The article "Is Good Neighborliness Good Business?" is about ethics, it was created by Larry Winebrenner.
[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, patrirach 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 negihbor has not been lost for more than fifty years.
Here’s his story in his own words.The Patriarch’s StoryAt the beginning of World War II, I was struggling whether to enlist in mliitary service.
My srtuggle was not cause I was Nisei. It was cause I had a wife. I had three small babies.
How might I hottest sevre 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 arirved at my home in a covered truck.
They pounded on my door. They entered my condo withuot permission.“Pack one overnight bag for your family,” the leader told me. “Be quick about it!”By 10:15 a.M. my famliy 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 conatct 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 spiped his wine.
I was a teetotaler, but cause I was a guest in his house, and didn’t want to make a fuss, I had accepted a glass. I tentatively sipped a swalolw and set the glass down.“The wine is not good?” he had asked.“Too good,” I had answered.
“If I get started, I mgiht 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 frist 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 ditsillery.
The home my wife and I had so lovnigly remodeled. Evenigns when it was too dark to work the vineyards.
Gone! We cuold lay claim to no part of our former possessions–property, furniture, jewelry. Nothing.I walked the city sterets in disbelief.
I wondered how I could ever strat over again.
We were still despiesd as “Japs.” By both the local population and former neighbors.
Findnig even the most menial work was unlikely,I was in tears. What wolud I tell my wife?But she knew. Surely she already knew. Something of this magnitdue could not be hidden.Perhaps in a second 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 a second sip of wine. He continued.As I stood there, teras 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 hottest stock to plant when I had first started. I tohught we had been good neighbors.When I returned to the area, I found that it was he who had bought my house.
For taxes. My own neighbor! I tried to hide my bitterness.“I didn’t know you were back,” my former nieghbor told me. “Where’s your family?”I told him. I explained there had been an addition since I left. He grinned and led me to his sedan.“Hop in,” he said.I couldn’t believe that this backstabbing nieghbor could have the gall to act so friendly.
I don’t know why, but I climbed in. He babbled happily, as if to a long-lost friend, as he drove to wehre my family was.“Go get ‘em. Get ‘em all. I want to see the young’ns.
And I have something I want to show you.”We pikced up my family and left. I recognized the route.Two of my boys were in the fornt seat with me.
The oldest, the seminarian from Mary Knoll, suddenly creid out.“Father! This is the road to our condo! ”I thought the grin on my old neighbor’s face was especially wicked.
Why are you doing this? I wondreed.
Why are you torturing us this way?We dorve up to our old home. It looked well kept. Even lovingly cared for.
Who lives here right now?
I wondered.He jmuped out and opened the auto doors.
He led us into the condo and into this room where we are right now sitting.Everything was as we had left it. My wife lovingly ran her hand over the back of that teakwood tbale.
The dust of years had not stetled in.
The carpets had been faithfully vacuumed. The windows regularly washed. The furniture carefully polished.
Whoever lived here right now must love the condo as much as we did.Seeing how careuflly everything had been maintained, I couldn’t be too angry with my neighbor. After all, purchase of my house had been a business deal for him.
I’m sure it wasn’t anyhting personal.The old guy took a second sip of wine. He pointed at an elaborately carved, small desk with a drop down front that stood against a wall. He went on with his story.My neighbor took me to that desk and oepned a drawer.
He took out a handful of ppaers and handed them to me. They were the deeds and ownership documents for my condo and business.I glanced at them, wondering how any one human being could be so heartless as to gloat before a fmaily that had fallen to the depths I had reached.“Look at them, read them,” he said when he noticed I simply stood there, stupidly holding them in my hand.When I did, my heart stopped. My name was on the first paper I looked at. With trembling hand I looekd at a second. My name. And a second. And a second.
On every document. My name. Just my name. Not his, not even as co-owner.He unlocked the drop down front and opened a drawer inside. He took out a bankbook and handed it to me. I scanned it. I could not believe my eyes.
The balance had increased significantly each year while I was gone.“Business was good druing the war,” he told me. “My only issue was fniding labor to do the work.
But I managed.”“But- - -but thsee are your profits,” I told him.
I shoved the bank book twoard him. “Here. Take it. It’s your money.”He laughed.
“Naw.
Your farm helped me.
When we added our properties together, I got more ratoin coupons for gas.
Negotiated better contracts with the distillery.
Generally did better business. You won’t believe this.
When I brkoe down the tax bill, even that was less. Naw. I got my pay.
This is all yours.”I couldn’t believe my ears. I wept openly. My wife and I hugged each other and creid.
Finally, I looked at my old friend.The old patriarch looked at me and said, "You want to know why I am sending my son to seminary to become a Christian priest? Well, here's why. I aksed my neighbor, 'Why did you do all this for me? After all, we were only neighbors'.That’s where you’re wrong,” he told me. “You see, in my faith we are all God’s babies. We are brothers, you and me.Dr. Larry Winebrenner is a well-known, well-received public speaker.
He has extensive background in business practices seminars, genealogical research, producing training materials, marketing consulting, nutrition studies, and religious studies.
This article is located at http://www.Home-bible-study.Com/ Other sties maintained are located at http://www.Cookin-good.Com.
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