I have at hand a New Year's greeting card for next year. It has a design of a puppy in the corner where the postage stamp is to be affixed. As always, I suppose I won't be writing anything in the blank space until it's almost next year.
For novelist Shotaro Ikenami, it was never too early to start working on his New Year's greeting cards. He wrote in an essay: "Shortly after New Year's Day, I draw my design for the following year's card and send it to the printers." The essay is from "Sakka no Shiki" (A novelist's four seasons) published by Kodansha.
People would roll their eyes at his obsessive punctuality and impatience, he wrote, but his excuse was that he would never be able to send out his 1,000-plus cards in time if he started writing them at the year-end like everybody else.
From summer through autumn and into December, Ikenami would write the addresses bit by bit, enjoying the process. "It is like practicing calligraphy because of my terrible handwriting. The task also makes me recall the names of people I am starting to forget, and this serves to stimulate my deteriorating memory."
The essay was written 20 years ago, when Ikenami was in his 60s.
From around early November into December, postcards begin trickling in with the message: "As I am in mourning, I will refrain from sending you my New Year's card next year." In most cases, I already know about the bereavement. Sometimes, however, the news comes as a surprise and saddens me.
Because Ikenami always had his next New Year's cards printed and delivered to his home way ahead of time, a family member once asked him, "What should we do with these cards should something happen to you?" Ikenami answered, "Never mind, just send them off as usual."
"But ..." the relative started to protest. "Look, everybody's looking forward to receiving a card from me, so just do it," he said. "All right," was the reply.
Ikenami died 15 years ago at 67.
--The Asahi Shimbun, Nov. 11(IHT/Asahi: November 14,2005)