AS A CHILD, I’d creep down the basement stairs and watch him: hunched over a table, a single lamp lighting his work. First he’d carve a walnut-sized body out of wood. Then he’d take a tiny brush and paint the figure in bright reds and greens and blues, wrap embroidery thread around its spindly wire legs, and top the whole thing with a shiny lacquer. On the back, he’d add a clasp and sign his name in katakana.
The end result: a bird pin so delicate it could fit into the palm of my 8-year-old hand. My grandfather, whom I called , made hundreds of these bird pins over the course of his retirement. I always thought they were unique to him. But in recent years, I’ve learned that he was part of something much larger.
