Smeared Type

By Jian Ping

Booster

My girlfriend WJ called earlier in the week. We used to get together frequently when I lived in the western suburb of Chicago, but over the last year or so, we didn’t keep in touch.

I was very happy to hear her voice and eager to receive the updates of her world. I couldn’t believe her daughter had graduated from university last May (I thought she’d graduate this year) and her sister’s older daughter, whom I saw every time we got together, had been in college for nearly a year. In my mind, the images of these two girls were still that of a teenager, if not younger.

Then, I was surprised to learn about the death of her five-year-old dog, Booster, a beautiful Chinese Shar-Pei. “Kidney failure,” she said. For the last 15 years or so since I had known her and her husband, they had always had a dog, always a Shar-Pei. “Dog food and snacks imported from China are known to cause kidney failures for dogs and cats,” the veterinarian who had attended Booster told her. She didn’t know. Now, in order not to take any risk for their new puppy, another Shar-Pei named Rocky, my friend is cooking meals for him!  

How time flies! we exclaimed.

The fact that the next generation have grown up only made us more aware of our own age, or aging. To her credit, WJ started dancing a few years ago with a group and had been giving performances to the public in various occasions. She was, and still is, very passionate about it and has gotten quite good at it as well. A wise step–not only to defy aging, but also to enjoy a social and vigarious activity. 

We should definitely be mindful and appreciative of the time we have and take full advantage of every day, every minute. 

Jian Ping, author of Mulberry Child: A Memoir of China. For more information, visit www.mulberrychild.com, www.moraquest.com. Mulberry Child is being developed into a feature-length documentary film by award-winning director Susan Morgan Cooper and will be released in 2011.

By Jian Ping

Site of Accident

I took the 1^st outbound Metra train at 5:55 this morning to give a talk at a Rotary Club in Algonquin, a northwest suburb of Chicago. Randy, a Rotarian at the club, graciously agreed to meet me at the Fox River Grove Station. It was a beautiful morning. As I read a book on the train, I couldn’t help from raising my eyes and looking at the trees and the buildings that passed by, their colors turning quickly from a light gray to bright gold with the rising of the sun.

As the train moved closer to my destination, I left Randy a message, telling him I was 10 minutes away. But shortly after I put away my phone, the train halted to a stop in the middle of nowhere. Passengers got restless after five minutes and I heard people talking over their phone, trying to find out what was going on. I picked up words such as “an accident,” “a pedestrian being hit.” The speaker on the train was eerily quiet. Just as I reached Randy over the phone, the train started moving. But my relief didn’t last long—the train pulled into the Barrington Station and the conductor got everyone off the train, saying this was as far as it could go. Fortunately, Randy offered to drive over and pick me up at the Barrington Station.

We managed to get to the breakfast meeting at Algonquin 20 minutes late. With the help of another Rotarian, I was able to hook up my computer to a projector and gave my talk after a quick breakfast. We rushed through a Q & A session and book signing. Donald, another Rotarian, gave me a ride back to the Barrington Train Station. We watched one train moving out of the station as we pulled in, and I was surprised to see the bright headlight of another train approaching. I thanked Donald and walked toward the platform. As I settled in a seat five minutes later, I heard a male announcer’s voice: “This is the 6:48 a.m. train. We are being delayed for more than two hours.” He didn’t give any reason for the delay and a conductor told me a high school student was hit and killed by a train earlier in the morning. My heart sank at the news.

Looking out through a window, I could see a few clusters of high clouds against the blue sky and the sun was shining beautifully, oblivious to the tragic loss of a young life. I couldn’t bring myself to imagine the fatal moment when the teenager decided to step onto the tracks as a fast moving train approached.

“Once again, sorry for the delay,” the male voice from the speaker brought me back to reality when the train moved into the Chicago Station. “We’re doing everything we can to manage the situation,” the voice continued. “It’s still a beautiful day out there. Let’s make the best out of it.”

I got off the train, nodding farewell silently to the conductor. Streams of people rushed out from the platform and moved quickly to get to their offices or other destinations. My thought turned again to the teenager who lost his or her life earlier in the day. I felt keenly aware of the vulnerability of life.

Yes, I thought of the announcer’s words, we sure need to “make the best out of it,” out of every day of our life.

(Only later in the afternoon I found online that the death of a senior from a high school was ruled suicide. His car was found 20 feet away from the accident site and an engineer on the train saw him walk onto the tracks as the train approached!)

Jian Ping, author of Mulberry Child: A Memoir of China. Visit www.moraquest.com, www.mulberrychild.com.

By Nancy Werking Poling

author of Out of the Pumpkin Shell

Taking a break from sitting at my computer (I hesitate to suggest I was writing, as I spent most of the time staring at the screen), I wandered around the wooded lot of our new home. The builder conscientiously worked at destroying as few trees as possible. Our lot slopes, so in spite of the crew’s efforts, roots were disturbed, trunks scarred, branches broken.

As I walked around I noticed two trees that did not come back to life this spring. Their branches are leafless, yet in a few places along the trunks clusters of green sprigs erupt. Though these trees are practically dead, they cling to life.

In South Korea I frequently saw old decrepit trees being supported by wires. I recall that in a busy sector of Seoul the sidewalk made a detour around one. A plaque identified it as a National Treasure. In the U.S., I know, the tree would have been cut down long ago, partly because it stood in the way of progress, partly because its condition demanded time and money more effectively spent elsewhere. Whether trees or people are involved, Koreans have a quite different attitude about age than we do.

As I consider the trees on our lot and ones in Korea, I am reminded of how my mother-in-law is tenaciously holding on to life. At ninety-eight, she is blind and deaf and has been hospitalized twice in the past six months, both times with infections that would kill many younger people. While we were moving, the clothes for her funeral were in a garment bag, ready for us to grab should she die while our circumstances felt so disorganized. Yet she holds on to life, telling my brother-in-law not long ago that she still has “things to do.”

We often hear of costs incurred in the later years. Old people are expensive, requiring extra care and medical procedures. Without being direct, we imply that there comes a time when it’s better to quit offering medical treatment.

Yes, I’m sure my mother-in-law’s care has cost insurers and hospitals dearly. But who is to say that her life isn’t worth living anymore? Perhaps she does have more to do, more thoughts and memories to sort out before she dies.

Like the two trees in my yard, she sends out sprigs of green, holding on to life as tightly as she can.

My husband Francis and I went to San Francisco to attend the wake and funeral of my father-in-law Marvin last week. All his children—three sons and two daughters—and five out of seven of his grandchildren gathered together. We went to his wake at the Duggan’s Serra Mortuary shortly after our arrival.

I was awed by the sight the moment I stepped into the room where my father-in-law’s body was placed. Rows of large flower wreaths from family members and friends surrounded him. Most of the flower arrangements were in white, light pink or yellow tone, and consisted mostly of orchids and lilies. They varied in size and shape, but all appeared pure, serene, and beautiful. They filled the room with a strong, soothing fragrance. We observed the tradition of paying our respect by bowing three times to him. Later, in front of all the relatives and friends, each of his children and their respective spouse laid a silk blanket over him, followed by his grandchildren—they were supposed to keep him warm in the unknown world. Marvin had his favorite hat and glasses on and looked peaceful and content. A portrait of him in his forties stood beside him, an image I had never seen before. He wore a tie, a pair of black rim glasses and dark suit, looking like a college professor. Marvin came to the US in his early forties to make a living to support his family in Hong Kong. He worked at odd jobs all his life, mostly in Chinese restaurants. I wondered what his life would have been if he had the opportunity of attending college. All his children, however, emerged from poverty and are doing well, with two sons having doctoral degrees. And all his grandchildren either finished colleges or are college bound. He got to be proud of his achievements.

We returned to the Mortuary the following day for Marvin’s funeral. Sylvia, one of his granddaughters, took out her long flute and started the procession by playing the Amazing Grace. Francis and Arthur, a grandson, each gave a short but touching eulogy. The mourning for his loss turned into a celebration of his life. As Sylvia returned to the front and played the moving Shenandoah, my emotions went up and down with her melodies. Tears ran down my face, for Marvin and the beauty of his continued life through his descendents.

May peace be with him, forever.     

Jian Ping, author of Mulberry Child: A Memoir of China. www.mulberrychild.com