Autumn in the Village

[Shirokuma Literature Club: Washing Hands]
*Dedicated to the theme hosted by Kosuke Komaki

When I wash my hands, the tap water is cold.

Just a few days ago, only lukewarm water
would come out.

In midsummer, it was almost hot water.
The temperature was too high for washing rice,
making it taste bad, so I had to struggle by adding
drinking water from the refrigerator.

In midwinter, it becomes water as cold as ice.

When I wash rice for the next day late at night,
the coldness makes me want to cry.

Well water is cold in the summer
and steams in the winter.

What an excellent thermal insulation system
a well that maintains a constant temperature all year round is.

My parents' home still has a well,
which we use for laundry and other things.

Although the test results deemed it unsuitable for drinking,
I felt there was no particular problem with drinking it.

Since the river improvement project turned the embankments into concrete,
the water volume has decreased.


When my grandfather and father were still alive,
once every year, we would perform a 'well cleaning',
climbing down to the bottom with a ladder,
and cleaning out the water, sand, and debris from the bottom.
Finally, we would sprinkle in some sake,

clap our hands, and the whole family would offer
thanks to the god of the well.
Such maintenance and rituals


became impossible after my father passed away suddenly.
I remember that even though we chose a hot midsummer day,


my father, having come up from the well,
would shiver and say, 'It's cold, it's cold,' while sunbathing.

The well may eventually accumulate sand and debris
and become unusable.

We regret that we didn't ask
how to perform the well cleaning.

I feel like the flow of time has accelerated.

Is it because I have grown old?

Nostalgic scenery and traditions are disappearing in the name of 'efficiency'.
Is it considered regressive to feel sad about that?

Is it considered regressive to feel sad about that?

Along the farm road I occasionally take,
there is a house that always makes me think of 'Japanese Folktales' whenever I see it.
Especially in autumn, the persimmons ripen,


evoking a sense of nostalgia, much like a story from the past.
Recently, it seems that house has become vacant.

Until a little while ago, I could feel signs of life,
with a car parked there or laundry hanging out to dry.
But lately, when I pass by,

there is no sign of anyone, the windows are shut,
and weeds are tangled around the clothesline pole.
Did the residents leave this house for some reason?


Maintaining an old house is difficult.
This house, too, may eventually decay

or perhaps be torn down.

It is an irresponsible thought from a stranger,
but I found myself wishing that I could continue to see this scenery
every year whenever autumn comes around.

Quiet, quiet autumn in the village.

I heard the high-pitched cry of a shrike in the distance.

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