Just after Obon, I remember walking home from work in the simmering heat, listening to the sweet-voiced buskers singing by the station, with clusters of young girls listening raptly to their love songs. Passing Kita Park, I heard the insects immolating themselves in the lights of the soccer field with sharp cracks and pops. The yellow moon hung heavily in the east. A small dun-coloured lizard that almost matched the grayish concrete clung to the wall of my stairwell, zipping away at my approach. Exercise was a heinous experience in this heat, and I gave up jogging and aikido for the month of August. My eyes stung from the sweat trickling down my forehead, and sweat dripped from my chin. The gilded bones and ribs of the northern mountains stood out against their shadows in the late afternoon sunlight. I delighted in the air conditioner at work, and dreaded stepping out into the sauna-like evening when the day was done and I said my farewell “Otsukare-sama desu”. I woke up one Sunday morning to the joyous shrieks of the child in her little wading pool next door, and wished I had a wading pool too. I would have filled it with ice water. Bicycling to work at noon, I watched the workmen at the Messe dozing in the shade in their green jumpsuits, with towel-like bandanas tied around their heads. I didn’t envy them their work. I watched young boys fishing and horsing around by the canals on their way home from school. The herons also fished on the concrete banks of canals, or still as stone in the shallow water. The summer is their season. But their boldness didn’t always go unpunished. I watched a hawk chasing a heron away from its nest, like a fighter jet pursuing a passenger plane.

But the seasons pass so fast, and summer seemed to melt away shortly after Obon ended, as the weather turned cooler and wet, with rain showers almost every day for the last two weeks. I smelled the sharp, acrid smell of the first rain on the dry asphalt as I wheeled my way to work. Passing over Kunibiki Bridge, I paused near the bright, fragrant flowers tied to the railing. Almost three weeks ago, there was a terrible accident on the bridge, and three people were killed. Seiji passed the scene shortly after, and he said one of the cars was sliced in half. Looking at the spot, it was hard to believe. But bouquets have been placed on the railings and frequently replenished ever since. But not only bouquets; this is the difference between the scene of a tragedy in Canada and Japan. Here, there are also offerings: beer, cold tea, Coke, juice boxes, cigarettes, fruit and small snacks, all opened and easily accessible to the thirsty spirits of the dead. For the same purpose, as far as I can tell, Buddhist graveyards always have basins and pools of water and sometimes offerings of sake. Hence the burgeoning mosquito population.

One of my students, Kyoko, was telling me more about the customs of Obon. At Obon, she said, people burn a special kind of wood called akasara (spelling?) when welcoming their ancestors home and seeing them off again. (I think I saw the priests at Gessho-ji burning it this year). They also make horses out of cucumber (curi) and eggplant (nasu), because it is believed that the ancestors return home riding horses. I thought instantly of Hallowe’en jack-o-lanterns. I think Obon and the older traditions of Hallowe’en are similar. I wonder if jack-o-lanterns originally served the same purpose as the fanciful lions flanking shrine entrances – scowling, ferocious-looking guardians intended to scare away evil spirits. Kyoko told me that only families who have a butsudan (home altar, or ‘home grave’, as she put it) need to prepare for the spirits of their family to come home. But many modern homes don’t have a butsudan. I asked then, where do the ancestors go if you don’t have a butsudan? She said they go to the next people in your family – your parents, or grandparents - who have a butsudan. I imagined some houses crowded with ghosts. But if traditions like the home altar continue to be dropped, someday there will be families with no butsudan in any generation. Where will the ancestors go then, I wonder? I asked her about the superstition that you shouldn’t swim during Obon. She knew, and said that the spirits of the people who drowned invite, or take, living swimmers. She said it is believed that the spirits of the dead raise their hands above the water to beckon the living. I imagined a sea of white, clammy hands rising from the green water, and felt a little shiver down my back. Small wonder Japanese horror is the scariest in the world…

Shibucho came to the office this week. Shibucho is her title (Branch Manager), but everyone just calls her that. She comes about once every two months, usually to conduct job interviews. I almost never receive word that she is coming; I just show up, and she is installed in the office with her sleek little laptop. She doesn’t speak a lot of English, but we exchange pleasantries in Japanese, then I go about my day. I think I like her. She is in her fifties, tall, with a long worn face and eyes that crackle with intelligence and humour. She has a deep smoky voice that is very pleasant to listen to. Taeko told me once Shibucho loves karaoke. During the day, the interviewees sit nervously in the lobby in their new suits, waiting to be called. Sometimes I chat with them, to try to put them at ease.

Miyuki has been manager of AEON Matsue since July 1, and her first two months have been a great success. I notice small changes - the fresh flowers in the vase on the counter, for example. She and Machiko are really nice people, and the students really enjoy talking to them. The atmosphere is more relaxed, too. After getting chewed out last year for speaking one short phrase of Japanese in front of students, I’ve been more careful (that is, I only spoke Japanese in front of students if no AEON staff were nearby). But Miyuki encouraged me to speak Japanese with one curious high school student; he was really impressed. Having to pretend I didn’t speak a word of Japanese was one thing I hated about my work. I still won’t speak Japanese if Mayumi-sensei can hear, but it’s nice to know I’m not expected to lie. These two months have been a big success business-wise, too, so honsho (head office) is happy. AEON Matsue has been the self-study campaign champion for over two years now, and we all got certificates for our efforts. I’m thinking by the time I leave, I could paper a small room with all of my certificates. I got a pen with my name on it, too, when I was Teacher of the Month!

And, hey, I’m going to a wedding in November! My friends Pat and Ayako are getting married! I found out last week. Pat is from Tucson, Arizona. He often comes to the open mics at Kaya and jams on his base with the guys. He’s tall and lean, with a crazy head of frizzy brown hair. He has a deep, drawling voice, and he’s really relaxed and easy-going. Ayako is small, especially compared to him, with a dimply smile and a direct way of talking. She’s from nearby Yonago. They bubble over with happiness and fun when they’re together. So, during Obon Pat and Ayako went to Okinawa. They’ve been travelling everywhere – all over Japan, China, Korea, you name it. In Okinawa, Pat said, he hadn’t planned to propose, but the time was right, and all of his senses were screaming at him to do it. When she said yes, his battle began. Her parents were not keen to give their blessing to the union. They don’t speak any English, and Pat speaks only a little Japanese, so he poured his heart into a three-page letter, and our friend Jun translated it for him. It took a week, and some veiled threats that they were getting married with or without a blessing, before her parents finally said yes too. Pat and Ayako plan to move to Arizona after the wedding, so I understand her parents’ dismay. Daughters are cherished here. I asked Sachie, one of my private lesson students, what gender most Japanese parents wish for when they have a baby. I expected her answer to be “a boy.” But she said parents want girls, because daughters are closer to their families and more obedient. Hmm. Anyway… Pat wants to return to the U.S. to be a music teacher; his major was in music, and he misses it. Pat and Ayako work for Amity, a children’s English school. At Amity, they work their teachers hard. The turnover rate is really high. The manager there is already laying a guilt trip on Ayako for leaving, and Pat’s pretty upset about it.

In other wedding news, Cleve proposed to his girlfriend Nami! I stopped by ARGO on a quiet night, and he and I were alone when he told me. I was so surprised, I kind of left it for a while and chatted about some other things, then went back and said, “Hang on, did you say you guys were getting MARRIED?” He was kind of shy and offhand about it. He said he did the whole getting down on one knee thing, and showed Nami the stone (he had the stone, but not the ring – there’s probably a story there, but I didn’t ask), and asked her to marry him. Well, she exploded into rapid, surprised Japanese for a while, and although Cleve speaks Japanese, he didn’t understand a word. So when she finally stopped, he asked cautiously, “Does that mean yes?” “Oh. Yes.” They haven’t made any plans yet, except that next March, when the school year ends, Nami is quitting her teaching job. Whether they will stay in Japan or move back to Cleve’s native Chicago is up in the air.

Meanwhile, Cleve is busy closing ARGO – with parties all September, exhausting! – and opening the new English school with Jennifer. Jennifer had her horrible experience with GEOS, a language school similar to AEON, but GEOS Matsue closed at the end of August, so Jennifer is a free woman, and very relieved. In a great coup, she has brought almost all of her students to the ARGO school, so things are off to a great start. She scooped most of the GEOS school supplies, too: chairs, whiteboards, tables, desks, office supplies – even the big light-up sign that used to be outside. She’s so proud of the school. Yumi’s going to teach there for a while, too, until she goes to Australia in November. Yumi’s leaving, and Martin is probably handing in his notice at Peppy Kids and leaving in December, so ‘the gang’ will be sundered. I’m not sure what I’ll do then.

Yumi has decided to see less of Martin, at least until her feelings are more balanced. It affects all of us, to some extent, since we have done so much together. I hope we can spend our last few months together. Meanwhile, during a jog on the rice fields, I listened to Holly cole and she seemed to express my feelings about the two of them, and about the season’s change:

“The summer days are gone too soon
You shoot the moon
And miss completely
And now you're left to face the gloom
The empty room that once smelled sweetly
Of all the flowers you plucked if only
You knew the reason
Why you had to each be lonely
Was it just the season?

”Now the fall is here again
You can't begin to give in
It's all over

”When the snows come rolling through
You're rolling too with some new lover
Will you think of times you've told me
That you knew the reason
Why we had to each be lonely
It was just the season.”

It seems like such a short time since I wrote about the planting of the rice, yet now the harvest season has begun. The rice plants sway and bow in the sun, their heavy heads weighed down with red-gold grains of rice. The smell of the fields is fresh and sweet, an almost fermented smell as familiar as warm sake, and tatami mats, and cooking rice. At the far ends of the fields, white irrigation pipes cluster, their bent heads turned to each other like kerchiefed old women sharing gossip. Small white herons walk the fields, standing out brightly again the green fields. Some fields have already been razed, and the shorn stumps of stalks jut up in neat rows, smelling raw and clean, like fresh straw.

Rice is unexpectedly expensive in Japan, since almost all rice in Japan is from small family farms. A lot of foods are expensive. Some fruits are packaged like prize jewels, each cupped individually in its foam cushion. How about a five dollar apple, anyone? Or a peach for six-fifty? Bananas are still cheap, though. Bread is expensive, too, and seems to be regarded as a sweet; it is often sold stuffed with custard or chocolate. I go to SATY to buy my groceries, but SATY is in the final stages of its big renovation. Walking on the ground floor is like reliving a nightmare about hospitals, with white plastic walls creating a very simple maze. Sometimes SATY doesn’t seem to have food. Last time I went, there was no meat or fish to be had. Since these days I cook a lot of fish, it was annoying. Today, they lacked frozen foods and bread. People wander through the confusion like lost children, hesitant and anxious.

My mandolin is fixed, courtesy of Seiji’s guitar teacher Kenja. Kenja is a heavyset, shaggy-haired bassist. He is extremely talented at playing the bass, and visiting musicians from all over Japan invite him to play when they perform in Matsue. He recognized my mandolin as a Japanese mandolin, made by Suzuki, a company more famous for making violins. They don’t make mandolins anymore, so my baby’s irreplaceable. I remember three chords (G,C, and D – the basics) from my time learning with the very patient Gordon Stobbe, plus my scales, but that’s about it. Since mandolin teachers are very scarce here – Kenja knows one player, in faraway Sakaiminato – I think YouTube will be my instructor.

Tonight, after a short time at Kaya talking with Seiji, Martin and Michelle (a new ALT), I rode quickly over Shin-Ohashi, or “New Bridge”. It was the second bridge to span the Ohashi River, hence the name, but there have been two more bridges since then, so it has long since ceased to be the new bridge. It is the direct route home from Isemiya, the area of the city where Kaya and other restaurants and bars are located, but it is the bridge I like least. It is the narrowest and it is hard to cross easily on a bicycle, so I usually walk across. However, this route home has its rewards. On the north side of the bridge, I paused to watch the suzuki looping and spinning together in a tight figure eight, engaged in an eternal courtship, their silver bellies flashing as they leaped and turned. I was delighted to see them back again, and my stillness as I watched drew a couple of people on their way home to stop and watch. A chatty woman was amazed; she said, “Hajimete mitta!” which means, “This is my first time seeing them!” I understood most of what she said, as we stood and watched the fish change their patterns in the dark water.