In the Yard with My Father

In the Yard with My Father

by Tokuhiko Kise

“What was the first piece of furniture you ever made?”
That was the question I was once asked in an interview.
I thought hard, searching my memory. What came to mind was a slipper stand I built as a child with my father in our garden—a small board with a few wooden rods sticking up.

I remember watching him work, using a saw and a hammer. In that faint memory, what lingers is the impression that he didn’t seem especially skillful. He was never what you’d call “handy.” Yet we often worked together on tasks around the house.

Sweeping the tatami room each morning (how to hold the broom, how to store it so the bristles stayed even, never sweeping a square room in circles).
Wiping the windows (his particular way of rinsing the rag is etched in my memory).
Trimming the garden trees (though I’m not sure “pruning” is the right word—it was more like casual snipping).
Digging holes to bury the branches and leaves afterward (he believed they would become fertilizer).
Painting the roof (I still remember how hot the metal sheets felt in summer).

As a child, I often helped with these tasks. Not always with joy—more often with the feeling of being made to do it.

Looking back now,
I feel each of those small tasks I once did with my father
may have become one of the foundations that shape who I am today.
I recall them with a quiet sense of gratitude.