From an Oldsmobile Convertible to a Boeing 707 Jet Plane

After my wife and son spent part of summer, 1962 in Boston, while I was in New York studying Japanese, we reunited in our hometown of Havana, Illinois. It is always good to “go home,” but that visit proved to be bittersweet. In quick succession we lost my maternal grandmother and grandfather.

(During World War II, when our father enlisted in the Navy, my two older sisters and I joined our mother in living with our grandparents. This period of my life on the Illinois homefront is included in my memoir, “At Grandma’s House,” so I won’t repeat it here.)

Virginia and I were busy packing a trunk with all we would need in Japan for at least a year. The Fulbright grant would take us to the city of Sendai, and Tohoku University in northeast Japan, which meant we needed clothing for both a hot, humid summer and a cold, snowy winter. Also, we bought plenty of gifts for the people who would be helping us in Japan. The trunk had to be sent more than a month ahead of time, going by railway express and boat.

Fulbright provided plane tickets from San Francisco to Tokyo, and train tickets to Sendai. We were responsible for making our way to San Francisco. Always strapped for cash, I looked for the cheapest transportation from central Illinois to San Francisco. Scrounging around, I located a “Drive-Away” firm in Chicago that sold and shipped Illinois cars to West Coast dealers. This company relied on individuals to transport the automobiles. The tradeoff for us delivering the car to California was we had the use of a late model car to drive to San Francisco at no expense to us, only putting out money for gas.

My father-in-law drove me to Peoria to catch a train to Chicago, where I got on a city bus to the south side and the Drive-Away office. Waiting for me was a large Oldsmobile convertible, the nicest vehicle I’d ever driven. Returning to Havana, I picked up Virginia and our son, loaded suitcases in the trunk, and we were off for a cross-country jaunt. We enjoyed the scenery and the early fall colors as we left the Midwest and crossed the Rockies before reaching San Francisco.

Virginia had an aunt in San Francisco with a spacious apartment, who had welcomed us to stay several days. I dropped my wife and son at her aunt’s place, then delivered the convertible to Oakland, before taking public transportation back to San Francisco. Our one splurge in California was a meal at Fisherman’s Wharf.

At San Francisco we boarded a sleek Boeing 707 aircraft, described as “the first successful commercial passenger jetliner.” I considered the Oldsmobile a cool car. The 707, with its shiny metal fuselage and swept back wings with four underslung jet engines, certainly ranked as super cool. When we had driven from Chicago to New York, I listened to the gospel hymn, “I’ll fly way.” Now that tune seemed to come alive as we soared over the Pacific Ocean at 30,000 feet.

We landed in Hawaii and deplaned for some fresh pineapple while the plane was refueled and serviced. Then we took off for Tokyo, chasing a never-ending sunset. We were too excited to sleep much, napping in between snacks and meals.

Nowadays, people flying to Tokyo usually land at the newer Narita Airport, but in the 1960s most people entered Japan through Haneda Airport. Coming from the south of Tokyo, we had a good view of Mount Fuji. I fell in love with this majestic peak, never dreaming that years later I would climb it and write a book about its religious and artistic symbolism.

Landing at Haneda ushered us into Japan, our first experience outside America, which presented us with an overload of new and fascinating tidbits. Steering wheels on the right side of the cars, which traveled on the left side of the road. Shoes left outside an entry door, slippers used for hallways, but different slippers for entering toilet facilities, and stocking feet for walking on rice straw mats. Some shaking of hands, but usually greeting people with a bow from the waist and a lowering of the head.

Japanese are known for being good hosts and polite in their manners. Fulbright staff, who greeted us at Haneda, lived up to that reputation. They also demonstrated a penchant for bureaucratic efficiency and conformity. Every Fulbrighter had to have a business card, one side in Japanese, the other side in English. No grantee could prepare his or her own card; the Fulbright office had to help prepare and approve of each card. They would not allow me to use “Byron” on the card, insisting that my legal first name, Harry, be printed on the card. For much of the time we lived in Japan, I was known as “Mr. Harry.”

We spent much time in Fulbright orientation sessions, which gave us do’s and don’ts for living in Japan. They reminded us, as the orientation in Washington had emphasized, that we were not just individuals or tourists, we were representatives of the United States, unofficial ambassadors of good will. We received tips on gift-giving, and the Japanese pattern of daily shopping in small quantities at local vendors.

Our first nights in Japan we stayed at the old International House, a favorite lodging for educators. They had a magnificent Japanese style garden (which later gave way to an expansion project). Fulbright staff took us on a whirlwind tour of the city, including such sites as Tokyo Tower, and an expansive garden in the center of the city. The splendors of Japan’s capital impressed us; then we were off to Sendai, our home for the next three years.