“Koshogatsu is coming up. Want to come see? We’re keeping it small this year, though.”

Every region has its own customs, but there aren’t many places left where traditions like this remain part of daily life. I’d always hoped to witness one someday. I had heard that these celebrations were often done on a household level, so when I was invited, I felt both honored and a little unsure—was it really okay for me to join in? But more than anything, I was happy to be welcomed into such an intimate circle. I bundled all those emotions into a simple reply: “Thank you! I’d love to see it.”

The snow had been falling nonstop for days. “Wear winter boots,” they had told me, so I had prepared as best I could. But when I stood before the snow, piled up to my calves, I was stunned—my boots were nowhere near tall enough. Seeing my dilemma, Grandmother handed me a pair of real winter boots—the kind made for this exact situation. Miraculously, they fit perfectly. Alright, now I am ready. Let the snow come! With newfound confidence, I stepped out toward the back of the house.

After a short five-minute walk, we reached a small shrine where the deity was enshrined.

Grandmother pulled a tiny glass sake cup and a small flask from her pocket as if by magic.

 “The snow was heavy, so I thought you might not come. I already did a prayer on my own, just in case,” she said. But still, she lit the candle again, just for us.

We stood behind her, hands pressed together in prayer.

“Want to try blowing the conch shell?”  Wait… a conch shell?

What she handed me was a hollow wooden tube. Not too heavy, but not exactly light either. More than the weight itself, I felt the depth of its history—the fine cracks along the rim, the deep brown color like aged chocolate. I could picture the many hands that had held it, the countless moments it had witnessed. It carried a weight far beyond its physical form.

“You blow this toward the mountains over there. Someone on the other side will do the same, and the sounds will echo back and forth. That’s how it used to be done, over and over.”

In a time before cell phones, there was no messaging—no quick ‘Ping! Let’s blow the conch now!’ on texting apps. Instead, this exchange of sounds between villages must have been far more thrilling, far more meaningful than we could imagine.

 “Go ahead, give it a try.”

 Mimicking what I had seen, I took a deep breath and blew. To my surprise, a loud, vibrant sound rang across the snowy mountains.

Of course, there was no answer from the other side. (If there had been, that would have been terrifying.)

“You got a good sound out of it!”

“Most people can’t do that on their first try.”

“That was amazing!”

“I’m truly surprised.”

Grandmother showered me with praise as we made our way back home. It felt like a sign that this year would be a good one. And if I ever feel down, I’ll just remember that sound—the call of the conch echoing through the winter mountains. Bwoooom—

Back home, I settled into a chair at the dining table. The TV was broadcasting sumo wrestling in the background. I asked how the winter myoga fields were doing, and in response, Grandmother handed me a jar of pickled myoga, saying, “We made a lot, but this is the last jar.” The myoga from this area is plump and truly magnificent. When I asked how much shiso to add to the recipe, she simply said, “As much as you have. The more, the better.” I could picture her grabbing handfuls of shiso and mixing them in with bold movements—so effortlessly cool. This summer, I’d love to learn how to make pickles from her.

Normally, they would offer a large rice cake for the occasion. “I thought about skipping it this year,” Grandmother said. “But not doing it at all felt… off. So, just a little. Just something small.” Even if it’s just her. Even if it’s small. Even if it’s just a little.

She repeated those words several times, but in contrast to her modest tone, my camera roll was filled with big memories—the sound of the conch shell, the surprised and joyful faces of my friends.

That was my Koshogatsu in January.