Keito-ten

I remember seeing the movie, Barbershop, about a young man’s struggle to keep his family’s barbershop business alive. The barbershop was more than a place to keep one’s fade lookin’ fly; it was a place to socialize, to find support, to be oneself in a society that does not always encourage a “self” that is out of the mainstream. While watching, I couldn’t help but think to myself: they could make a Japanese American version of this movie called Yarn Shop. My mother’s yarn shop has been in the same place, serving a core clientele for over thirty years. Styles, trends, fads, have come and gone, with my mother learning and teaching them along the way. And, over the years, without even knowing it, the shop had become more than a place to buy yarn; it had become a place that had a heart. No, that’s not the right word; it’s more like kokoro -- heart, but with soul.
On almost any given day, you can walk in around lunchtime and find that somebody has brought some bento to share, with the appetizing aroma filling the store. As they knit, crochet, or do bunka shishu embroidery around a long table, The Ladies laugh and talk story. The Ladies are predominantly Nisei, now, although it was not always that way. Thirty years is a long time. Most of the Issei customers have passed. I remember one obaachan, Ota-san, who would come to the store every Saturday. One of her children would drop her off, and she would stay for the better part of the day. She had smiling eyes, horn-rimmed glasses and was quick to laugh. Her fingers were chubby, and boy, could they make some beautiful things. She had been in the camps. Many of the ladies had learned how to crochet and knit at camp. (Not arts and crafts camps; WWII internment camps.) And, when people talked about where they were from and where they had been, there was always a swell in the conversation: "Ahhh, you're from the Central Valley? Dono camp ni haittetano? Which camp were you in?" The attention and interest would turn to the person answering this magic question, and there was inevitably somebody in the store who was somehow related to somebody who was married to somebody who knew that person’s father, mother, brother, or uncle. It was a mini-reunion, where connections in history held people together in a fine web of crochet thread.
Near the end of the day, somebody would come to pick up Mrs. Ota. Sometimes, she would go out back and wait, and my mother would have me take a chair out to the back door so that she would not have to stand while she waited for her ride. She always smiled, accepting my offer of a seat with an apologetic bow of her head for my trouble. I don't know when Mrs. Ota passed away; it was sometime after I had left for college, grad school and life. I imagine she is still crocheting or knitting somewhere, sitting on a cloud, with her smiling eyes.