Jian Ping's column
A Nice Treat
A Nice Treat
By Jian Ping
I was recently invited to talk to a women’s book group in Hartland, a suburb of Milwaukee by
Karen, my friend Mary’s mother. On a sunny Wednesday, Mary took time off from work and gave
me a ride to her parents’ home. As we got closer, she took a scenic drive and showed me
Beaver Lake—her parents’ home is located along its shore. I could see the glistening water
through the thicket of trees between the lake and the road. Beaver Lake, on which Mary had
spent endless hours cruising and water skiing, appeared larger than I expected.
Karen came to the door to meet us. She wore a burgundy silk top and her hair was tied
back with a matching red ribbon. She looked much younger than her 80 years. Two of Mary’s
relatives, Peggy and Ross, were there as well. We chatted over a table of veggies, cheese and
crackers in the living room. I soon learned that one of Peggy’s sons and her daughter-in-law
were published writers. Later, Mary’s father Bill returned home from his golf outing, proud of his
winnings of $11. “Better than losing 50 bucks,” he said, laughing. He took us to his Golf Club for
dinner along Beaver Lake. I enjoyed a hearty meal of lamb chops, my favorite, and lots of
laughter over our conversation—it was home away from home for me, and later, I joked with
Mary to ask her mother to adopt me as her Chinese daughter.
I was recently invited to talk to a women’s book group in Hartland, a suburb of Milwaukee by
Karen, my friend Mary’s mother. On a sunny Wednesday, Mary took time off from work and gave
me a ride to her parents’ home. As we got closer, she took a scenic drive and showed me
Beaver Lake—her parents’ home is located along its shore. I could see the glistening water
through the thicket of trees between the lake and the road. Beaver Lake, on which Mary had
spent endless hours cruising and water skiing, appeared larger than I expected.
Karen came to the door to meet us. She wore a burgundy silk top and her hair was tied
back with a matching red ribbon. She looked much younger than her 80 years. Two of Mary’s
relatives, Peggy and Ross, were there as well. We chatted over a table of veggies, cheese and
crackers in the living room. I soon learned that one of Peggy’s sons and her daughter-in-law
were published writers. Later, Mary’s father Bill returned home from his golf outing, proud of his
winnings of $11. “Better than losing 50 bucks,” he said, laughing. He took us to his Golf Club for
dinner along Beaver Lake. I enjoyed a hearty meal of lamb chops, my favorite, and lots of
laughter over our conversation—it was home away from home for me, and later, I joked with
Mary to ask her mother to adopt me as her Chinese daughter.
| Jian Ping |
Soon after we came back to the house, Karen and Bill retired for the
night. Mary and I sat in thescreened porch and read into the night. All I could
hear was the buzzing cicadas. No squeaking of speeding tires or humming
traffic. As I commented to Mary how quiet and peaceful it felt, I heard a
rustling in the bushes next to the window. Mary smiled, saying it must be
their neighbor’s dog. Sure enough, a thin, furry face of brown and white
popped up above the screen, but disappeared after a quick peep. “He will be
back for a biscuit in the morning,” Mary said.
I sat alone in the dark for half an hour after Mary went to bed. Flood
lights lit the backyard, highlighting the green lawn and the leafy bushes. I
swung back and forth on the cushioned, comfortable chair, savoring the
undisturbed beauty of the night.
Early in the morning, I sneaked out of the house for a run. The sun was
about to rise and the morning air felt fresh and cool. I followed a paved trail
and ran around a nearby newly developed subdivision—all enormously
large houses, some still under construction. These customized houses
seemed to compete for size and ostentation—certainly no sign of recession
here. When I made my way back 50 minutes later, I ran directly to the lake
night. Mary and I sat in thescreened porch and read into the night. All I could
hear was the buzzing cicadas. No squeaking of speeding tires or humming
traffic. As I commented to Mary how quiet and peaceful it felt, I heard a
rustling in the bushes next to the window. Mary smiled, saying it must be
their neighbor’s dog. Sure enough, a thin, furry face of brown and white
popped up above the screen, but disappeared after a quick peep. “He will be
back for a biscuit in the morning,” Mary said.
I sat alone in the dark for half an hour after Mary went to bed. Flood
lights lit the backyard, highlighting the green lawn and the leafy bushes. I
swung back and forth on the cushioned, comfortable chair, savoring the
undisturbed beauty of the night.
Early in the morning, I sneaked out of the house for a run. The sun was
about to rise and the morning air felt fresh and cool. I followed a paved trail
and ran around a nearby newly developed subdivision—all enormously
large houses, some still under construction. These customized houses
seemed to compete for size and ostentation—certainly no sign of recession
here. When I made my way back 50 minutes later, I ran directly to the lake
behind the house and was pleasantly surprised to find the water warm. I decided
to get into my swimsuit and take a dip into the lake.
I ran into Mary in the hallway when I entered the house. “Join me for a swim,”
I said, feeling excited by my discovery.
Mary smiled, saying she’d rather swim later when the sun would be high and
the water “really warm,” but I couldn’t resist the allure of the water and quickly
changed into my swimsuit. “Please come get me if I’m not back in an hour,” I told
Mary.
Beaver Lake seemed to be asleep. Nearly every house along the lake had a
private access to the water, complete with a dock and a boat. But there was not a
single soul in sight. I jumped into the shallow water and swam toward the middle
of the lake. Through my goggles, I could see swarms of small fish darting from
my intrusion and disappearing into the vegetation on the bottom. As I picked up
speed, my body warmed up and got used to the water temperature. I selected two
boats across the lake as my benchmarks and swam back and forth, a long
to get into my swimsuit and take a dip into the lake.
I ran into Mary in the hallway when I entered the house. “Join me for a swim,”
I said, feeling excited by my discovery.
Mary smiled, saying she’d rather swim later when the sun would be high and
the water “really warm,” but I couldn’t resist the allure of the water and quickly
changed into my swimsuit. “Please come get me if I’m not back in an hour,” I told
Mary.
Beaver Lake seemed to be asleep. Nearly every house along the lake had a
private access to the water, complete with a dock and a boat. But there was not a
single soul in sight. I jumped into the shallow water and swam toward the middle
of the lake. Through my goggles, I could see swarms of small fish darting from
my intrusion and disappearing into the vegetation on the bottom. As I picked up
speed, my body warmed up and got used to the water temperature. I selected two
boats across the lake as my benchmarks and swam back and forth, a long
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stretch. It was so wonderful to press forward or backward without worrying about hitting the edge of a swimming pool or flipping
around every half a minute or so. As I was about to make another round, I heard Mary calling me from the shore. I could hardly
believe an hour had passed so quickly.
Karen was sitting at the breakfast table when I came down after a nice shower. “It’s only 65 degrees out there,” she said.
“Didn’t you feel the cold?”
“Not at all,” I said enthusiastically. “It’s so beautiful and peaceful!”
Mary drove Karen and me to Suzie’s, a book club member who was hosting the 10 A.M. event. The contemporary house
was open and bright, with its backyard facing another lake. Many members had arrived, and among them, two brought their
adult daughters. I soon learned several of them had visited China and one had an adopted granddaughter from China. Since
they had already read my book, Mulberry Child: A Memoir of China, I proceeded to show them some images of the Cultural
Revolution and invited them to ask questions at any time. We had a lively discussion. Eventually, Karen had to cut in and remind
everyone that it was a quarter to twelve and we needed to wrap up. I signed copies of Mulberry Child for the members and
continued to chat with a few until Karen and Mary urged me to leave—we planned to grab a few sandwiches on our way back
and have lunch on the lake. We didn’t have much time left since I wanted to take the 3 P.M. Amtrak train back to Chicago.
I was impressed that Karen, at 80, walked down the slope to the boat with us without any difficulty. Mary skillfully steered
the boat out of the docking area and cruised at a leisurely pace around the lake. A young man was waterskiing in the middle of
the lake, gracefully jumping and turning at high speed, and another was riding a jet ski, leaving a wave behind him. Other than
that, no one else was on the water.
“School is still out,” Mary said. “I’m surprised not many people are out on the lake today.”
I was glad the lake was not crowded with people and boats. The sun was shining, yet on the water, it felt cool. A gentle
around every half a minute or so. As I was about to make another round, I heard Mary calling me from the shore. I could hardly
believe an hour had passed so quickly.
Karen was sitting at the breakfast table when I came down after a nice shower. “It’s only 65 degrees out there,” she said.
“Didn’t you feel the cold?”
“Not at all,” I said enthusiastically. “It’s so beautiful and peaceful!”
Mary drove Karen and me to Suzie’s, a book club member who was hosting the 10 A.M. event. The contemporary house
was open and bright, with its backyard facing another lake. Many members had arrived, and among them, two brought their
adult daughters. I soon learned several of them had visited China and one had an adopted granddaughter from China. Since
they had already read my book, Mulberry Child: A Memoir of China, I proceeded to show them some images of the Cultural
Revolution and invited them to ask questions at any time. We had a lively discussion. Eventually, Karen had to cut in and remind
everyone that it was a quarter to twelve and we needed to wrap up. I signed copies of Mulberry Child for the members and
continued to chat with a few until Karen and Mary urged me to leave—we planned to grab a few sandwiches on our way back
and have lunch on the lake. We didn’t have much time left since I wanted to take the 3 P.M. Amtrak train back to Chicago.
I was impressed that Karen, at 80, walked down the slope to the boat with us without any difficulty. Mary skillfully steered
the boat out of the docking area and cruised at a leisurely pace around the lake. A young man was waterskiing in the middle of
the lake, gracefully jumping and turning at high speed, and another was riding a jet ski, leaving a wave behind him. Other than
that, no one else was on the water.
“School is still out,” Mary said. “I’m surprised not many people are out on the lake today.”
I was glad the lake was not crowded with people and boats. The sun was shining, yet on the water, it felt cool. A gentle
Jian Ping with Amy in New Zealand
| Beaver Lake in Wisconsin |
breeze created small ripples on the surface of the water,
making it sparkle as if beckoning to us. It dawned on me
why so many people preferred to have a second home in
the country. The beauty of nature and the peace of the
surroundings were so soothing and serene.
What a wonderful treat I had—receiving the warm
hospitality from Mary’s parents, indulging in Mary’s
generous friendship, and making connections with my
readers!
Thank you! Thank you all!
Jian Ping is author of “Mulberry Child: A Memoir of
China. “ For more information, visit www.moraquest.com or
www.mulberrychild.com. Jian Ping’s blog, which she keeps
with a couple of other authors, is at www.smearedtype.com.
making it sparkle as if beckoning to us. It dawned on me
why so many people preferred to have a second home in
the country. The beauty of nature and the peace of the
surroundings were so soothing and serene.
What a wonderful treat I had—receiving the warm
hospitality from Mary’s parents, indulging in Mary’s
generous friendship, and making connections with my
readers!
Thank you! Thank you all!
Jian Ping is author of “Mulberry Child: A Memoir of
China. “ For more information, visit www.moraquest.com or
www.mulberrychild.com. Jian Ping’s blog, which she keeps
with a couple of other authors, is at www.smearedtype.com.
