[Note: This story is not a criticism of Buddhism. It is a story of neighborly love.]
Introduction
He was the least likely of neighbors to do this thing, a Buddhist turned Roman Catholic, patriarch of a California wine-growing clan.
I was a Southern Baptist youth, only recently learned how to shave, and served in the new "Korean War" as a sailor.
You know the rashness of youth. I wondered aloud, "How is it that you, a Japanese Buddhist, came to be sending your son to Mary Knoll Seminary to become a Catholic priest?"
The lesson he taught me about the important Business of being a good neighbor has not been lost for more than fifty years. Here's his story in his own words.
The Patriarch's Story
At the beginning of World War II, I was struggling whether to enlist in military service. My struggle was not because I was Nisei. It was because I had a wife. I had three small children. How might I best serve my country, care for my young family, and manage my new vineyards? Even at Home, I was struggling to maintain them. What would happen if I left to join the service?
I might well not have worried.
At 10:00 a.m. one morning three Military Police arrived at my Home in a covered truck. They pounded on my door. They entered my house without permission.
"Pack one overnight bag for your family," the leader told me. "Be quick about it!"
By 10:15 a.m. my family and I were in the back of the truck. We were on our way to what was called a "relocation center." It was far from my own neighborhood. I never had time to call a neighbor, Nor was I allowed to contact anyone to tell them what was happening.
By evening we were in a fenced enclosure. It was to be our Home until the end of the war.
He sipped his wine. I was a teetotaler, but because I was a guest in his house, and didn't want to make a fuss, I had accepted a glass. I tentatively sipped a swallow and set the glass down.
"The wine is not good?" he had asked.
"Too good," I had answered. "If I get started, I might not be able to stop."
He smiled and nodded knowingly. He continued his story.
When we returned after the war-all Nisei returned to the area-we found our Homes gone. Our Businesses gone. Sold for taxes to our neighbors. The first year we were gone.
I couldn't believe it. All the vines I had labored so arduously to plant, to nurture. All the contracts I had so carefully negotiated with the distillery. The Home my wife and I had so lovingly remodeled. Evenings when it was too dark to work the vineyards. Gone!
We could lay claim to no part of our former possessions-property, furniture, jewelry. Nothing.
I walked the city streets in disbelief. I wondered how I could ever start over again. We were still despised as "Japs." By both the local population and former neighbors. Finding even the most menial work was unlikely,
I was in tears. What would I tell my wife?
But she knew. Surely she already knew. Something of this magnitude could not be hidden.
Perhaps in another part of the country I could get a job as a gardener.
"You know, lots of rich folks love to have a Japanese gardener," he said bitterly.
I looked around. Invaluable appointments. Lovely brocaded furniture. Priceless wall hangings. Luxurious carpets. What did he mean by "rich folks."
He sighed at the memory of his misery. He took another sip of wine. He continued.
As I stood there, tears in my eyes, someone called my name. I turned to face the voice. It was my old neighbor. He was a vineyard owner on the land next to mine-next to the land that used to be mine.
I had helped him irrigate his vines by hand one year when the drought threatened our crops. He had helped me choose the best stock to plant when I had first started. I thought we had been good neighbors.
When I returned to the area, I found that it was he who had bought my pro
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