Lessons

       What was I doing in Japan? Gaining insight; something new and different to do. With no definitive course plotted, I wandered, wondering how it all looked from another('s) perspective. (Did you know the Asian brain actually functions differently than a European brain?) I've not always been fascinated as much as simply intrigued by the Asian people; the obvious ancestral differences, their stoic resolve, etc.

       They're hard workers to be sure, but those you can find on any continent. They're this and that, but again, one can and does see this in most any people group. Just what makes them unique in the realm of humanity? Perhaps an observation gained during one of my sojourns will give some insight.

       The opportunity to work in Japan came to me one spring day as I was finishing a winter season of Ski Patrolling. A friend, Mike Murray, had been offered the chance and had declined; my name came up and I eventually found myself on a Trans-Pacific flight, prepared for three months of building log homes. A year later I went back, and it was during this second trip that the observation I'm thinking of occurred.

       Takeo Ogi-san was almost 20 years my elder, a polite, energetic, driven man with a nervous sense of humor. He took three days off a year; one day he spent with his wife, another was spent with two sons; I never did learn what he did with the third. His English was marginal, encompassing mostly building and design; my Nihongo was even more marginal. He lived on a small plot of land in an old log home near a town called Edogawa, by lake Biwa or Biwa-ko (depending on which map you reference), north of Osaka. I stayed in a building out back which was small though comfortable and bordered a field of rice paddies.

       Our daily schedule, which we never deviated from, went something like this: a rare breakfast and be on-site by 8 a.m.; work until midday, then a break which might include lunch if I complained enough. Generally, we'd be home by 5 or 6 p.m. although 8 was not unusual. I would grab a quick shower, a cold beer and meet Ogi-san in the main house for a communal evening meal.

       By the time I got in the house, Ogi-san would be well into a bottle of something, and not always saki; Scotch and Bourbon were also favored. In America he would be called an alcoholic; not so in Japan. Alcohol there is viewed as a medicine of sorts, something to take the edge off a hard day. And boy, did he take the edge off. Said it helped him sleep. He would also have a big cauldron of steaming vegetables of some sort going, besides the standard rice, and usually some type of mystery meat; I never cared to know. We would eat like kings and laugh like paupers well into the night, conversing on a broad range of subjects over pen and paper. More than once I had to help him to the steep ship ladder that led up to his sleeping quarters, waiting anxiously at the bottom until he cleared the top.


       Sitting at dinner one evening, something caught my eye on the muted T.V. in a corner. An older Asian craftsman was standing among rows of mature, cultivated trees (Japanese Maple), of which the bottom 10-12 feet had been de-limbed, and were wrapped in what I eventually discovered to be rice paper. The man had tears in his eyes as he emotionally conveyed what I could not understand. As I asked Ogi-san for an explanation, the man began to unwrap one of the trees, revealing the inner Cambrian layer. Ogi-san explained that, earlier in its life, as the tree grew, it had been pruned and selected for its straightness. When it reached a certain age (tall enough to make a fairly uniform 10-12 foot post), it was carefully stripped of its bark; a braided, three-cord line was then laid around the trunk in a rising spiral, each spiral about a foot or so apart. The afore-mentioned rice paper was then applied, grafted in place of the original bark. And then, depending on the growth rate of the tree and the desired thickness of the final product, several years, often decades would need to pass. Eventually, when the tree was harvested, and the embedded cord removed, a beautifully braided impression was left deep in the wood. What makes this so remarkable is that this gentleman's grandfather had done this many years ago, when the tree was very young, knowing he himself would never see the end product; his selfless labor is why the man had tears in his eyes. This level of foresight is rarely, if ever, found in America; we have much to learn.