We mowed his lawn, five bucks each week—the General, USMC, retired. Lacking children, he and wife and invalid sister lived in the only rancher on a block of split-levels. When word mobilized back in sixty-eight that some of us had canvassed for Eugene McCarthy, he fired us. Later he’d don his old, still-fitting fatigues. His lawn was easy to mow, hard to give up for any cause, flat except by the property line, where it peaked like a Green Beret. How unlike his other boundaries, trampled to dust from years of our cutting through (as effective as any Dow defoliant).