Step by step, we fall apart

Today, I got a phone call on my mobile during reading class, and I stepped out of the room to take the call because I could tell it was from the States meaning it was probably my mom with something urgent - she doesn't usually call me unless she knows it's an hour I don't have class. When I picked up, she told me that my grandma's younger brother Okamoto Jyouji had died, the second of my relatives here in Japan to pass away since I arrived in Japan. But this was less of a shock than Tomoko obachan because of his age - 76. I called my relatives in Tokyo to let them know, and then called Wakayama to speak on behalf of my family in the states; I'm getting better at the condelence-sending in Japanese, but I still need a little work - towards the end of the call with Jyouji's youngest sister Kaoru, she started to sound irritated. I guess I must have said something wrong. As for Jyouji-ojiichang himself, he lived in Wakayama, the head of the household my grandma grew up in. His wife, a diabetic, was in the hospital being treated this week leaving ojiichan home alone. His body was found in a doorway in the house, with no clue as to how long he had been there. I wasn't close to him, but I did get to spend quality time with him last year when I made my first trip to Wakayama to visit my grandparent's families (which itself is a precious memory). Jyouji, Kaoru, and her husband Takashi took me sight-seeing in Wakayama and to a resort. Jyouji was quiet and sweet with piercing eyes that had an unexpectedly light color. He was the kind of guy who always wore a suit, regardless of the occasion. I took a lot pictures that weekend, and in every picture I took of him, he was striking some kind of contemplative, dramatic pose (even when eating ice cream!) - and never intentionally. I think that's just who he was - a gentle and kind man who was also deep and slightly melancholy.

His death underlies a problem in my family in Japan. Between my grandma and grandpa's families, we have two households in Wakayama that own large amounts of productive farmland, and have for generations. But there is almost no younger generation left to hand that land to - I was almost invariably surrounded by senior citizens during my trip. Jyouji, who was once the principal of the school in their town, was also the head of the Okamoto household. When I went to the nearby shrine and looked at the all the names of the deceased, I was shocked to see that no less than half of everyone buried there was related to me. But Jyouji, the only son in his family, only had a daughter who is married into another household - leaving no one to take over the Okamoto household (by the way, my entire family is really good at having daughters; and when someone does occassionally have a son, he usually is really good at having daughters too). All this really reflects a bigger social trend here in Japan which I'm sure most people could already guess - that the farming community is growing older faster than the rest of society (which is also getting top-heavy in crisis-level ways). All the young people are running to metropolitan areas like Tokyo and Osaka and leaving behind the farms, which I guess is just a normal symptom of a developed, service-oriented economy. I suppose you can't expect those young people to really stay in those small villages when there is such excitement to be sought out elsewhere. But when I think back to those beautiful but empty homes my grandparents were raised in nestled among the beaches and mountains of Wakayama, it really just seems like a damn shame.