It's an old Japanese house, about seventy years. It stands up in the hills in a small village, the backyard of Osaka. From there the view opens over the plain of Nara, at the horizon the next mountain ridge. Still dark green, like all mountains here in the region, covered with large forests. The autumn waits to color the landscape red, and soon it will be time for it, then, like in the season of cherry blossom in spring, the pilgrimage will start. Shinto deities appear at such occasions in their most beautiful garbs. The house has a rectangular outline. Its room is partitioned by sliding doors, made of milk glass, in similar smaller ones. There are no gangways. Walking through the house gives the feeling to be always at the same place, a place of restfulness, contrary to a maze, with the constraint to go on. The floor is lifted, so it is necessary to slip of the shoes and to make step to reach the tatami matting stage. In the center room, in a corner, is a respectful golden altar. Two big apples are arranged as a gift. This has all some importance here, to memorize grandfather's brother, who died as a seaman in the World War the Second, and whose photo, black and white, hangs right over it, also because the grandparents are farmers, and who, than not a farmer depends on the deities will, gracious this year, so mama brought us up, me and Robert, to harvest rice. Most off the paddies are too small to do the crop with the machine, it has to be done by hand. The grandparents are almost eighty. Their backs are bowed from the work we intend to do. They would be glad for some help, even so they have a remarkable health, their faces show almost no wrinkles and their brightly eyes bedazzle. We get each a serrated sickle and a bunch of last years rice straw. Grandfather fetched it out of a hut made of corrugated iron sheets. Near the entrance hangs a dead crow to scare the others, inside are, despite the straw and other tools, bags of chemical manure. Hence, for time to time it is necessary to actively support the diets. The work itself remembers me cows, they stroll along and pluck bunches of grass. It is the same sound, when I cut a bunch of rice enfolded with one hand, the sickle in the other. Due to the tooth, it is more a plucking than a cutting. We do it perpetually, bind together with the old straw two sheaves made each of three bunches, to hang them up on a bar, later for drying. Not a stalk gets lost. Mantis, crows, and frogs accompany us, breaking the rhythm and thoughts. Seems that life is inspired by a true story. After harvesting a paddy of, now, remarkable size, we are both exhausted but we return satisfied. It was simply a different work. Back at the house the bath is waiting, a small stony construction squeezed between hillside and the main building. The broken windows are patched with tape. The light blue painted room is illuminate from the outside entrance lamp. After a thorough washing I step into the small tub, too filled with hot water, it spills over. Once seated down I let soak my body. It is relaxing, and somehow bewildering, a digital temperature display glows in front of me. I quit the bath with reluctance hence I have to free it for Robert. Moreover, the dinner is waiting in our room. Actually the uncle looks after the grandparents. We share the table with him and one of mama's daughter. The table is right high enough to slip the legs under it. I prefer to sit on my folded legs. The meal is called nabe. A big burned bowl is on a gas stove in the center of the table. It is stuffed with a soup of cabbage, mushrooms, clams, meat, tofu, and other ingredients. With my chopstick I pick out what me pleases. It is delicious, even more with the accompanied rice, pickles, beer, and Japanese wine. The aunt does not join us. As we are guests of the host, she serves us only and eats with the grandparents in the kitchen. Uneasiness casts some doubts about tradition. At least the grandparents come along, one at a time, for a chat about agriculture. An odiferous cigarette and cheese finish the meal. The cigarette's name is peace written on the hermetically sealed can picturing a white pigeon. We have to open the can with a tin opener like tool. The grandmother is curious about the soft cheese, so the daughter pass her over a small piece. She smells at it and pushes it slowly in her mouth, begins to chew half covering her mouth with one hand. A smile hushes over her face, puzzlement rests. Perhaps the first time she ever ate something like that. She wishes us good night, so do we, and leaves the room.