Li Ming was a wonderful friend. I can’t tell you how many times we got together, often at her and George’s house—for dinner, to see that rare flower bloom once a year, to see how their garden was doing, or just to visit. She was always warm and upbeat, with that wonderful smile—always interested in others, always gracious and warm. We could talk to her about anything. None of our joint friends go back further, from our dating days to our wedding and on through the years, and none was closer.
And of course she was a terrific cook, overloading our plates with one memorable dish after another. It was part of the way she expressed her joy in others, through those dishes whose names I could not begin to name but vividly recall over the years.
Sometimes after dinner, or even during it, she, George, Ching, and sometimes others would start talking in Chinese to each other, and I always thought that was great, that they trusted me enough—were comfortable enough with me—to not have to always speak English, but to go back to a familiar place for a while.
I have always been impressed with the people who have the courage to come to a different land with a different culture which they might never be totally part of. They come often for their children, for the better life that they believe that their children can have. But, like Li Ming and George, they become very much a part of that culture, or rather they become people of two cultures, twice blessed. And that is how I thought of them—how much richer they were than me, with just the one culture. So I admired them for this as well as for all the other traits that I envied—no, not envied but rejoiced in.
I was so sad that her last years were difficult, but she had many wonderful ones before that, and those are the gifts that we must rejoice in for her, because she deserved them.
