Village autumn festival

There is a small hamlet in Northeastern Japan called Kaminojiri. That translates as the “Upper Field’s Rear End.” The neighboring town is called Shimonojiri, which means the “Lower Field’s Rear End.” Everyone laughs at those unusual names, but even so the inhabitants are very proud of their settlements.

Kaminojiri has a few streets lined with old wooden houses, now mostly covered in tin to protect them from winters’ challenges and typhoons’ ragings. One street does have newer houses, though. That is where “the younger folks” live. Or so I was told.

Every house has a huge garden bursting with vivid green cabbage, umbrella-leafed tubers, eggplant, beans, onions, daikon, and squash. In summer there are also tomatoes, of course. And lining each patch and surrounding each house are flowers of every hue and variety imaginable.

Japanese farmers and other country folk are fiercely proud. And that translates into excessive orderliness and tidiness. Tools and equipment in barns are all precisely and carefully arranged. Front walks are swept with attention to every minute speck of dirt. Each and every day houses are scrubbed and cleaned, while clothes are washed and hung out to dry in the sun and dancing breeze.

Orderliness is part of the psyche of country people, matched only by their generosity and hospitality. People know they need each other for survival. So, no door is closed to a neighbor, and no request for help goes unanswered.

This particular town has been around for centuries. Even though nowadays many people have left for work in the cities, the place is still cohesive and vibrant. And every year they hold a festival in spring, summer, and autumn, which prove the ongoing vivacity of the place.

These events are Shinto. That means their purpose is to thank the millions of “kami” (gods) who help them with their harvest. And also these festivals provide a structure to petition the “kami” for protection and assistance in times ahead.

I was privileged to attend this great event in autumn. It was a splendid time. The fields were filled with bundles of newly cut rice stalks, stacked for drying. Chrysanthemums were tied together in large, brilliant bunches. Bare-leafed persimmon trees generously offered their bright orange globes of sweetness. The summer roar of insects had somewhat subsided. And the air had turned crisp at the edges of the day.

As soon as we city folks (my friends and I) arrived, we were rushed to the shrine. Such edifices are usually kept locked up, as the “kami” are sleeping. But on special occasions, like that day, they are opened and the residing “kami” come forth to receive thanks and bestow blessings.

At that early hour, people were changing into festival attire. Some wore bright purple and white “happi” jackets. Others donned costumes of wandering priests and warriors. And one tall thin man dressed as “Tengu”. That marvelous monster spirit has a long curved up nose. He used to be a destructive entity, and was more bird-like with a long bill. But over the centuries he has softened to become a protective deity of the mountains and forests. He is still a bit dangerous, though, so it behooves one to be careful when venturing into places where he might reside.

The morning of this special day was devoted to the spiritual dimension of the festival. A large portable shrine was pulled through the village on a wheeled stand. It went from house to house. Each family had set up a small altar to greet the gods passing by. These makeshift altars were bright with large mounds of fruit. They were also adorned with fresh flowers, and scented with fragrant incense. The family members bowed and made a financial offering to the “kami spirit” as it glided by their home.

That circuit took all morning. Then everyone went home for lunch and a nap.

The afternoon was the other side of the wheel of opposites. It was a raucous affair entailing three portable shrines. This time they were carried on the shoulders of participants. There was a wee one for the children, a medium sized one for the women, and a large one for the men.

The procession followed the same route as before, but instead of receiving monetary offerings for the gods, this time the revelers were given snacks and plenty of sake. Each household tried to out do the others, so before long people were roaring drunk. The “kami” carriers were reeling down the street, almost smashing into walls and falling into ditches. There was also a lively flute player skipping along to set the pace. That provided a perfect balance to the sober taiko drums of the morning.

People laughed and raged, snitched fruit off trees and passed it around. They danced and told jokes, stuffed themselves silly with goodies. And then when the ritual clapping began, they readied themselves for the next small jaunt before stopping at the following house to indulge once again.

“Kami” adore such revelry. In fact, they participate in it, too. What could be more joy-giving than a raucous celebration of gratitude?

It took a long afternoon to reel our way through the entire town. But we managed. Then the three tiers of shrines were tucked back neatly into the main sacred building. They were then locked up securely for a good long rest until the following spring, when the blessing of the fields would begin the planting season.

From there the men went one way, the women and children another. The latter home for bath and bed. The former to a festival tent to continue imbibing into the wee hours of the night.

My friends and I, staying at their friend’s house, went “home” to indulge in yet more food. There we had a feast so abundant that the table groaned under the weight of it. So, might I add, did we!

That fine repast consisted mostly of produce fresh from their garden and mountain vegetables plucked from neighboring hills. “Grandpa” told us with chagrin that those gems were becoming fewer and fewer each year. The cause he attributed to the pollution blowing over from China. Not only the wild vegetables, but also the forest themselves were weakening and dying from that unwanted strain, he informed us with lament.

Everything we ate had been lovingly and artistically prepared, which enhanced the nutritional value immeasurably, I am sure. We ate, drank, and talked for hours. We savored the joy and privilege of friendship and another year of health and prosperity.

Amazingly the following day we all woke up refreshed. And after yet another excessively hardy meal, we headed off to watch a weekend steam locomotive puff by, tooting its magical way over the mountain pass. Somehow that merry event made a perfect ending to the charming, fun, love-filled days of celebration. And despite the dwindling population and diminishing mountain vegetables, I hope this proud little community keeps going, healthfully, for many more years to come.