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"Bakatare" Means ’Nice Man’
Grandpa Miyoshi was a man of many talents. He was a truck farmer (which means he had a small vegetable farm from which he hauled vegetables in his truck, not that he grew trucks). He also did genetic engineering by cross pollinating different varieties of tomatoes to make his own. He was also a talented athlete. I remember playing stickball one time and Grandpa just took one swing and hit the ball over everybody’s heads and into the chicken coop. It was an out of the park home run! We kids also found a kendo trophy from long ago. Apparently, Grandpa had gotten second in a tournament in Japan before he came to America. He must have been really good because he was about 18 when he immigrated. Besides all of these qualities that I remember, Grandpa Miyoshi had two that stand out above the rest. He was a great fisherman and he was a funny man.
We used to go to Wyoming to fish in the summertime. Sometimes we would go for a couple days; sometimes we would go for about a week. On those trips, we used to have lots of fun doing lots of different activities. Sometimes we would float down the river. When we floated the river, we did not have float tubes or waders as they have now. We had a pair of Grandpa’s short rubber boots that we would let fill up with water and pull us downstream 20 or 30 yards (we learned to do that in the ditches on the farm). We also threw rocks into the water or skipped them in calmer water. When we were too close to where Grandpa was fishing, he would yell, “You bakatare kids!” We knew we should go somewhere else when he yelled that. It was the same thing he yelled at us when we swam in the ditch at the farm or did other dumb stuff. (We knew that “bakatare” was Japanese for “dummy” or “stupidhead” but we just replied in our heads, “Grandpa is upset at something we are doing so we ought to quit but we won’t just yet.”) We tried to catch horned toads (which we always called and still call, “horny toads”) and sometimes we even fished.
I remember having our own private fishing derby once. It was a given that Grandpa was the best fisherman because of the amount and size of the fish he always caught. But just this one time, I caught a bigger fish! I almost even lost it. As I was bringing it up to shore, it flopped back into the water. I had just taken out the hook so I jumped after the fish to get it. If the fish had not been worn out, I would have just had another fish story but instead, I had a huge trout. And it was lots bigger than the eight-incher that Grandpa had caught – both longer and fatter. I was so happy that I had beaten Grandpa and he was equally upset that he had been beaten. At least it seemed that way.
Another fun thing that we got to do on the fishing trips actually came on the trip from Greeley, Colorado to our fishing spot in Wyoming. We got to ride on the top part of the camper above the truck cab. A couple times, Russell, Greg, and I got to go with Grandpa and Grandma. Just the five of us. A couple times we rode in the camper and I remember a couple times just going in the car for day trips.
On one of the camper trips when Russell, Greg, and I got to go with Grandpa and Grandma, we went with their next door neighbors and good friends, Willie and Jean. Willie and Jean were farmers too so they could go fishing when Grandpa and Grandma could. We used to see Willie and Jean a fair amount in the summer. Usually after or around nap time (right after lunch which they all called dinner) in the hot part of the day, Willie and Jean would come over and everybody would visit. Everybody always had a good time just visiting. That was one of the fun parts about the fishing trip too.
In the mornings of those fishing trips, Grandpa would always get up early to catch his fish. Then around noon, everybody would eat dinner and sit around and visit. We kids would fish whenever we got up and whenever we were not floating down the river, throwing rocks, or catching horny toads. In the evening after we had eaten the fish we all caught that day and after the sun had gone down, we all sat around in the camper enjoying each other’s company. Just visiting.
One night, Grandpa, Grandma, Willie, and Jean were all sitting around the table in the camper visiting and having a few drinks while Russell, Greg, and I were above the cab watching them. After a little whiskey and beer (I don’t think that Grandma ever had any that night or ever), the adults were a little rowdy. There was no singing or dancing but the conversation that night was hilarious to everybody.
I do not remember what they were talking about that night but sometime during the visiting, Grandpa called Willie a bakatare. It was all in good fun and Grandpa laughed when he said it (you can get away with saying just about anything when you smile). Willie asked what that meant and Grandpa said, “Bakatare means ‘nice man.’”
Willie looked at Grandpa’s smiling face and said, “No.” Then he looked to Grandma who had almost laughed and could hardly keep a straight face, “Hamako, what does bakatare mean?”
She went along with the gag but the laugh came out as she said, “It means ‘nice man.’”
Willie seemed to be satisfied So he said, “Well, Charles, you are a bakatare too.”
Grandpa laughed, slapped Willie on the back and said, “No. You bakatare.”
Willie thought that Grandpa was just being modest and deferential so he insisted, “You are bakatare too.”
Grandma was laughing so hard that she was crying and Jean was hooting with everybody else. Up in the bed above the cab, we knew what bakatare really meant so we were laughing too. Willie thought that Grandpa was pulling his leg about the meaning of the word but Grandpa kept insisting that bakatare meant ‘nice man’ so Willie kept insisting that Grandpa was a bakatare too.
Looking back, I think that Willie and Jean knew almost from the start that bakatare was not ‘nice man’ but Willie enjoyed the fun of calling Grandpa bakatare and being called bakatare by Grandpa. They had so much fun that it did not really matter what bakatare really meant. They called each other bakatare all night it seemed and everybody laughed until their guts hurt.
I have come to find out that in Japan, bakatare is not a very nice word. And I know that in this day and age, it is not acceptable to call people “dummy” or “stupidhead.” But because of that one night on that one fishing trip, I sometimes still think that bakatare really does mean ‘nice man.’ I am sure that it did for Willie and Grandpa.
© 2007 Michael T. Miyoshi
From Long Walks Home unpublished.
The Chimes
When the chimes outside our house ring, I remember the farm and the love that was always there when I was a kid. I remember sleeping in the camper, trips to the benjo, and swimming in the irrigation ditch. I remember getting yelled at by Grandpa and eating Grandma’s bread! I remember family. I can still feel the love of that big happy family.
It has been a while since Grandma died and the family sold the farm. I am sure that it was a difficult decision but one that had to be made. It makes me sad to think that I won’t sit at the dining room table with my Aunts and Uncles and cousins eating dinner and talking and laughing. We won’t get to eat Grandma’s good food or hear Grandpa sing. And we kids won’t get to join in the old penny-ante poker games that the grown-ups used to play. Life has moved on. The farm has been sold.
But the love that the farm represents lives on in the lives of my grandparents’ kids and their kids too. My grandparents were simple farmers who not only raised vegetables but a loving, caring family. They left the world no buildings bearing their names. Instead, they built a lasting monument of love — they built a family. The circle of love which started as my grandparents has blossomed to my generation and will continue into the next. Maybe the farm is gone from our family, but the love lives on.
I guess that I don’t need to feel sad when I hear the chimes. I can and will still remember the farm. But I will also remember my grandparents and the love that they gave to their family. I will remember the love they gave to me and I will continue to spread that love. Blow wind and ring those chimes. Those chimes of love.
© 2000 Michael T. Miyoshi
From Musings of a Mediocre Man published September 2000.
Heaven - What Will My House Be Like?
I had a dream the other night. I had died and I was standing at the pearly gates with Saint Peter. He looked up my name in the book of life and said that my reservation had been confirmed. He said that the Lord would take me to my eternal home. I thanked him and took a seat just inside the gate to await the Lord. I looked around and decided that heaven was not that different from earth.
The pearly gates were like the gates that I have seen in front of many communities. There was a street leading into the “development” that was lined with fine houses for as far as the eye could see. The “Main Street” had many side streets off of it that I assumed would have as many beautiful homes on them. As far as I could see in every direction were mansions the like I had never seen on the earth. I felt rather guilty that I would be living in one of these places since I had never really done much for God once I accepted His Son. I felt ashamed and wanted to hide but there was nowhere to go.
When I was feeling at my lowest, Jesus came to greet me. He took my hand and led me up the street. I was in awe at all of the homes that we saw along the way. I knew without asking that He had built each and every one of these places with His own hands. I knew what great love He put into every detail of every home. Jesus had said that He would prepare a place for us and He made a very special place for each and every person. Realizing this, I felt even more ashamed for my laziness on earth.
We turned down a side street with magnificent houses on either side. They could really only be described as mansions. I could not feel anything but awe as we walked down the lane my head turning from side to side admiring other people’s final resting places. And then the Master stopped. We stood in front of an almost vacant lot. There was a foundation for a home that would make many of the ones that I had seen along the way seem only great instead of awesome. But there was no house. There was only what could be described as a tool shed in front of that great foundation and piles and piles of rotten wood and broken masonry.
The Lord turned to me and said, “This is your home. I am sure that you will be happy here.” And then He turned as if to go.
I couldn’t manage to get any sound out of my mouth but the Lord must have felt my pleading eyes on his back because He turned around and explained, “I didn’t have time to finish the work. I had more important things to do than build your home. As you can see, I had plenty of materials to build it. I even had the tools in that shed over there but I had to use them for more important projects. Also, I figured that Peter or James could do the work but they had other things to do and besides, they are fishermen. I guess that I just believed that somebody else could build the house even though I was the one who designed it and had the ability to complete the job. By the time I had realized that the work was not completed and thought about doing something, the wood had rotted and the masonry had turned to rubble and you were already on your way here. So the work never got done. I hope you understand.”
When the Lord turned and walked away, I awoke sobbing. I realized that I was the one who had forgotten to do the work. I was the one who was letting others do what God had called me to do. I was the one who was shirking my responsibilities. The dream was a warning that the house I was designing for myself in heaven was different than the one Jesus wanted for me. I was designing a shack and He was designing a mansion. He had given me the raw materials to build my life on earth in a way that He would like but I was just letting them rot away with disuse. I was the one who was deciding to live in a shack in heaven. I was the one who was not really living on earth. And I was the one who could decide to change or not. I had the choice. It was up to me.
© 2000 Michael T. Miyoshi
From Musings of a Mediocre Man published September 2000.
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