Canopies
A Memoir
by
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AN OUTING During the week before Thanksgiving I took the girls with me into Sapporo to look for the residence of a dressmaker who had been recommended to me. I wanted to have a Japanese kimono made for the girls, and if not too expensive, one for myself. We had been able to buy a jeep, but it had not been “winterized” yet. The sides were to be filled in eventually, the seats re-upholstered, the exterior painted. As it was I had to put the girls in the passenger seat, make them promise to sit still, and tie a belt around them and the seat to keep them from falling out. I had to drive very slowly. We made quite a picture as we drove down those narrow streets. Before we found the house I was looking for, we had accumulated a procession of children following closely behind our slow moving vehicle. Big brown eyes below straight black bangs watched us closely as I untied the children and ushered them into the house. It occurred to me it was very likely they had never before seen little American girls—with long blonde hair and blue eyes. When we came out of the house Sue approached one little Japanese boy and held out her hand to him in a friendly gesture. The little boy stepped back a couple of steps, then with head bowed, walked timidly toward her and gently touched her hair. I wanted so much to invite every one of them home with us, and wished so desperately that we could talk to them and they could talk to us. Instead, I smiled at them and asked the seamstress to convey to them our greetings. On the way home, Sue was full of questions about the children she had just met and it was hard for me to explain to her why we could not communicate, and why they were so in awe of us. We had been in Japan long enough, I thought, that she was beginning to understand our unique circumstances. When Thanksgiving Day rolled around I was able to cook a traditional dinner, thanks to the Commissary. The girls and I were decked out in our kimonos, and we spent a restful day, giving thanks that we were together, even though far from home.
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About the Book
In August, 1946, I found myself on a luxury liner on my way to Yokohama, Japan. The cabins of the SS Monterey were filled with over 400 women and children of US Servicemen who had been deployed to serve in the Occupation forces following the surrender of Japan in World War II. This is an account of that voyage and the nearly two and a half years I spent there with my husband and two small daughters. In flashback, memories of childhood in the late 20's and early 30's on a wheat farm on the windswept plains of eastern New Mexico are recalled. The impact and devastation of the Dust Bowl and the Great Depression are touched upon. Returning to the United States, we were shocked at the many changes.. By the time we landed in Seattle, the decision had been made to leave the Army behind. We were looking forward to our new baby girl. In civilian life we became students at a southwestern University on the GI Bill. Only youth and optimism saw us through."
About the Author
I was born on March 11, 1923, the youngest of six children of A. W. and Laura Cameron. My father was a Baptist minister and at thet time of my birth was the pastor of a church in New Mexico. When I was five, my family moved to the 360 acre farm to help my grandparents. I spent the rest of my childhood there. I married my high school English teacher's son, Dixon Kirby, when I was 20. I inherited my love of the written word from my mother. During the isolation and drudgery there on the prairie, she wrote and published the book " Looking Through the Window."