He was a neighbor, a quiet, unshakably moral and courteous Japanese man who was a teenager at the onset of WWI, driving a team of horses on his father's farm on the Sacramento River delta.
I was re-roofing my home, and as there were half a dozen layers of shingles to be removed, by the fourth day he arrived by my side with a wooden produce box and a small garden rake and began to load the debris, one level crate at a time, walking slowly around the house, to the roll-off dumpster, and repeat.
He continued to work without comment or break for over six hours, accepting a glass of water when I stopped for coffee. Thereafter he was working by my side within minutes of my beginning anew, and for two weeks we spoke perhaps a dozen courteous salutations and observations about the day, and the delight in feeling useful to a youngster like me.
Now, as time has begun to take a little toll on my body, I remember him. Though he had to me nearing one hundred years old, his gentle, genuine smile held no complaint of life, nor his station in it, nor was there ever a disparaging word. When he chose a task, he completed it and the result was impeccable.
I am reminded to comment, even to accept less complaint from my heart, my outlook, and my station - for truly, life is good.
