Returning A Sword

What I remember about the man the most was his style of dress, how he greeted you at the door, and the size of his hands.

Always dressed in a grey suit, always wearing a smile, always offering a firm handshake when he greeted you at the church door, which dwarfed the hand of my thirteen year old self.

Mr. B. was a man from a different time, a world that no longer existed, a world that new generations would have doubted every existed. Regardless of the occasion he always wore a suit, would call you on your bullshit if needed, and was a man of action even at 85 years of age when I met him.

When I was confirmed at 16, after the service and the luncheon after, on the outside steps of the church he instructed me to wait as he had something to give me.

Imagine handing a 16 year old kid a sword.

That was just what he was doing along with a picture in a small frame.

The sword was a one handed sabre in a leather wrapped scabbard, ivory handle, wrapped in gold-brass wire.  

It was his dress sword from the Marines when he served in the Pacific during World War 2 and he wanted me to have it, as a token of encouragement for the year ahead. I wish I had payed attention more to what he was saying, but my attention and focus was on the sword and not what he was saying.

Something about how I was starting out my life, and his was ending, but he wasn’t upset by it as by all accounts he was lucky to make it to this age, especially since he began smoking a pack of cigarettes a day since he was 13 years old.  

One day Mr. B. wasn’t there to greet the parishioners, and a few days after that his cremated remains were interned in the church columbarium.

After I spent a few days swinging the sword around I put it back in its scabbard and put it in the umbrella stand in the basement which stored the off golf club, hockey stick, and wooden bats where it remained for years.

When I entered the dojo and took the oath, the first lesson was that of the warrior’s heart- mushashin.

You either had it or not.

If you didn’t have it, you better get it, or else you wouldn’t be about in the dojo for long.

This made an impression on me as a young man in a traditional dojo as I very much wanted to be there, and nobody really told you the rules as it was part of the dojo.

You watched and emulated your seniors in the art (sempai), and did what they did. If you couldn’t emulate that and pick up on the obvious stuff, how would you even be able to learn the hidden stuff?

Omote and Ura.

Mushashin was important as it was the cornerstone of everything, it was the power behind the movement and the art. Technical stuff could be taught, could be corrected, could be learned.

But not mushashin.

Yet, according to my sempai, it was quite easy to do- take the oath, and conduct every action with the heart of a warrior.

OK.

For years at the dojo all I had was a bokken, a wooden training sword. I’d look at some of the metal aluminum swords that the advanced students trained with, and during certain demonstrations during the New Year (embu) the shinken of the senior students and teacher naturally not wanting to wait, but that was part of the warrior’s heart.

Some years after that I had my own shinken, which for those outside of the dojo might not have looked like much, but its design was clear for those who could see it, another example of warrior heart- could you see and understand it?

The blade was a bit thicker and the polish, while there was dull compared to other swords. The fitting plain hammered metal, and the handle wrapped in a simple design without any furniture.

Two bamboo pegs held the tang.

This was a sword for cutting practice, the blade a little thicker to compensate for mistakes on any angles, and a thicker non mirrored polish so it wouldn’t be scratched as easily during demonstrations.

Most of the time it sat in a bag on the wall under the kamiza, maybe once or twice a year coming out for a very supervised practice under the eyes of the teacher.

Yet, it still had to be looked after, as this was part of the warrior’s heart also.

Taken apart.

Inspected.

Cleaned.

The bad laundered of dust before the sword was returned.

It was at some point at this stage of my practice that I remembered the other sword, and was relieved to find it was still in the umbrella stand in the basement.

I had one of the senior students approach the teacher and test the waters if now would be a good time to ask about something regarding training. I wanted to take the sword, clean it as I was shown, and put it in a similar sword bag under my own sword, and would this be OK as it felt like the right thing to do since I was entrusted with it.

So there it sat one sword under the other, one sword I had permission to wear, the other one I did not, but still took care of as a warrior should. It may have not been the swords we used, but a sword is a sword right?

Clean and inspect one and the other at the same time a few times a year.  

It was a decade later, during a church service that I noticed the man in the back of the church. It was during Easter Service so everybody was formally dressed, and this man was in a dress uniform, talking a little bit of time to place where I had seen him before.

He was Mr. B’s grandson, about my age, and I remembered him from church years ago.

Some of us kids growing up had challenges, came from families where things might have been a bit difficult, maybe got into some trouble, and that is what I remembered of him.

But now, there he was, and it looked like everything worked out in the end.

Clearly he had gotten some warrior heart, and in that moment an example of how things should be conducted and navigated.

After the service I introduced myself, and it was OK he didn’t remember me. His family left the church and he was only back now to visit his grandfather on Easter. Surprised, I told him that I have something for him, something important, and could he wait before leaving so I could go home and get it.

I was almost out the door with the sword, when I remembered the picture that was given with it. I had no idea where it was, having forgotten about it the moment I first arrived home with the sword, eager to cut anything I could swing it at. I took a gamble at where it might have been, and was correct, but that took more time to stop by my parent’s house.

I guessed correctly that my mom would have found the picture and put it in the old-picture album in the attic, and there it was.

It was a picture of Mr. B on his wedding day, dressed in his uniform, Mrs. B next to him, the sword on his waist.

Relieved to see that he was still waiting for me on the steps of the church where it was fist handed off to me, I handed it off to his grandson, who was shocked beyond words.

He remembered being a 13 year old kid and seeing the sword and picture on the wall over the fireplace, but after his grandfather passed away, nobody could remember what happened to the sword.

Nothing needed to be said, warrior’s heart is warrior’s heart.

I expressed my gratitude for being able to take care of it for a few years and that was that.

It wasn’t the sword, but rather the moment, and what was imparted in passing that sword on, and that is why now twenty years after that I was standing on the same steps of the church, refusing to move.

The church had been on a decline for years after I left, and COVID was the final blow, being closed down by the dioceses for a few years, and sold to a new owner who was going to develop the building. A chance call from friend who saw the excavators there one day, I made it over just in time before they dozed the columbarium with the remains still in it.

Mr. B., his wife, and many others of the parishioners were still there, and it wasn’t going to happen.

Threats of calling the police and other potential actions didn’t matter, as I wasn’t bluffing and was committed to going all the way. It was easy, a warrior’s heart makes doing certain things very easy without inaction or regret.

They got removed, later interned in a new location, and I was able to talk my way out of the rest with regard to what could have happened.

Mr. B. taught me about warrior’s heart before I even knew what it was, the dojo gave it a name, and that sword gave it direction through one of many examples over the years.

Kajo Chikusei