360 years and that he had been headman some few years previously and had lots of stories. When we met him, he was dressed formally in black haori, bearing his clan emblem, and hakama (kimono coat and men's silk culottes) in his capacity as the leader of the procession who purifies the path of the kami as it progresses through the village. He was short with a well-earthed body that gave a powerful impression of contained energy. He had a deep crease, probably a scar that ran around his jaw like a chinstrap and merged into the natural creases on either side of his face. He appeared to be in his mid-seventies.
It was January before we were able to arrange to visit him, when he had time after the busy harvest and preparations for winter to sit and talk. His study, where he kept records of the village and received visitors, was a small room on the west side of the house, decorated with his own ink paintings and calligraphy and with a view of the garden. At its center was an open hearth (irori), which instead of containing a wood fire had been cleared to provide space for a large kerosene stove. The room was stiflingly hot after the cold outside, and my spectacles steamed up immediately upon entering the room so that I had to remove them and wave them above the stove to warm the lenses. A television on the north wall of the room and opposite to where I was invited to sit was showing a panorama of mountain peaks. It was unaccountably left switched on for the duration of our visit, drawing my attention away periodically into different areas of Japan, the facial topography of politicians, the occasional flash of a war zone, and so on.
Mr. Nagao made green tea and passed cups to us while directing our attention to several small plates of rice crackers. After passing our cups, he leaned over to some shelves to his right and pulled out a document. Opening it and smoothing it with his hand, he said, "Before the Meiji period (1868-1912) we commoners weren't allowed to have surnames." He pointed, and I noticed that the first joint of each forefinger was bent toward its neighbor. "You can see my ancestor's name here, Satoemon [a given name]. This document shows how much rice families paid as tax. Our family status was based on the size of our crop, the number of mountains [for timber], and the amount of land we farmed. After the war even peasants could own land according to the land reforms, which meant that a period of equality had begun." As he talked, he would now and then point in one direction or another, indicating a temple, house, or field, raising his arm to stress some point he was making. Whenever he did this, what I imagined to be his elbow emitted a loud crack.
"The old family hierarchy is still reflected in the order of sitting in the temples. For example, in our temple, we have kept the old seating arrangements and you are required to donate a certain amount according to your status when the temple needs money for restoration or something like that. My temple is in Yamanaka, about twelve kilometers from here. At present my share is ¥150,000."
He folded the document and replaced it among the shelves, and we started to eat the rice crackers. The television showed the imperial crown princess walking up a flight of steps. She paused at the top to wave to somebody before disappearing into what appeared to be a black hole.
"Our lives have related deeply to rice from our earliest days," he said, spilling cracker crumbs from his mouth. "My mother gave birth to me on rice straw with the assistance of the old woman from next-door. A mother fed her newborn baby three times a day. She had to work in the rice and vegetable fields all day, so she fed her baby in the early morning before she left, at lunch time, and finally in the evening when she returned home. During the day I was put into a kind of round-shaped basket made of rice straw, with a rice-straw rope across each of my shoulders to stop me from climbing out. This is how I grew up.
"In my time, we only had four years of compulsory education. Beyond that it didn't matter whether you carried on or not. I remember that lots of my classmates brought their younger brothers or sisters to school on their backs and looked after them while they studied. I was lucky though. Because I was the family heir I received extra education, but none of my brothers and sisters did.
"In those days, Senjuin temple was always full of people, young and old, daytime and evening. Now it's no good, the young people are not there anymore. I feel closer to the temple than I do to the shrine. When you compare the shrine and the temple, not many Shinto priests live by the shrine but monks always live in a house attached to the temple."
An extraordinary commercial for diapers that showed a baby pissing from a cloud snatched my eyes and held them captive for a few seconds. He produced another old document from the shelves and prodded at it with the crooked joint of a forefinger, "This was written by my grandfather. . . Here he notes the religious gatherings . . . so many . . . January 5, 11, 12, . . . they gathered at the temple." He traced his finger along the characters, speaking each as the tip of his finger contacted it, as though it transmitted the vibration of the brushstrokes to his vocal chords. "Many activities. . . My grandfather recorded what they did and when, and so on. He writes that seven families belong to the Shin sect, Otani subsect; eight to the Shin sect, Nishi Honganji subsect; three to the Nichiren sect; eight to the Sōtō Zen sect, and fifty-eight to the Shingon sect. And concerning the shrine, he recorded. . . No, this is about funerals." He folded the document up again and spoke while sliding his palm up the crease of the fold. "These days we burn the body at the town crematorium. But in the past we did it at the end of your road, where the six Jizō are now. That's where we used to burn the dead of the village.
"On the funeral eve, all the relations gathered and spent all night together in front of the funerary altar. We dressed the corpse in white with straw sandals on its feet and a rosary in its hand. This is understood to be Kūkai's [Kōbō Daishi] traveling outfit when he journeyed about Japan. The corpse was put into the coffin sitting up, not lying down like these days, and the coffin was shaped like a tub and made of cedar. After the funeral, the body was taken to that place at the end of your road to be burned by the family and their relations. We laid a fire of twigs and put the coffin on top. Then we covered it with rice straw and then pine logs, till the coffin was completely covered with rice straw and logs. We usually started to burn the pyre at four o'clock in the afternoon, and it took all night to completely burn the body." [Four is a number associated with death in Japan because the pronunciation of its character is the same for that which means "death".]
On the television, Buddhist monks were boarding a plane. "While we were waiting, all the relations were invited back to the house for a meal, which was served on red-lacquered, small, individual tray-tables (akazen). And we ate rice mixed with red beans (akameshi). This is a tradition we still keep. But every so often someone would go back to check the state of the fire and see whether the corpse was burning well or not." He laughed.
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