Terukuni Hori « Otosan »

I'd like to share some of my memories of him from the almost 35 years that I knew him.
The first time I met Otosan (お父さんliterally “father” ) as I came to call him was in 1992. The following day, I was going to marry his daughter.
I remember meeting him at Fukuoka Airport and trying very hard to remember to bow deeply and behave appropriately. I couldn't quite believe that the following day he was going to allow his daughter to marry a foreign stranger!
Misako later told me that he simply said that he respected her decision. That was very much Otosan's way. He was never a man of many words.
A year later, we gave him a granddaughter, and at least once a year we would travel back to Japan from the UK. Whenever we visited, he would always take us to a hot spring hotel. I had dutifully tried to read up on Japan and its culture long before the amazing variety of information that is now available on the internet.
On one occasion, I went into the bath and remembered reading that putting your folded wet towel on your head while bathing helped to reduce your body temperature.
Misako's father simply replied:
“Don’t be so silly. It’s so nobody else takes your towel!”
That was Otosan.
He was a straightforward and simple man. I can honestly say that I never saw him lose his temper — the only volume he ever raised was in song. He was always cool, calm and dignified.
Whenever we visited, he would also take us to a dairy farm steakhouse. It was a wonderfully quirky place, with cows in the back, and you even got a glass of milk with your steak.
One day I asked Misako, “Does your father really like steak? Every time we come to Japan, he takes us to this restaurant.”
She asked him, and his reply was simply:
“I thought Chris liked steak. That’s why I always bring him here.”
He was always trying to accommodate someone who wasn't used to Japanese food and make sure I was happy.
Otosan was born in Sasebo, Nagasaki Prefecture. He was eight years old when Nagasaki was bombed, and he could recall the event vividly for the rest of his life.
Otosan had spent his working life in the Jietai, the Japanese Ground Self-Defence Force, working as a weatherman. He prepared weather forecast charts for pilots and was stationed in places including Okinawa and Saga, where we mainly visited him.
That military discipline ultimately meant that when we stayed with him, it was lights out by 9 p.m. and up again at sunrise.
Then we would head off to visit a river or a hot spring hotel in the mountains, where we would spend the day bathing and relaxing.
There would usually be katsu curry, followed by karaoke. Katsu curry became a mutual favourite, and there was always a glass of beer involved.
One of Otosan's great passions was shigin (詩吟), traditional Japanese poetry chanting. I remember lying awake early in the morning, listening to his deep, guttural growls and long, powerful shrieks travelling through the house as he practised — utterly unlike the quiet man I knew at breakfast an hour later. He even performed shigin at our wedding, with tremendous enthusiasm and aplomb.
He was also an extremely talented calligrapher. I'd often find him at the low table in the living room, brush in hand, ink pots open, a look of total concentration on his face as he worked through sheet after sheet — the same discipline that governed everything else about him, applied to something beautiful.
When we finally moved to Japan as a family, Otosan helped us with many things. Without his help, I don't think we could have bought our house.
He never needed any big displays of gratitude. That wasn't his way. He was a simple, calm and dignified man who simply helped when help was needed.
And he wasn't just someone who helped me. He was a constant source of advice for Misako throughout her life.
In many ways, Otosan was Misako's Google — long before Google existed.
If she wanted to know what the weather was going to be like, she would phone Otosan.
If she wasn't sure about the correct etiquette for something, she would phone Otosan.
If she needed to know which kanji to use in a particular situation, she would phone Otosan.
Whatever the question was, Otosan usually seemed to have the answer.
I remember one time when he came to stay with us in Fukuoka. I took him to a local Okinawan izakaya, and as the drinks flowed, we eventually cajoled Otosan into performing some shigin.
It was a fantastic night, and we all had a wonderful time.
Even though we eventually staggered home full of Okinawan spirits, Otosan still managed to carefully fold and hang up his suit before going to bed — and, of course, he was up bright and early the next morning at sunrise.
That was Otosan.
Quiet. Disciplined. Kind. Calm. Dignified.
He was never a man who needed many words to show how he felt. His actions said everything.
We said our final goodbye to Otosan on Sunday, 30 August.
We arrived at the hospital at around 3 p.m. He had been unable to speak for the previous month, but his eyes were open. We sat with him, and although he could no longer speak, we were able to make eye contact.
About 20 minutes later, he quietly passed away.
There was something very peaceful about being there with him at the end. We felt incredibly fortunate that we had arrived in time to be with him and say goodbye.
After almost 35 years of knowing Otosan, I will always remember him as the quiet, calm and dignified man who welcomed me into his family.
I will remember the hot springs, the katsu curry, the beer and karaoke, the steakhouse with the cows, his shigin filling the house in the early morning, his beautiful calligraphy, and his perfectly folded suit.
But most of all, I will remember his kindness.
He welcomed a foreign stranger into his family, trusted me with his daughter, and over the years I became simply Chris.
For Misako, you were everything a father should be — quietly, constantly, for a lifetime.
You will always be remembered, and you will always be part of our family.
Thank you, Otosan.