Hello friends.
As you may have seen, I recently found some forty year old postcards from Japan, which you can read all about here: [
https://kitspost.home.blog/2019/05/02/the-japanese-posties/]. Interestingly, all seven are addressed to the same family, spanning a time of two years. The writer, a man named Minokichi often asked after his daughter, Aya. This is completely new to me, as my collection has only thus far included clean postcards. But haven’t you ever wondered what would happen if you found the people in these cards? Well I took it upon myself to find out!
For those who may be wondering why it has taken so long for me to post this, my editor expressed interest in the project and asked that I publish it in the Whiterock Wrap first. We agreed that after it’s printing and delivery, I could pop the article on my blog. So here it is! Without further ado, please enjoy!
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In the age of social media, the need for letters and postcards seems to have diminished. Stamps are expensive, and why wait to tell your loved ones about your holiday when you can do it in a flash online? It seems that paper has become a kind of relic. Yet despite this, I find postcards to be irresistibly charming and impossible not to buy. For months I have collected all sorts; from prints to paintings to photographs, even special origami cards. But until a few weeks ago, I had never thought to buy used ones.
Whilst perusing my local charity shop for a new pair of shoes, I was struck by a flash of pink atop a bookcase. It was a stack of postcards, the first of which showed a dense avenue of cherry trees. After each card came an even more fascinating image of a land I had never been to. There were bright fireworks, wide-eyed deer, glowing lanterns and towering temples. These were from Japan, I guessed. So what were they doing in England?
‘Hello,’ one began, ‘thank you very much for taking Aya in to your home whilst she studies.’ I flipped through the cards. In each one, a man named Minokichi asked after his daughter. Under the address read the month and year, the first dated September 1981. The subjects didn’t range too far from Aya, and by June 1983, it seemed that she had decided to stay. Immediately I began to wonder who she was and what her life had been like since then. Though I don’t like to admit my age, I myself was a student at that time. In the past forty years I have moved numerous times, had many jobs and seen many things. So what had Aya been up to? I decided to find out.
After two hours of driving and a long trek through the forest below Mynydd Oer in South Wales, I finally arrived at Aya’s house. The small wooden structure stood to the right of me, the exterior covered in moss and ivy.
‘I grew up in rural Japan, so this is quite normal for me,’ said Aya as she stepped out, ‘This is how I’ve always imagined living.’ Her long, silky black hair drifted behind her. With a grin, she ushered me through the door and towards the kitchen. We made small talk as she brewed peach tea in clay mugs. There were remnants of her old life scattered around her home; woodblock prints adorned the walls and in the centre of the living-room was a well-worn kotatsu table, sans blanket. As we sat down, I pulled the postcards from my bag and passed them to her. Carefully, she examined each one and exclaimed that she never knew her father and host family talked so frequently. ‘I fell out with my dad, not because he was a bad person but because he was overly protective,’ she said. ‘He always made sure he knew where I was and what I was doing, so I felt like I had to get away.’ Aya looked contemplatively out of the window for a few moments. ‘I’m not sure if he’s still alive,’ she whispered.
When she first came to Britain, Aya stayed with the Johnston family in Whiterock. They were well known members of the community, and had often taken in pets, foster kids and exchange students alike. When I asked Aya about her time with them, she described a homely life and praised the Johnstons for their open-mindedness. ‘When I met my first boyfriend, they welcomed him completely,’ she said. ‘We fell in love quickly and decided to live with each other. I missed home but I was desperate to make a new life. I liked it here a lot, so it was no problem for me.’
Aya leaned back towards a pile of photo albums and pulled out a small leathery book. Inside were photos of herself and her boyfriend on trips to Welsh castles. I noted that she had barely aged, and asked her if it was life in the forest that kept her young. She nodded enthusiastically. Whilst I flipped through the book, Aya discussed her life after living with the Johnstons. After her degree had ended, she left their house, citing that she did not want to burden them. Together with her boyfriend Peter, they moved to Cardiff and began working at the university. They were an active couple, and often went for walks in the Brecon Beacons. I noticed that Aya’s house was particularly quiet however, and when I asked her what became of Peter, her tone shifted. ‘He died not too long after we moved in,’ she said. I didn’t want to probe, but I wondered how this must have impacted her. She seemed to read my mind. ‘Obviously I didn’t cope with it. I bought some land in the Mynydd Oer forest and built this house not long afterwards,’ she said. ‘I think I felt guilty.’
It was clear that Aya was still shaken, perhaps causing her to become reclusive. I asked her what she had been doing in the time since, given her isolation. She described her seasonal work as a ranger, which includes maintenance of the forest in winter and ensuring that walkers are safe in summer. In her spare time, she makes wooden wares for the local visitors centre. She pointed to small shed through the window, which I presumed to be her workshop. As it turned out, she was not as lonely as I thought. ‘I see other rangers here almost every day. There’s always something to be done, a road that needs clearing or a sheep that needs rescuing,’ she chuckled. It seemed that despite the tragedy in her life, Aya was determined to find joy.
As I got ready to part ways, a thought popped in to my head. ‘Is there anything you regret?’ I asked. She pondered for a moment. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘After Peter’s death, I stopped contacting the Johnstons. I didn’t have the energy to write everything I felt. I missed them terribly, but they already had enough going on.’ Before I picked up my bag up, I informed her that the Johnstons were doing well under the care of their son. She smiled, and though it seemed like a sad end to their relationship, there was no doubt in my mind that they would have forgiven her.
Walking back through the forested path I entered in, I thought about the journey this postcard had taken me on. I was lucky that the subject of the cards had been so open to the idea. Aya’s life was just as interesting and as colourful as I had imagined it. Indeed it was also coloured with sadness, but Aya had made perhaps the best of it. I doubt she ever imagined that one day, a stranger would arrive at her door asking about a life only peeked at through postcards. Neither did I. I ended this short journey with a sense that despite how communication changes, our voices will always be important to somebody.
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That’s it! For those of you in Whiterock, you can find this article in the latest issue of the Wrap. If you would like me to send you a copy, please email me. I hope you’ve enjoyed the conclusion to the story of the Japanese postcards. See you soon!
Kit.
Kit's Paper and Postcards 