The Smiling Man

The maneki-neko, or beckoning cat, is common in Japan. It’s perched outside stores, waving paw literally beckoning passersby to come and spend money.

I did not expect to see the beckoning cat at the Kamakura Beach Fest. Yet there it was, perfectly sculpted of sand, complete with steps and smartly roped off. What’s more, the carved stairs were littered with money; people were praying to this sand cat.

My child darted between stakes and I grabbed his shirt to hold him back. No, he couldn’t walk up the steps and pet the cat. “This is someone’s art,” I said. “Someone made this out of sand. Isn’t that cool?” He nodded, clearly still thinking about how he could sneak a feel.

Then, from nowhere, a man who was certainly over 45 but could have been 85 (I feel Japanese people age in a mysterious sort of way) gestured toward the sculpture, smiling a kind of smile I had never seen before. Grandfatherly? No, that wasn’t it.

“To pray.” He said. “Know how?”

“Hai, yes,” I responded, but he wasn’t asking me. He squatted down, took my sons hands, and clapped them twice. “Now throw money.” He waited, still smiling. It wasn’t the polite smile variety either.

I realized we were actually doing this. I fumbled through my backpack and handed over a 50 yen coin. Better not to be cheap with the gods. “Go ahead, throw it in.”

My son drew back his arm in full slingshot mode, primed to take out beckoning sand cat’s eye. The man wrapped his hand around my son’s drawn fist. “Gently, gently,” he coaxed. The coin landed in the vicinity of the stairs.

Phew.

“Now bow head, make wish.”

My son wished to pet the cat.

The man patted my son’s head, smiling. Did he just think my son was a cute kid? I couldn’t put my finger on that flavor of smile and it bothered me.

In my American mind we should have parted ways then. This man was helping some foreigners navigate the cultural landscape. And he obviously liked kids. He educated us; we indulged him. Very cool. Now on to that unoccupied space down the beach…

“His name?” The man stood at around 5’4″, rubbing his hands together like a healer. I noticed a piece of masking tape on his t-shirt with what I’m assuming was his own name written in Sharpie.

“Daniel,” I replied.

It bears noting here that I’m from the Midwest, so I’m virtually incapable of being impolite to strangers (yet have no trouble with family).

“Dahn-yell,” he repeated, his ceaseless smile somehow growing even warmer. “Dahn-yell, come make.” He took my son by the hand to a stretch of beach beyond the sand cat shrine. I followed, unsure if I was even invited to join.

He called to a younger woman with a shovel and pointed to my son. She smiled, too, and she began shoveling sand.

He disappeared and reappeared with a big green garbage can – as big as one you’d actually use to put out your trash – except the bottom was cut out. Talking to his partner, he positioned the can top down on the mound, rotating it back and forth until he was happy with the fit.

I watched, feeling a little stupid really that they were going to all this trouble for us.

“Mommy, can we go in the water now?”

“No,” I snapped, “these nice people are showing us how to do this,” though I wasn’t entirely sure what “this” was. Either way, the man was still smiling, so I kept smiling back.  I wished I’d given Daniel 100 yen to throw the cat so I could have sneaked in a prayer for his good behavior.

She shoveled more sand and soon he poured water from a bucket, carefully, and not the full bucket. Just enough, in his estimation. Then he whisked up my son and plopped him into the can, holding him by the armpits to keep him steady. “Stomp stomp stomp,” he said with gusto.

Stomping is Daniel’s specialty, but of course he just looked at me like it was the first time he’d heard the word.

“Stomp your feet,” I said, stomping my own to encourage him. “Like you’re making wine.”

Yes, yes I said that. I was nervous about disappointing the most enthusiastic smiling man I’d ever met and I reverted to an I Love Lucy reference.

Finally Daniel stomped. He giggled and splashed muddy water all over us.

“Goman nasai,” I said, apologizing. The woman waved me off.

“Ok ok stop.” I lifted Daniel out and they started again, the woman shoveling sand and packing it with the blade. The smiling man pouring some water, judging the texture, pouring a little more.

“Stomp stomp,” he ordered. His smile hadn’t faded, but his brow was knit with the seriousness of the task.

After a while my myopia lessened and I realized this portion of the beach was dotted with garbage cans and shovels and little trays of bamboo tools. This was not a private lesson in sand art, it was a public effort to allow anyone to experience sculpture. A pack of boys dressed in Cub Scout style uniforms shaped a mound into a cat. A young couple with a baby also worked on a cat. What was it with cats?

I found a shovel and added some sand, but I think I was messing with their wa because the smiling man said, “It’s ok. We make.”

After the fourth round of stomping the man said, “Ok ok,” and shooed Daniel back a few feet. His face became completely serious. He squatted down and wrapped his arms around the base of the garbage can, wiggling it a little one way, then the other. He instructed the woman to add more sand to one spot – not level enough – so she did. He wiggled more and as the plastic flexed I panicked. What if it didn’t work? What if the can didn’t come off? Will he want to start all over again? He had spent the better half of an hour with us, smiling at us.

A low sort of squelch eeked out and, like the canned cranberry gelatin on Thanksgiving, this can gave way to a perfect, 30 gallon tower of sand.

“Ah,” he said, grinning broadly. “For you Dahn-yell.”

We smiled and clapped. “Arigato gosaimasu,” I said and bowed. The tower was really pretty amazing: wet enough to sculpt and dense enough to hold together.

“Regatoe gozaimash,” my son echoed. “Wow, this tower is perfect for smashing.”

I dropped to my knees and waved my hands in his face. “No no, now we decorate it. No smashing.” I glanced at the smiling man and he was still smiling, so maybe he didn’t hear or didn’t understand. He pointed to a nearby tray of bamboo tools. “Now you make.” Then he left.

We avoided the peer pressure to make a cat and settled for an extremely sub-par castle. As Daniel scraped out some doors I watched the smiling man weave between garbage cans, helping adults and children experience What it feels like to create.

And when the smiling man was far out of sight, I let Daniel smash the tower.

Upon reflection, I am sure the smiling man is the artist who made the sand maneki-neko. It wouldn’t surprise me if he also lugged all the cans and shovels and bamboo carving tools to the beach at daybreak, just waiting to share his gift with anyone within his reach.

I think he wasn’t smiling at us, he was smiling from within himself. And I think that smile comes with the directive to help anyone you meet feel a piece of how you feel. I am going to practice smiling from within, instead of smiling at. I don’t know how, exactly, but when I figure it out I’ll be sure to help others find their smile, too.