A TRIP THROUGH THE VILLAGE

You drive down past the junior high school sports ground at the foot of the only cleared mountain slope faceted with rice paddies all the way up to where the mountain forests begin, roll on down past the public rice-polishing machine and the kitchen gardens left and right of the village houses - must be nice to grow onions, no monkeys down here - past the new log house across from the village hairdresser, then past the village doctor's office on the corner of the street that if you turn north leads to the workshop of the late Shimizu Uichi, a famed local potter, but today as you continue east the road slopes downward beneath the imminent annual pink rainbow of blossoming cherry trees that arch softly overhead, on past the metal workshop to the intersection, take a right onto the national lakeside highway, head past the two ancient boat-launching shrines, roll on past the marinas and the sailing school, then the nice old shrine by the small piney beach, with the kitchen gardens all along the narrow road back there-- you have to slow to 40 when you get past that shrine anyway, as it gets more residential, with the houses close to the road in the old-fashioned way, elderly folks walking with canes, kids bicycling along the narrow walk, and there's the famous old Arare senbei shop, then the gas heater shop and the sake store; the rest is mostly houses of the old kind that give the charm to these rural villages (our new neighbor way across the paddy slope says she moved here because she loved driving through that village, wanted to live near there).

It's still a narrow road, about as wide and curvy as it was a thousand years and more ago, when it was the only central way from one sea to the other via Kyoto, a way crowded with traffic of commercial and noble retinues, along which road folks of all classes also came out from Heian (later, Kyoto) for the summer coolness of Lake and mountainsides combined, went to famous old beach places like Ogoto and Omimaiko, where they could party, watch fireworks and stay cool in the hot times, which folks still do, come from the sunbowl of Kyoto over the mountain pass - what a journey, though, in those old woodwheeled oxcart days, jarring over the stony roads with the noble ladies' luxurious sleeves hanging out beneath the screens; slow travel, and dangerous; they had to have a retinue of guards...

They'd stop and visit the old and far-apart temples along the way, the ride would take them days and nights and days and nights over a distance we traverse in half an hour or so by train or car - though I'm driving a shorter distance this morning - you gotta wonder as you move along this way in the brightness, looking out the window and visualizing these things, what it must have been like to live that slowly, with no alternative in sight, but here I am already, just on time for my dentist appointment...

FIVE MINUTES AS A TURTLE GOD

Caring about everything except monkeys can be a pain. But even excluding monkeys, 'everything' is a large category. It naturally includes turtles, who carry their houses wherever they go, so they don't care about much other than sandbagging until the next meal comes around. And under the Big Law of caring about almost everything, it goes without saying that sooner or later a turtle will show up.

In keeping with the Fine Print, I was driving up the mountain road when I came around a curve and there in the middle of the way was a big old turtle, named Shelby as it happens - must be some international history there - enjoying a sandbagging interlude on his way to a session of heavy-duty sandbagging somewhere on the mythic other side of the road. He was just sitting there like a -- sandbag. Midroad was a good clear spot, warm, in the sun, lotta space around, kick back,, chill,,, hang loose,,,, why not,,,,, what’s the hurry......

His naturally selfish location forced me to pull over to the side of the road to get around him, which I was doing when I thought: if he just stays there, some car or even worse truck is gonna come zipping along in meteoric human time, so I'd better get him to move. I pulled up and stopped with my window right above him, rolled down the glass and gave him a few considered words about how he should hightail his molasses before somebody heedless comes racing up the road in a big turtle squasher.

Shelby turned his head to look up at me with a reptilian onyx eye, in a "What the..." kind of look. I'll bet it was the first time in his long and carefully considered life that he'd ever seen a talking human head sticking out of a big red turtleshell way up in the sky, so far above him that it must be a Turtle God. He seemed to take my words to heart, for in turtle haste he began to maybe lift possibly one leg with the distant intent of perhaps one day arriving at the wayfaraway side of the road for some world-quality sandbagging. Since at that speed he would likely never arrive alive, in a louder, more Godly voice I told him to hotfoot it and he did, in his coldfooted fashion.

He reached the roadside in what must be a Turtle Olympic record of just a few minutes that will likely stand forever. While he panted his way across with my encouragement, I stayed in place so that any car coming up behind me would have to wait, but none came. None came because some real Turtle God up there cares about caring about almost everything, though you never know this until you join the club. To say nothing of the chance to become part of Turtle Mythology... They've been around way longer than we have, so we're talking Big Time here.