Year of Grace, Day 103. Okuyama-san and clothing

Thoreau’s thoughts on clothing expressed in Walden Pond took me on a trip back in time and place to 1980 Yuzawa, in Japan’s Snow Country. Every morning at 5 a.m., my friend Okuyama-san, then perhaps in his mid- to late 50s, rose and walked to tend his vegetable patch at the edge of the town, a good 20 or so minutes away. On his back he customarily carried a backpack weighing around 20 kilos of rocks (the weight was important for maintaining bone health, he said) and by his side would walk Pochi, his dog, at his advanced age gone blind in one eye.

Throughout the seasons, except for snow-bound winter, this was Okuyama-san’s daily routine. Two hours of caring for his assorted plants – he had chrysanthemums and many other flowers too, not just asparagus and diverse vegetables – digging and watering and weeding, and then he would shoulder his pack and whatever he had gleaned for the morning and head back into town with Pochi, just in time for breakfast with wife Miyako. He wore the same outfit each time – a long-sleeved shirt with big, generous pockets made of khaki and matching trousers. Here and there the shirt and trousers had been neatly patched. On his head he wore a knitted beret that Miyako had made – to hide his uncombed hair, he said. Usually black, but at times it was burgundy. To my eyes this outfit made him look rather dashing and stylish – not so much Japanese, as European. Rather like an eccentric English country gentleman farmer.

The shirt and trousers, he said, were from his trove of army uniforms left behind by the American troops stationed in Akita just after World War II. Then in his teens, he was fascinated by the strange language the soldiers spoke and their easy-going ways. But what struck him most at the time was the quality of the cloth that the uniforms were made of. And it would be a pity, he said, to throw away such hard-wearing, good quality clothing, just because they had a slight tear here or there. And so Miyako repeatedly and meticulously stitched and patched the working uniform that saw action not just in his vegetable garden but whenever and wherever there were heavy tasks to be undertaken.

I was struck at how refreshing Okuyama-san’s perspective on this American military-issue clothing was. To many another townmate, anything to do with the American Occupation and any vestige of their presence — especially their uniforms — were best obliterated. In any case, as Okuyama-san himself said, immediately after the war any kind of good, serviceable clothing had been hard to come by. And they have stood the test of time so well, he said. Look how well they have lasted, several decades on.

However, that was not how some town mates regarded Okuyama-san’s cherished uniform. A group of women had been asked to help prepare refreshments for the children’s Sports Day, and I was one of them. There I was, splitting the ends of tiny sausages to fashion them into octopus legs and other such cute tidbits meant to entice picky young appetites. And as is the norm in such small town gatherings, gossip flew thick and fast. I didn’t know many of the personages mentioned, but my ears perked up at a familiar name. One of the women, among the youngest, derided my friend’s choice of work clothes. How could he, she said, in his position and obviously quite well-to-do, go about town wearing such patched clothes?

And it occurred to me then, as it does even now decades later, that indeed it does take an unusual mind, like my friend Okuyama-san’s, to see beauty — for quality is beauty – where the average person sees only patches.

And as you can see from the photos below, Okuyama-san dressed immaculately and always with impeccable taste.

Apologies for the fuzziness of this photo.


Okuyama-san and his signature beret