A 6'3" man in Georgia knocked on my door holding a printout titled HOW TO BOW. His daughter was marrying a Japanese man. The groom's parents were flying in from Osaka. Dale had left Georgia once in his life. For a football game. "I want to do it right," he said. "Teach me." A MAN WHO SELLS TRACTORS WISHES TO HONOR MY ANCESTORS. I accepted. I warned him I would be strict. My teacher was strict. His teacher was stricter. That is how bowing survives. So for three weeks, every night, in Dale's garage, next to a bass boat, I taught a man who sells tractors how to bow. He was terrible. He bowed like a man looking for his keys. He bowed like a falling tree. On day 6 he pulled something in his back and bowed for two days with an ice pack duct-taped to it. He never missed a night. "Again," he said. Every time. "Again." By week three, Dale bowed beautifully. Thirty degrees. Hands at his sides. Eyes down. I was so proud I couldn't speak. The wedding day. The groom's father stepped out of the car. Mr. Tanaka. Small. Grey suit. Very serious. Dale stepped forward and bowed. Perfect. At the exact same moment, Mr. Tanaka thrust out his hand and said, loudly, carefully: "HOWDY, PARTNER." He had been practicing too. Six weeks. In Osaka. With YouTube. Dale's head went down. Mr. Tanaka's hand went forward. His palm hit Dale square in the forehead. Silence. Mr. Tanaka bowed to apologize. Dale stuck out his hand to apologize. They did this four more times. The bride was crying. Then laughing. Then the entire wedding was laughing. Finally Dale just hugged him. Mr. Tanaka, who has never hugged anyone, hugged back. Two fathers. Nine weeks of practice. Zero successful greetings. Best greeting I've ever seen. Mr. Tanaka texts Dale every morning now. One word. "Howdy." Dale bows to his phone.