 
Storey
The Pearsons Family
Almost two years ago, Ridley Pearson and his
wife, Marcelle, relocated to St. Louis from Sun Valley, Idaho, along with their two children Paige, 5, and Storey, age 3. Ridley and Marcelle, who is The New York Times best-selling author, wanted to move to a place that was more diverse, as well as child-centered.
After Ridley wrote a book about illegal aliens and found out the numbers of abandoned girls in China, they decided to adopt a girl from China. They first saw Guan Hong Ming, now their daughter Storey Ming, on August 25, 1999 Storey is from Kunming Children's Welfare Institute in Kunming, Yunan Province.
Adoption Journal is a wonderful story about their adoption experience. |
By Ridley Pearson
Dear Storey,
Our trip to bring you into our family started late on a Friday afternoon and a series of plane flights that began in Hailey, Idaho and took us to Salt Lake City and Los Angeles before arriving in Guanzhou at about 7:30 AM. We had traveled for over 30 hours and we ate our first meal on Chinese soil in the Guanzhou airport. The constant movement of China's people became so apparent to us immediately-a controlled chaos filled the airport terminal, and there were enough restaurants for a small city. We flew on to Guilin, met by a guide named Bai, and spent the night at the Garden Hotel. It is difficult to describe our first impressions of your native land, our wonder at the energy of its people and near-poverty existence of the people of Guilin. Our hotel looks out onto the Li River, and our room, out across the spires of karst that rise like towers from the rice patties and apartment buildings that exist cheek-to-jowl here. But the wonder for your mother and me remains that our first meeting with you is now less than two days away. All these months of waiting are compressed into just forty-eight hours, and our hearts pound in anticipation of holding you in our arms.
We have come to China two days early, mostly to adjust to the time change, but also to see a few sights before moving on to Kunming. We saw reed flute cave yesterday, and I write now from a trip down the Li River. The limestone peaks rise dramatically from the lush vegetation, a deep, saturated green of bamboo, pine and so many trees and plants we've never seen. The river is a murky green, like dark jade, undulating and twisting through the towers, past tiny villages and compounds, gravel spits, water buffalo, cormorants and fishermen on bamboo skiffs barely four inches out of the water. The talk between our fellow New Hope families and us varies between the impressions of the stunning scenery and expectations of our time with you. When will we see you? Tomorrow night upon our arrival, or the following day? So many questions-our hearts beating joyfully as we think of you. We have brought two duffel bags with us-nearly all of it for you: clothes, diapers, formula, food, baby carriers. Books. Tape recorders and players. All hoping to have what we need when we meet you. To make you as comfortable as possible for our long journey home.
You are joining our family. We are painfully aware of the responsibility that bears upon us. We want to make this transition for you as seamless and smooth as possible-to cherish without smothering, to provide without over-indulging, to welcome you into a family whose premise is love. Love and its enduring power, strength and calm. This country in which you live has filled us with awe. It is inspiring. Yet we know it pales in comparison to one glimpse of you, one smile, one moment in your presence.
Following our river trip we drove back to Guilin on a wide cement road that split the verdant valley in two, both sides encased by distant karst ranges almost artificial in their stage-set beauty-two dimensional, round-topped green spires, armies of them in regimented splendor. And along the roadway, reaching toward those hills, yellow-hued harvest time rice patties stitched into the dripping green patches of sprouts ripening quickly in the muggy summer air, geometric fields of still water like broken mirrors reflecting back the jagged-mouth splendor of those karsts. The challenge is to stay focused, for I am so easily distracted by the spectacular scenery that my imagination drifts unconsciously to peaceful, serene dreams of the simplicity of life here. To rise, water, plant, harvest-cycling through seasons with years falling away like autumn leaves.
Along the road, in lanes designated just for them, bicycles carry everything imaginable: rice straw, melons, sticks, rebar and brick. Here in this valley it is all brick-we pass factories, the rich red bricks stacked in perfect rows five feet high, whole fields of them awaiting mortar and attention somewhere farther up the road. A place to call home.
(to be continued...)
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