My neighbor, Walt-san, cuts his vast garden mounted upon a motorized steed, a ritual I have observed now for weeks.
A riding mower. I had seen them in stores and assumed they were for farms. Walt's yard is large, yes, but it is a YARD. And yet at 9 a.m. he rode out of the garage like a knight at first light, lowered the blades, and began his circuit with a beverage at his side.
In Japan, lawns are trimmed kneeling, by hand, sometimes with scissors. Gardening is penance. Walt has made it cavalry.
"You ride," I said when he idled near the fence.
"Beats pushing." He raised his drink slightly. A toast. To what, I do not know. To the principle of the thing.
"And the cup holder. It comes built in?"
"Two of 'em."
TWO. One for the present drink and one for the future drink. The engineers foresaw the entire campaign.
He offered to let me ride. I wish to record that I declined twice, as etiquette requires, and accepted on the third offer with unseemly speed.
I have commanded men. I have stood in cold rivers at dawn. Nothing prepared me for the dignity of mowing Walt's east field at four miles per hour with a lemonade at my right hand. The turning radius is poor; my first row curved like a question mark. By the third row I had found the rhythm, and the cut grass flew, and I understood why every man on this street looks ten years younger on Saturday mornings.
The shame is this: my own lawn takes eleven minutes with a push mower. Eleven. There is no honest argument for cavalry on a postage stamp.
I am constructing the argument anyway.
A man does not walk where he may ride. He mounts, sips, and mows.
Walt says when I get one, we can do laps. I do not know what this means agriculturally. I will be buying the machine to find out.