Happy Father’s Day, John.
Mr. Li Chang peeked out the kitchen window of his son’s apartment at the next door neighbor. The fellow was middle-aged, at least twenty years younger than himself. Mr. Chang smiled as he watched the man watering his tomato plants. There were five of them, swaying on an overhanging shelf just outside of his basement door. It was obvious that the man had done this before, but his method, Mr. Chang thought, was a bit amateurish. So typical for Americans. Americans did everything so large and complicated, when all that was really needed was to use the methods that farmers like himself had done for centuries back in China.
Mr. Chang’s eyes misted over as he thought about his homeland. He probably would never see it again. His beloved Wen had passed on two years ago, and his son had arranged for him to come to America to live with him and his wife, and their daughters. Oh, he was happy to be near his son and to see his two granddaughters raised up well, but he did not like America. For one thing, there was not enough green for someone who had been raised in the countryside of Beihai, in the Guangxi province. He missed the flow of the River Li in the mornings as he would awaken before dark in order to be down at the river before sunrise.
Mr. Chang breathed in deeply until the memories passed. He turned his attention back to the man tending his tomato plants. Mr. Chang turned away from the window and on a whim, looked around t he room for something to draw on. He spied his granddaughter’s school notebook and he picked it up, along with a black ink pen. He opened the notebook to a blank page and sat down at the kitchen table.
Back in China, when he was young, he’d been a fair artist, had wanted to travel to Shanghai to become famous. Then he met Wen. They married and made plans to escape their small existence in Behai. But Wen became pregnant, and their hopes to travel down the mountain to the big city were lost.
Mr. Chang looked down at the notebook. He filled in the details of the plant he was drawing. An hour later, he had completed the drawing, and satisfied, he carefully removed the page from the notebook. He headed to the front door and walked across the courtyard to the man’s apartment.
The man looked up when he saw him, and Mr. Chang made a slight bow in greeting. He extended his arm, holding out the drawing.
He watched the man wrinkle his brow in puzzlement as he looked down at the drawing. His face brightened as he recognized the plant in the picture.
Mr. Chang had drawn very detailed tomato plants, describing pictorially how to prune and tie them in order to yield the best fruit.
The man looked down at Mr. Chang with a big smile, saying something, speaking very rapidly, but Mr. Chang could not understand. He only spoke the Cantonese dialect of his homeland, and English was a very difficult language to learn. He was too old and weary to learn something new, and he did not like this country enough to put forth much of an effort. His son and wife spoke enough English to get by, and his granddaughters were fluent in the language.
But he knew that the man was pleased, and it made him very happy. He bowed again to the man, and turned, heading back to his son’s apartment.
The next morning, Mr. Chang was at the kitchen window, watching the man as he hurriedly watered the tomato plants before jumping in his truck to go to work. Once he left, Mr. Chang walked across the courtyard to examine the man’s plants. He started in surprise as he glanced at the wall of the building.
On the wall was the drawing that he had made, encased in a black frame. Mr. Chang’s throat tightened as he looked at the picture. He stood there a while, remembering his dream to become an artist when he was a young man in China. There was more than one way to achieve a dream, Mr. Chang realized.
He took one more look at his artwork, then turned to the man’s tomato plants and started to prune them, humming as he worked.
