Life in America (1) Mr. Spiro, the WWII Veteran

Mr. Spiro, the WWII Veteran

 

When we moved to this neighborhood, the houses were old, but the front and back yards were spacious, and the houses were far apart. Spring arrived, bringing lush green grass and flourishing trees. Looking out the window felt like living in a park, which lifted my spirits.

 

Having been a former "educated youth" (知青), I was used to physical labor. With plenty of free time, I thought mowing the lawn was a good way to break a sweat and get some exercise. I even planted a small vegetable garden in the backyard. Watering the plants daily and watching them grow gave me a serene, pastoral feeling, reminiscent of Tao Yuanming’s idyllic countryside life.

 

While busy working around the house, I noticed that the elderly man living next door often watched me. He was a short, slightly hunched white man, probably in his seventies, but looked quite spirited. He lived alone, could drive himself, and I often saw him reading newspapers at the city library.

 

He took walks every morning and evening for at least 40 minutes each time, walking at a pace comparable to that of an average middle-aged person. He loved tidying up, cleaning his house and the pathways around it. Although he had hired a lawn care company, he frequently swept his driveway, picked up fallen branches, and raked leaves. His lawn always looked neat and well-maintained, healthier than Mr. Zhang’s and certainly better than mine.

 

In his backyard stood a peculiar, colorful iron structure, over three meters tall. I had no idea what it was for.

 

One day, while I was mowing the lawn near the border of his yard, he waved at me. I stopped to greet him, and he gestured for me to come over. I walked over and asked what he needed.

 

He said, "I've been observing you for a while and think you're a capable person. I have a tree with a dead branch. Can you help me cut it off?" 

 

I followed him to the front of his house, where there was a tree about the thickness of a bowl. About a meter up, a dead branch as thick as an arm stretched out over two meters. Pointing at it, he asked, "That’s the one. Can you do it?"

 

I looked at it and said, "I think I can."

 

He asked, "How much do you want for it?"

 

I hadn’t thought about charging him. I figured we were neighbors, and it was just a favor. So, I said I didn’t want any money.

 

He insisted, "No, I can’t let you work without paying you. You must accept payment, or forget it."

 

Seeing how adamant he was, I hesitated and quoted a "high price": "$30."

 

Without hesitation, he replied, "I'll give you $50."

 

There was no point in arguing, so I went home to get an axe. However, I quickly realized the branch was surrounded by others, making it impossible to chop. I switched to a saw, but the tree was too hard, and my saw was too small to make progress. No wonder he offered $50—this wasn’t going to be easy.

 

I had to call a friend nearby who owned an electric saw. He agreed to lend it to me. I picked it up, connected the extension cord, and began sawing. It was still challenging due to the surrounding branches, which limited my movement. After sweating profusely for about ten minutes, I finally managed to cut through. Then, per the old man's request, I removed the small twigs, sawed the large branch into four pieces (since the garbage collectors wouldn’t take it if it was too long), and placed everything into a trash bin. I also swept up the sawdust and debris. It took me about an hour, and I was drenched in sweat—much tougher than I had anticipated.

 

The old man was very satisfied, handed me the $50 with sincere gratitude, saying, "Thank you!"

 

This kind of job wouldn’t attract a professional tree service—they usually charge hundreds, if not over a thousand dollars, especially for trees near houses. Even just showing up would cost at least $500–600. That’s why he was willing to pay me $50.

 

That was my first real interaction with him.

 

Although we became more familiar over time, we didn’t interact much because he was quite self-sufficient. However, we did have a few conversations.

 

He claimed he was 90, but later I learned he was actually 87 that year—he had exaggerated a bit. Still, for an 87-year-old to live independently, drive, and take two 40-minute walks daily was impressive.

 

He told me he cooked all his meals, rarely ate out, and mainly ate fish, chicken, and vegetables. He didn’t drink alcohol or smoke. Occasionally, he went dancing and proudly claimed he was pretty good at it. The much younger ladies he danced with didn’t know his real age, and his dance moves made him seem much younger. As he spoke, he even demonstrated a graceful spin, looking quite skilled.

 

He said he had studied art in college and worked in art-related fields throughout his career. After retirement, he continued creating art. Every year, he participated in the city’s art festival, selling his artworks. I often saw him put up a sign for the festival on his front lawn about a month before the event, held by the city government near a pond opposite the public library. Exhibitors displayed their paintings, photography, and crafts for sale. A Chinese friend of mine, an avid photographer, participated a few times. Booth rentals cost about $100, and her framed photos sold for $50–100 each, leaving little profit after expenses. But it was a hobby, and seeing people appreciate her work gave her a sense of accomplishment.

 

I attended the festival once, saw her and her work, but didn’t pay much attention to other booths. At the time, I didn’t know the old man, so I didn’t notice if he was there. Later, he set up another green iron structure on his front lawn, which looked like a frog. When I asked if it was a frog, he said yes.

He mentioned that his younger brother had passed away over a decade ago, suggesting that his longevity wasn’t due to genetics but a healthy lifestyle.

 

We moved away in 2010. In 2015, when I invited Mr. Shu Shaoping from Zhijiang to host a seminar on the 70th anniversary of Japan’s surrender in WWII, I took him to visit the old neighborhood. We saw Mr. Zhang and learned that the elderly white man had been taken in by his daughter due to declining health. He passed away that October at the age of 95.

 

His obituary appeared in “The Star-Ledger”, New Jersey’s largest newspaper. That’s how I learned his name was Edmund Spiro, and he was a WWII veteran. He was an active community member, fondly remembered by many friends.

 

The obituary noted he was born in Poland, lived in East Brunswick for 50 years, was self-employed, a poet, an artist, a WWII veteran, a founding member of the East Brunswick Jewish Center, held a master’s degree in humanities, and served on the East Brunswick Arts Commission.

 

It turned out he was Jewish, born in Poland—likely a survivor who escaped to the U.S. A seemingly ordinary old man had such a rich life story. In his later years, he lived independently, remained active in the community, was passionate about art, served others, and enriched his own life.

 

He never mentioned his service in WWII, showing his humility. While writing this, I looked him up online and found some of his oil paintings for sale. He must’ve showcased them at the city’s art festival.

 

Today, I write this tribute to honor this WWII veteran, talented artist, and my dear old neighbor.

 

Lewei Shang, Written in 2021