Farmhouse walls come in many types. The materials used on the exterior surfaces are chosen for local cost and availability, appropriateness to local climate and weather, and the durability required at that particular location on the house. The lower walls of the large farmhouses in the mountainous, snowbound Hida region, for example, are usually covered in cryptomeria bark, giving them a moisture-resistant and easily replaceable surface. Vertically battened wood siding is common in several regions as well, and in the Akita region of the far north, the walls are thatched like the roofs for extra insulation from the cold. But the most common wall treatment by far is a mixture of clay and straw that is applied between exposed half-timbers as wattle and daub, and this is how Shinichi’s house is made.
From time to time one sees farmhouses that have a layer of hard white plaster added over the clay undercoat, resulting in a strikingly contrasting patterned wall like those of temple residences, and the homes of samurai and wealthy townsmen. But Shinichi’s farmhouse presents a face of earth to the world—sandy ochre expanses framed by tough structural timbers, all beautifully aged and eroded by time and patched with use. The walls of the few work areas under the eaves have been reinforced with panels of split bamboo, but even with this third material there is a wonderful harmony of earthen hues.
A simple wood-paneled sliding door gives access to a single generous ground-level opening, the o-do, and it is only in the details of its frame, as well as in the carved brackets that lend extra support to the eaves, that we see any truly decorative embellishment. On the other hand, the tight and skillful rope-work visible on the underside of the eaves, binding the poles and purlins of the roof to other, smaller elements, expresses a design spirit rooted in logic and economy but allowed to elaborate into an almost luxurious care and finish. Everything about the exterior of the house demonstrates a similar decisiveness, appropriateness, and awareness. Shinichi leads us inside.
inside a remarkable place
We find ourselves in a large, dark, earthen-floored space. Smoke wafts from a partly visible firepit to the apex of the roof high above, and the entire space is steeped in the smoky aroma. The atmosphere is damp and quite cool, even now at the height of summer. Sounds are muted by the earth beneath our feet.
We are in the doma, the earth-floored vestibule, starkly functional and ancient in spirit. This is a workspace, and the implements of farming life are arrayed on the wall like emblems: rakes, scythes, baskets, strainers, ropes, boxes, pestles, overshoes, hats. There is ample storage space for tools and food. A few of the larger farm contraptions like pumps and looms take up some floor space, but almost everything else finds a place off the floor. Rakes, ropes, tools, baskets, and racks are in nooks and crannies to our right. Straight ahead are an earthen stove and a back door, with assorted storage shelves and containers nearby. To the left is a raised, floored space with a suspended ceiling made of thin bamboo poles. Massive, squared wooden posts flanks the raised floor, but no wall or other divider separates it from the doma.
The floor of the doma is more carefully constructed than it appears, and it is very durable. Layer upon layer of clay mixed with lime have been laboriously pounded down and allowed to cure, leaving a surface more like concrete than plain earth. It is easy to clean and sheds water well, and after years of use the surface has taken on a pebbled texture, soothing to the eye and soft underfoot. This texture is all the more apparent because the only significant natural light comes through the wide door through which we have entered, a low-raking light that is diffused upward by the sheen of the floor and that puts its irregularities in high relief.
The Japanese have used these pounded earth floors since they began to build three thousand years ago, and the firepits and lashed and thatched roofs bear an identical pedigree. In fact, the doma sometimes goes by the name of niwa, “garden” or “courtyard,” implying that it began as a truly outdoor space. This degree of continuity, with design solutions being continually refined but surviving from neolithic times into the early modern period in clearly recognizable form, is remarkable and probably unprecedented among literate civilizations.
Shinichi seems to be proud and a bit self-conscious of his doma, which takes up nearly half of the overall interior area: proud because it is ample and generous and speaks of generations of hard work; self-conscious perhaps because it is nevertheless cluttered and worn.
The kitchen functions are divided between those performed in one corner of the doma and those done on the raised floor. A short step away from the raised floor is a plastered clay stove, or kamado. It is a model of fuel efficiency, built in place by specialized craftsmen out of adobe clay and made to order in any size, shape, or capacity. Shinichi’s stove is a fairly standard-sized one that has been in use for over fifty years. Shaped somewhat like a bean when seen from above, it is about knee high and is used in a crouching position.
This one has two fireboxes, one large and one small, each custom-fitted with a lidded iron pot. The largest is for rice, and while the others can be used for rice, they are more often used for vegetables and stews, as well as for steamed items. Each is independently fueled using scavenged wood and fallen branches. Straw, broken wooden implements, cloth, and charcoal can be used as well, but for the most part cooking with one of these stoves involves close monitoring of the fire, feeding it new sticks and twigs at frequent intervals. The time and attention required are more than compensated for by the economy of fuel use.
The other kitchen area is tucked against the rear wall of the raised floor area. Its main feature is a wooden sink, built into the floor and used from a seated position. The sink, set in front of a small, slatted window, is made of wooden planks carefully fitted together with joints tight enough to prevent leakage. Shinichi’s mother crouches over it, scrubbing a large white radish. She takes water from a large earthenware jug, fitted with a lightweight wooden lid. The water is drawn out with a wooden ladle, and the jug is replenished as needed from the well outside. A drain spout protrudes from one corner of the sink through the exterior wall below the window; from there it drips into a narrow, stone-lined channel and, like overflow from the well, flows as waste-water into the pond. This wastewater contains dirt and organic matter from vegetables and other foodstuffs, but nothing in the way of soap or toxic chemicals. Little that resembles soap is used, in fact, with rice hulls and other gentle abrasives being preferred for most purposes, so the wastewater is fairly clean.
The kitchen is equipped with a variety of storage shelves, but there are only a few dishes and cooking implements. Good durable dishes must be purchased from specialized craftsmen, such as potters and woodturners, and like most farm families, Shinichi’s tries to use only what they can make themselves, minimizing cash expenditures. Each family member has a bowl, a cup, homemade spoons and chopsticks, and little else. On the other hand, durable storage jars are considered worth the expense