Mowdicum

Finally the scaffolding came off the house this morning. We have a new roof. The entire neighborhood now has a new roof. The onigiri hail of September 19 was a true hyperlocal disaster.

The roofing and re-waterproofing of the balconies and replacement of the rain gutters and so on coincided with the lawn waking up for the spring. With the scaffolding away I could finally tend to it.

Plants that are not the korai shiba grass I planted in 2017 have carved out Luxembourgs and Crimeas in the lawn. I laid down the korai shiba right after purchasing it on Rakuten and taking delivery from Oita prefecture. It came in many cardboard boxes. I knew that many people recommend laying down a plastic layer first. But I must finish a job right away or never. Plastic was foregone. I frantically ripped out the eyesore knee-high weeds and laid the sod over an okay layer of topsoil I had dumped and spread.

So now other plants spring up in the lawn. Especially the ones that wake up for spring earlier than korai shiba. Sometimes I dream of ripping it out and starting again. I’m saved by a wise laziness.

The initial adulteration of my pure korai Shiba lawn hurt a bit. I knew it was inevitable with the amount of work I was willing to put in. But I mourned.

I have reached acceptance. One thing is that people here are impressed with any semblance of a lawn. Any praise makes the effort feel sufficient, so effort ends there. In the pastime of lawns, I’m like the dude who grew up in São Paulo and now plays rec soccer with dads in Utah—my rudimentary skills, gained from the most basic experience of existing in a lawn-mad society, absolutely shine in the current environs. I do mean pastime. In deflecting praise I tell passersby that lawns are the true American 国技 / kokugi / national pastime, and mine would be sad indeed in many neighborhoods of my native valley.

But yeah: Japanese home lawns aren’t thick Kentucky bluegrass, chemically fertilized, weedkilled, embedded with automated sprinkler systems. Sundry species are bound to invade. It’s fine. Throw bees a bone.

In my part of Japan, the key to a passing lawn is simply to trim its edges and mow it to a uniform height. Out of principle I might pull up the plant that has the audacity to grow a thick stem and/or root despite the 10mm haircut I give it. Otherwise, any plant who can abide that cutting is welcome to stay.

I might water if the summer fails to provide precipitation for several days. Rain is usually plenty in this salubrious clime. All these differences and the Lilliputian surface area of my property cast away any guilt I might feel from hearing US-based antilawn arguments.

I have found the equilibrium in which minimum labor yields maximum happiness derived from the lawn: One hour to trim all the edges and then mow the surface, every two weeks from May to November. My electric cord-tethered, toyish mower would get me deported from the United States. The trimmer is solid, if also electric.

Lawn care is a meditation. Listen to a book, cause the body to perform the rote motions of trim and mow. Things transform from shaggy to sleek. Pay out and re-wrap trimmer cord. Two or three times, yank out the plug and have to replace it. Hunch over to walk the white and orange toy mower back and forth. Hit every surface at least twice. Empty the grass-catcher. Stop to manually pull the most brazen invaders. Try not to mow the cord.

Interactions ensue: Neighbors walk by and say, “Looks nice.” We chat a moment. I hold an AirPod in my gloved fingers. We get shy. Back to work. Sweat.

It’s done pretty fast. I spray errant trimmings into a small pile at the end of my stretch of the street curb. I sweep the pile up. I give the lawn a spray to make it sparkle. My wife says “Looks nice” as she comes home from the store.

I take a shower. I return outside with a camp chair and a book for a sit. I admire what I have wrought. The sun sets. I go inside.

Later I turn on the porch light and go out again to furtively admire the even way the light falls on the lawn. (It must have broke my lawn’s little heart, when Derek used to say, it looked better in the dark.) If someone happens by I retreat. I walk barefoot across it a time or two.

It is but a mowdicum of a lawn. But what a joy.

Tomorrow morning I’ll run and come back to catch my breath and admire it again. Birds will dig it for worms and leave tiny dirt mounds.