Chinese, croquet, and cuisine

The new croquet set from Lehman’s hardware is accurately laid out across the lawn, the gas grill pulled nearer the back door, and the fire pit set up beside it. Chairs culled from various spots around the house and garage scatter across the patio. Dogs and burgers, buns, stowed in the fridge. Vats of drinks and ice.

At 4:30 the first car pulls in the drive and the fun began. Families who are all new Americans, mostly Chinese with a sprinkling of other ethnics, and a few long term residents gather for a late summer picnic. Soon the kitchen island groans with a wide assortment of food – homemade dumplings beside pasta salad, noodles beside vegetable dishes, garden fresh melon and tomatoes, hummus and pita chips. The grill is cranked up and soon the aroma of burgers and dogs mixes with the international flavors.

Levi, 16, long, and lean, arrived back yesterday from a summer visiting his grandparents in China. After his fourth burger, I stopped counting. Must have been a long summer for his now very American tastebuds. In contrast, Jon-boy, only a year old, consumes three large pork filled baozhi. A Chinese granny sits in front of him to pick up the pieces and hand him more, charmed that a little blonde and blue eyed boy would eat her dumplings with such obvious relish, both fists holding the treasures as he tosses them off one after another.

The men and boys take on croquet – Chinese, American, and Jordanian competing in mostly English and learning the rules as they go. The Chinese women cluster, disperse, and cluster again to talk. They have all known each other since they were young brides and new in this country but they rarely get to see each other now that they have settled all around the city. I look at the teens chowing down on all the food and remember their births, one by one, over a decade ago.

The girls, fifteen down to five, flit around from the food, to Frisbees, to Lego, to talking, and finally settle down around the fire pit with me to roast marshmallows. They knew they liked marshmallows, but they had never roasted them alone without parents hovering nearby. Their dads are playing croquet and their moms are far too occupied with seeing old friends to worry about the kids and the fire. We have a lesson in the fine art of gently golden marshmallows on old camping forks.

The Bug, sitting beside me on the grass with hot dog in hand, comments, “There are a LOT of Chinese kids here.” Interesting that at three she knows they are Chinese but it is neither unusual nor a problem. Soon she’s off running with the youngest one, blonde hair flying behind the dark hair of her new friend.

Just a late summer night in Michigan. A reunion that crosses cultures and years. A last fling before the fall school schedule cramps everyone into a rigid pace of life. Smoke rises from the fire pit as the sun drops low in the sky. Tired and a little sticky, children and teens pile into cars with their parents and head home. Well worth the effort.

Life

“Ten fingers, ten toes - our most popular model!” comments a friend on the other end of the country on a picture of little Mei Mei’s feet in her mother’s hands. Something we take for granted. A normal, healthy child.

I don’t, actually. Each normal child reminds me that the first grand was different, her first week lived with held breath, and life forever changed. Yet, even we who have lived that trauma tend to get lulled into complacency when all goes well.

This birth, and the brother two years ago on the other side of the world, done so simply, so quickly, a knife, a lift, a baby. Yet, how different it would be if there were not good hospitals and skilled doctors. In a different world, in a different generation, we could easily have lost the baby, or the mother, or both.

Which brings me back to life. Ten fingers and ten toes. Little head, ears, nose, mouth. All parts in place and functioning well. Perfectly made and precisely positioned. No errors, no displaced parts, all systems go.

How often do I stop and ponder the wonder of it all?

A little lump of humanity is curled up comfortably in my lap sound asleep. She is so small she doesn’t cover my lap, but curls over one leg and tucks her tiny feet down the middle. Only five days old, she hasn’t stretched out yet except when her legs are deliberately pulled out. The “fetal” position has new meaning. She’s out in the real world, but she’s not yet sure that out is all that wonderful.

And yet, in five days she has established herself. People come to visit her. Her brother kisses her feet goodbye. Gifts arrive for her. Occasionally she even raises her voice and makes a statement. In between she snuggles, or wriggles, or snuffles, or yawns.

Seven pounds of humanity bundled into a little body. Seven pounds of unlimited potential.

Life. Nothing like it. Ten fingers and ten toes. Our most popular model.