and that they particularly wanted the great willow tree for timber.

"For timber?" said Heitaro, hiding his face in his hands. "My dear willow tree for a bridge, one to bear the incessant patter of feet? Never, never, old man!"

When Heitaro had somewhat recovered himself, he offered to give the old man some of his own trees, if he and the villagers would accept them for timber and spare the ancient willow.

The old man readily accepted this offer, and the willow tree continued to stand in the village as it had stood for so many years.

One night while Heitaro sat under the great willow he suddenly saw a beautiful woman standing close beside him, looking at him shyly, as if wanting to speak.

"Honorable lady," said he, "I will go home. I see you wait for some one. Heitaro is not without kindness towards those who love."

"He will not come now," said the woman, smiling.

"Can he have grown cold? Oh, how terrible when a mock love comes and leaves ashes and a grave behind!"

"He has not grown cold, dear lord."

"And yet he does not come! What strange mystery is this?"

"He has come! His heart has been always here, here under this willow tree." And with a radiant smile the woman disappeared.

Night after night they met under the old willow tree. The woman's shyness had entirely disappeared, and it seemed that she could not hear too much from Heitaro's lips in praise of the willow under which they sat.

One night he said to her, "Little one, will you be my wife -- you who seem to come from the very tree itself?"

"Yes," said the woman. "Call me Higo ("Willow") and ask no questions, for love of me. I have no father or mother, and someday you will understand."

Heitaro and Higo were married, and in due time they were blessed with a child, whom they called Chiyodo. Simple was their dwelling, but those it contained were the happiest people in all Japan.

While this happy couple went about their respective duties great news came to the village. The villagers were full of it, and it was not long before it reached Heitaro's ears. The ex-Emperor Toba wished to build a temple to Kwannon [goddess of mercy] in Kyoto, and those in authority sent far and wide for timber. The villagers said that they must contribute towards building the sacred edifice by presenting their great willow tree. All Heitaro's argument and persuasion and promise of other trees were ineffectual, for neither he nor anyone else could give as large and handsome a tree as the great willow.

Heitaro went home and told his wife. "Oh, wife," said he, "they are about to cut down our dear willow tree! Before I married you I could not have borne it. Having you, little one, perhaps I shall get over it someday."

That night Heitaro was aroused by hearing a piercing cry.

"Heitaro," said his wife, "it grows dark! The room is full of whispers. Are you there, Heitaro? Hark! They are cutting down the willow tree. Look how its shadow trembles in the moonlight. I am the soul of the willow tree. The villagers are killing me. Oh, how they cut and tear me to pieces! Dear Heitaro, the pain, the pain! Put your hands here, and here. Surely the blows cannot fall now!"

"My Willow Wife! My Willow Wife!" sobbed Heitaro.

"Husband," said Higo, very faintly, pressing her wet, agonized face close to his, "I am going now. Such a love as ours cannot be cut down, however fierce the blows. I shall wait for you and Chiyodo -- My hair is falling through the sky! My body is breaking!"

There was a loud crash outside. The great willow tree lay green and disheveled upon the ground.

Heitaro looked round for her he loved more than anything else in the world. Willow Wife had gone!

• Source: F. Hadland Davis, Myths and Legends of Japan (London: G. G. Harrap and Company, 1913), pp. 177-180.
  
• Davis's source: R. Gordon Smith, Ancient Tales and Folk-Lore of Japan (London: A. and C. Black, 1908), pp. 12-18.
  

Canaries in the Classroom

I watched Bella as she sat quietly at her desk, looking at nothing I could perceive. She had done nothing in my class during the first quarter. I knew it was not just my History class, she was like this in all of her classes. It was almost time for report cards and I was discouraged that nothing I said, nothing I did could penetrate the armor she put on each morning before she came to school. I thought I would try another tact, “Bella, what are your parents going to say when you come home with all Fs on your report card?”

She looked at me in a way that spoke to her lack of emotion and replied, “They can make me go to school, but they can’t make me learn anything, can they?”

In my 31 years of teaching I encountered many Bellas, children traumatized by going to school. I did not love going to school, the same with many of my friends. However, I was not traumatized by the experience in the way that Bella was. Why do children choose to follow a gang leader rather than a teacher. What are schools doing that make them such a terrible place for some of the children in America?  

Perhaps a clue lies with another problem I had as a teacher. I taught U.S. and World History to 15-18 year old high school students. Part of my class included testing. Those terrible evaluations that teachers use to prove how little their students learned over a period of time.  I always included some type of question that required a written response. I was always amazed at the number of students who did not even attempt to answer reply to those questions. It was usually the same student who did not participate in class discussions nor particularly care what grade they received. It was the same symptom Bella displayed.

It is important to understand that not all students shut down like Bella, but I believe most students feel this way, even many who thrive at school.  Students like Bella are sending a powerful message to all of us. Something is not right in our education system and they are the first to let us know.  

So, what do we do, we label them, put them in special programs, take away privileges, demean, tutor, and provide all manner of treatment that seems to cause the disease of hating school to spread. It is a virus that has gone viral in our schools. Today we are holding the entire education system hostage until these students perform at 100%.

It seems that society has turned against it’s young, demanding that they be ready to solve the problems we have caused. Somehow our method of making this happens seems convoluted.  We continue to do more of the same, pouring knowledge into the brains of our poor canaries expecting them to sing upon demand, and sing better than all the other canaries. We place them under great stress by expecting everyone to perform in the same way.

In one respect Bella was wrong. She didn’t realize she couldn’t not learn.  

RIP

The heart is where compassion lives.

Without a heart others do not matter.

The heart of a country defines it’s people.

Who will we be after they finish

Ripping out our core?

The Love Fest

Un is very talented,

Intelligent too

What does it matter 

A murder or Two?

Adulation a must or

prison with others

not pc enough

to maintain

a happy God.

What choice do 

His people have?

That is why they

Love him just like

Our president.

Blooper Check

"That ain’t shit',"

Said the young soldier

At the theatre,

In the rear, waiting

For the flic to start.

I was behind him,

watched him arrive.

He and his partner

Had mud on their boots,

No twinkle in their eyes,

They met two others

Who just like them 

appeared to be taking 

a break from  the war.

The four of them

Were talking about

The week before

When a platoon

Just like theirs 

Massacred people

At the vill of My lai 

“Me and my man,"

He explained nodding 

At the soldier next to him,

"We got a new blooper

That had to be checked out.

There in a paddy

Not too far away

Was a Mamasan

And her kid with their

Buffalo planting some

Rice in the mud of a 

Field not far from their vill

We dropped in a grenade

pointed it at them,

Pulled the trigger and

Blew them away, the

Blooper checked out

just fine." He finished

With a grin

What the fuck I thought

To myself, But just then

the music began to play.

As we all stood for the 

national hymn and then

We all calmly watched

An adventure unfold

Before our very own eyes.

They are coming to kill us all

There has been a revolution,

The land of the free and

Home of the brave has 

Been taken hostage

By innumerate ignoramuses

Fearful of Ebola from Africa 

And terrorists from the Middle East

And children from Central America

They do not seem to fear 

Death from a gun

Bought closer to home
Home grown terrorists

Or the sickening rate of 

Carnage on the highway

Because others are coming

To take us away ha ha!

Chasing rainbows

Angel's rainbow is a rabbit 

Rapidly running away

She has never caught one

But, she always chases them

My rainbow is a contented life

I am always trying to find it

Although it is elusive

I am always looking.

The purpose of our lives 

Seem to be the same,

Chasing the dream

Is the important thing.

Once our goal is reached

I wonder what we'll do

will we sit on the rainbow

or find another dream or two?

Looking for the Kahn Kahlili

“ Hello my friends, Welcome to Cairo!” The smiling man said as he peered at us from the doorway of the store where we were window shopping.  

“Hello my friend.”  I replied looking up from the display of souvenirs for tourists in the window of his shop.  

“Come in, come in, there are many things for you to look at many fine souvenirs to take back when you go home.”  He said in accented English.  He stepped onto the sidewalk and gestured for us to enter his store.

“No thanks, We are just looking, we actually live here in Cairo, really in Heliopolis, and we are out on a walk, we’re on our way to the Khan al Khalili.” 

“I have many fine items in my shop, just like you will find in the Khan.  Come in, you needn’t buy anything, we are all friends.  Are you an American?”  he smiled at me under his thick mustache. 

“Yes, I’m an American, so is my wife.  We have been living here for about a year already, we are teachers at the American School of  Cairo, and we love walking around your city.”  I remarked trying to move away from the store and get back to our walk.

The store owner stepped further away from the doorway, he was dressed neatly in a starched white shirt, creased black trousers and shiny leather shoes.   

“Where are you from in America, I have a cousin in Detroit.  Do you know Detroit?”

“No, we’re from Albuquerque, New Mexico and have never been to Detroit.” I replied.

“You are from Mexico, not America?  The store keeper looked puzzled.

“No, no, we are Americans, you know, we live close to Texas.” I said as I took LaWanda’s arm ready to step out on the sidewalk and take off.

“Ah, Texas, please enter my shop and let us share a cup of tea, we will talk, you don’t have to buy anything just look.”  His enticement punctuated by a bow, a gesture to enter his store and a slight movement to block our passage.

“Alright, just a cup of tea and we will talk.” I said worn down by his persistence.  

We entered the shop passing between shelves loaded with souvenirs as he led us to a small sitting area with a coffee table, two chairs, and a small couch that all looked as if they had been plucked from Louis XIVth’s palace.  We sat down and a young woman wearing a black head scarf and a full length black dress covering her body from neck to foot entered, her exposed face expressionless.  She set our tea on the table in front of the couch and withdrew. 

“Many Americans have been here, many famous people.  Let me show you.”  He opened a book on the coffee table and there were pictures of famous people, I even recognized a few.  “Let me show you a some nice things.”  He quickly stood up scurried to the surrounding shelves and picked up a small ceramic statue. 

“Here is something many Americans like, it is the Sphinx, better than you will find at the Kahn al Kahlili.” he said pushing the statue toward LaWanda.  

“No thank you!” she told him refusing to hold the Sphinx, “We are not interested in buying AnyThing!  We want to walk around and find the Khan Khalili!”  

It was as if she had told him to go to hell.  He straightened up, his eyes narrowed and holding the statue, he gesticulated emphasizing his displeasure while he spoke.   “Why you don’t buy anything, it is good merchandise, help Egypt, help me, buy from my shop!”   

He said something in Arabic and the woman reappeared, picked up our unfinished tea and retreated to the rear of the store.  The owner turned his back on us and went back to the doorway ready to cast his line again leaving us sitting all alone on the uncomfortable French furniture.

“Well,” I said, “that sure pissed him off.”  We smiled at each other, got up, walked past him in his doorway, and continued walking toward the Khan Kahlili.

All In The Family

“Your Grandpa was a bitter man, I don’t think anyone really loved him except my little step-grandma.” Mary told her son. “She was the one who raised him, even though he hated her for doing it.”  

Mary lived in  a clean house, clean body and clean mind.  Her father’s behavior did not match the values she developed.  She wasn't fashionable in the way she dressed but she was conscious of her public perception, she never mixed stripes and polka dots nor orange and red. Her convictions were steadfast and irrevocable.  God help the person who wanted to change her.  She was not  so much beautiful, but pleasing to look at.  She took charge of her life and all who entered were a part of the realm she ruled. 

“Why was he bitter Mom,” her son asked.

“Because I wasn’t a boy,” she replied.  “he really wanted a son and he treated me like I was one.  I had to do farm work like I was a hired hand.  After being in the one-roomed school house all day, I had to come home to slop the pigs, feed the chickens, and work in the garden.”

It didn’t sound like an easy life, her son thought, but be couldn’t understand his Mom talking about Grandpa like that.  They had lived in California when he was in grade school and the family would visit Springfield every summer to visit his Mom and Dad’s parents and siblings.  It was the big vacation usually lasting three weeks, driving cross country from California to Springfield in their Plymouth station wagon watching the trip in arrears from the backward facing rear seat.  Fighting with his brother and sister, testing their Mom and Dad’s patience with their bickering and complaining.  These were  the types of summers beautiful memories are built upon.  

“That doesn’t sound so bad Mom, working on a farm!”  Her son told her.

She just laughed as she took stock of her son. He really doesn’t know how tough life can be, she thought.  We have sheltered him in this military life moving from place to place.  Here we are in Japan, whoever thought we would live in such an exotic place.

She looked at her son again and remembered why she was telling him about his Grandpa.  He was turning out a lot like that bitter, dirty son of  bitch who treated her mother and sweet little step-Grandma like servants.  Her too, she pondered.  She knew she had a lot her Dad in her, but that had helped her to survive his brutality.  Now her son was beginning to follow the path that had destroyed her young life.  She knew he was out drinking, maybe even whoring, God knows it’s easy enough in Japan to do both, how many of her friend’s husbands were doing the same thing.  Maybe if he knows the truth about his Grandpa it will stop his fall.

“It was hard, really hard.” she told him.  “All of us living in that little green house surrounded by acres and acres of corn, no plumbing, no toilets, miles from town, and there was always work to do.  My daddy made me crank up that old Model A Ford every time he drove it because he was too lazy to do it himself.  Even after that cold morning when the crank kicked back and broke my arm, after it healed he would call me outside to get the car started while he sat behind the wheel.  I guess it was better than having my Mom do it.” 

Her son wasn't listening, he was remembering Springfield and the memorable summers.  He recalled  how content it felt on those hot summer nights, sitting on the back porch of the green shingled two story farmhouse while the corn crept right up to the narrow lawn defining civilization on the farm. Sometimes there were bursts of fireworks in the dark sky above the corn from the state fair and he would lazily watch each eruption brighten the sky while listening to Grandpa and Uncle Pearl talk about WWI, politics, the state of the world in general and he would occasionally wonder why Uncle Pearl wanted to chew something he kept spitting into the cup next to his chair.  Meanwhile Grandma and Aunt Minnie would gossip about their siblings and cousins as their worn out bodies rocked gently in metal lawn chairs as every bug on the farm was making a pilgrimage to the dim porch light.  Sometimes he and his brother would walk out into the lawn and catch a jar full of lightening bugs whose brightly lit tails never ceased to amaze and delight two boys from the city.  

“I know you love your Grandpa, but you need to know what he was like.   When I was a little girl he did terrible things.”

“What kind of things?”

“Well, one time,  when I was about 9 or 10 years old, I was working in the garden,” she began, “and I stepped on top of some carrots crushing their tops.  My Daddy began yelling and cursing at me, then as I was squatting over the damaged carrots, he kicked me right in the butt with his steel toed boots and sent me flying.  I landed on my face in the dirt.”  

He wasn’t surprised by that revelation.  His Mom had used many different instruments on his butt to make a point, true she didn’t curse but she did yell at him.  When she did that she scared him, but he was used to it.  He wondered about his Grandpa remembering the photo album and other memories residing on that little farm that he explored during summer vacations. 

Mary continued speaking to him, relating; how her Dad beat her Mom and how her step-Grandma had to be protected from the man she had nurtured, how he would come home demanding a hot meal late at night and make Grandma fix him one, how she had left home after she found a place for her Grandma,  how her Daddy had a fight with his Dad in the streets of Springfield, how Mom had called the police and had her Dad arrested.  

As the story went on and on, her son’s mind began to wander, maybe in rejection of the story he was being told, maybe because his mind always wandered.

Probably because he was young and the future was always brighter than the past.  He was thinking about the party planned for that night and wondered if his mother would give him permission to go out tonight.  Some of the guys from the football team had asked to go with them to a place they knew about to drink some beer.  

“Your Grandpa was an unhappy man, one night Daddy came home late and brought a woman home with him.  He was raging drunk, cursing and yelling at everyone until he fell down and passed out on the floor.  The woman with him just as drunk, but she just sat at the kitchen table laughing at all of us.  My Mom drove the woman home and never said a word about her.   In the morning, he made me get up and fix him breakfast.”  Mary stopped speaking and looked at her son.  She was sure she was getting through to him because he looked so serious. 

The target of her story looked up and said, “Wow, that sounds terrible.”  

“Is it alright if I go out with some of the guys from the team tonight?” he asked. 

Wearily she looked at him wondering how this story would affect him as she answered, “I suppose so, your Dad and I are going to meet the our friends for dinner at the Officer’s club tonight.  Just be home by midnight.”

“Okay, Mom, thanks.”   He said as he headed to his room.

“And Ricky, think about what I just told you.” she said.

“Sure, I will.”  came the reply as he closed the door to his room.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The juke box in the bar at the Officer’s Club was filled with the music of Frank Sinatra and the men who oversee the operations at the base.  Carl and Mary were sitting a small table in the dim, smoke filled room.  They were drinking their first martinis of the evening as they waited for their friends to arrive, when they would move into the dining room.  Mary touched Carl’s hand to get his attention and they moved their heads closer together as she said, ‘I told our son about my Dad today.”

“Uh huh” Carl replied.

“ He needed to hear the story, he’s old enough to understand and learn about the bad things that happen with alcohol.”

“Okay,” Carl replied as he watched his boss at the bar tossing down a shot of whiskey then drowning that with a long drink from his glass of beer.  He was wondering how to tell Mary that Dewey hadn’t recommended him for promotion.  She would be pissed.  

“Carl, are you paying attention to me?” Mary demanded.

“Uh, yes, you told Ricky about your Dad.” He said as he sipped his Martini and looked around the bar.

“You know he is drinking and smoking and I worry he’ll up like his Grandpa.”  She said as she looked at her husband.  “Someone has to talk to him about his behavior, and I thought this might grab his attention better than confronting him.”

“What did he say?” he said as he lit the cigarette Mary had put into her mouth.

She sucked in the smoke and expelled it while she replied, ‘Not much, I am not sure how well it went, you know he hasn’t been paying much attention to us lately.”

______________________________________________________________________________ 

Their son was standing in a circle of boys with their orange letterman’s jackets on, sucking the brew out of a can of Sapporo.  They had been drinking steadily for the past thirty minutes.  They were at an outdoor shrine that had no meaning for any of the American boys except that it was a quiet place where they were out of sight and not likely be disturbed while they drank to drunkedness.  They were swaying and singing the lyrics to one of the new Beatle songs that was popular on Armed Forces Radio.  Everyone was talking to everyone else and no one was hearing anything anyone said.  

He was as drunk as he had ever been.  His thoughts turned to his parents and he worried that he might not get home before them.  If they caught him in this state they would ground him for weeks.  He remembered his talk with Mom that afternoon and a toast seemed appropriate.  “All right guys,” He yelled to get everyone’s attention.  “All right” he said again as they all turned to listen to him.  “I want to propose a toast to my drunken Grandpa.”  He raised his beer to his mouth and chugged the remaining liquid into his body. 

“Here, Here,”  The football team yelled in tribute,  “To Ricky’s drunken Grandpa!”  They chugged their beers, threw the cans on the ground, and broke out of the circle to go get another one.

Who Dat?

All the people in the world

like to say the name

it is a name of power

it is a name of fame.

What is that name?

No one cares

It never stays the same.

Royalty and thugs

have been the name

they are the same,

one indistinguishable

from the other

Celebreties and criminals

follow the meme

we just let em

rule us because

of their fame.

It doesn’t matter

who it is

we like to say

their name.

Humans like

to follow the name

Of fame and power

All it costs is a brain.

Teach your Children Well

With these new American values your child can become President of the U.S.A.

• Tell them to never take responsibility for their actions, to focus only on themselves.
• Remember to objectify women, for there is certainly a reason for two genders and It is okay to commit adultery
• It goes without saying that all lives matter not, especially if you have color.
• There is no such thing as losing (only wining matters no matter the means).  
• Seldom read, but do watch tv constantly,
• Ignore the facts and and make their own reality that is the only one that is not fake.
• Do not use information to make decisions for, what they believe is more important than results that disagree.
• Bully others, call them names, show no respect to those who oppose you,
• It is ok to lie and always be ready to change your opinion to please important people and groups,
• And remember looking good is always better than doing good. 

Collateral Damage

https://steemit.com/steemiteducation/@anneke/4uogis-are-you-a-litter-bug-do-not-pollute-the-earth-life-skills-gr-3

What is the price we are willing to pay

to live in the now we’ve created?

to cover our mother with garbage

and filth. to extract her innards to

insure the future will be barren?

With shock and awe we force 

the world to bend to our will

so we can rape our mother

and along the way create

those who hate us?

Our values are skewed

toward the liberty to use

others and the earth

as we please in pursuit

of glory and gold at the

expense of all the others.

That is the price we pay!

The danger of isolation

The hardest thing

In this world is

to concur with 

diverse beings

Because

evolution makes

us wary of those

different from us

In one way or another

So

we Isolate our souls from

the beauty of each other.

Eternity for Dad

It was his birthday

yesterday, only he

couldn’t celebrate

from his grave.

Yet he is still in

people’s thoughts

and computers,

he hasn’t been erased.

I am uplifted

to know he may

may be buried

deep inside servers.

Someday he will

appear on someone’s

screen  they will say,

 "I thought he died."

As long as he is 

in memory he

can be retrieved

isn't that eternal life?

Boom, Boom, Boomers

They came home in a rush

with the pent up lust 

of soldiers 

returning from war.

Soon they created  

a lump of humanity 

that disturbed the tranquility 

of modern American life.

So the boys were packed up 

to relieve the bulge,

a late abortion, so to speak,

and sent to a senseless war.

When they came home

If they came home

those who stayed home

called them all sorts of names.

The left and right

disrupted their lives,

again and again and

sent their children

to more senseless wars.

This time no one called them names.

Progress of sorts.

What is real and what is not?

The pine filtered sun

Ascends from the east

And places her beam

On a speckled woodpecker

Pecking at a tree

My senses perceive

The marvels  around

While my brain decides

What wonderful things 

It expects to receive

Quantum theory provides

An explanation of sorts,

It is all subatomic particles 

Spinning and whirling

Influenced by magnetic flux.

It doesn’t really matter

What it is or how

It came to be

For beauty doesn’t care

About it's beginning

Right Now

You could be the Fonz:

you may live in the

past say, 1955 

when the whole 

wide world was

just hunky dory.

Maybe you're Flash Gordon:

you could live in a future 

much like the past-

where evil will be 

vanquished real fast.

Or You could find yourself:

and have both 

these times

all the time

just say now

it will be just right.

Everyone Wants to be Rich

The impoverished Of America 

Are not just those lacking money

But include those with

Poverty of the imagination.

In a war on the new other

House after house 

And building after building

Has been abandoned

Rural areas are armed and

Inner cities are battle zones.

      beauty is lost

We have A disaster like no other

For In our quest for gold

We have obliterated distinctions

The land of individual liberty

Has destroyed our differences,

To create identical things

With replaceable workers 

Who go home 

On our pocked streets

Bloated with cars 

That all look the same 

Staying within the lines looking  for

Gas stations, restaurants and motels 

Made out of ticky tacky

Tasting just the same.

Screens with 

With hundreds of channels, 

are unable to show us 

Anything to help 

Build Our dreams, 

Instead they manipulate us

To be a part of the collective,

Slaves to the whims of those who

Control all so that they can live like kings

And we their modern vassals. 

Determination meets desperation at the border

Mothers travel a thousand miles

With children on their backs

Trying to find Uncle Sam

Whose promises they believe

To a land where there is peace

And their children will be safe

Where they can work hard to 

Better themselves like all 

Americans can.

But, when they arrive it’s 

Not Uncle Sam, but 

Donald Trump

Who Greets them  

It seems he is

Unfamiliar with  

Lady Liberty so

He grabs their Kids

Locks everyone up

Quacking stay away, stay away

Another broken promise from the Americans