"I was indifferent to what kind of works my father produced and how he lived his life.
However, it was my personal will that I wanted to write about my father here.

Since I was a child, I have played in my father's design office,
I grew up surrounded by European toys and American design books.
At the age of 20, I easily chose a creative career without much of a decision.
My father has had a lot of influence in my life.

But my father was strongly against my choice.
He was negative about my "creativity" from an early age.
He never taught me any techniques for creating things.
On the contrary, he did not allow me to create.
I used to hide out with my younger brother, who was two years older than me, and we would draw pictures in the middle of the night.
If we were caught, they would give us a very scary look and drop a nuclear browbone on our heads.

Perhaps it was a reaction to being raised in this way.
Perhaps because of the repercussions of being raised in this way, my siblings and I are both creatively obsessed with our lives.
In a way, I think it is thanks to my father.
If I had children, I might feel the same way.

“Don’t aim for the creative path easily”

My father was strict about his work.
Those in the industry who have known him for a long time know this.
He was a pioneer among stuffed animal designers.

My father gets angry when he scolds us.
In other words, when he scolds a child, he gets angry again and again.

"Dad makes toys.
"If I scold you, father won't be happy."
"If your father isn't having fun, toys won't be fun."

It's a half-assed argument, but it's a theory I can understand.
I am a creator myself, so I sometimes say things like that.

And then there is this.
Whenever I have a new idea, I keep it secret from my family.
When I come home at night, I sometimes find an envelope.
Inside are drawings of new designs and prototypes of stuffed animals.
But he rarely shows them to us.

My father was about late 20 to late 30 years old.
He used to go to Europe mainly for work.
I have many photos of those days.
When I think about it, I wonder how my father survived his trip to Europe.

He was stubborn, misunderstood, and strong-willed.
He must have caused a lot of trouble for his friends and relatives, including those in the business world.
It's scary to imagine what such a person would have done in a country where he didn't speak the language.

He would often tell me stories about those days over drinks.
How he was at the hotel in Paris, at the airport in Frankfurt, in Alberobello....
This must have been my father's pride and joy.
The day before he died, the last story my father told me on his bed was his bragging about Europe.

He went to the same store for days to buy souvenirs for his wife, and finally bargained down the price.

I have resisted writing about this kind of thing since my father's death, but....

From October of last year until the beginning of the new year, my hands were full with work,
But I had my hands so full with work from last October to the beginning of the new year that
I didn't have the time or the luxury to think about my father.

I am glad I did.
I was about to stop accepting it.
I was going to stop accepting it, not now, but a little later....

Six months later, I am finally able to write, but I still don't like it.
It is not like me to write about my own father in detail.
This somehow feels like my father had me write it.

I am writing this with a sense of mission to leave it in the web log.
So I'll leave it in the web log semi-permanently.
Well, my father will be pleased."[5]