SMALL WORLD HALEY PARK

Rainy day in Jukjeondong, Korea, just outside the main gate to Dankook University. Small world, don’t you know! Lunch time and all the eateries were full of students. We stopped in at “Dos Mas”, where they serve Korean food, rolled up in flour tortillas and pretend it’s Mexican. The food is good, don’t get me wrong but don’t expect chorizo, jalapeños or cilantro. All the tables were taken so we placed our order and waited by the door. Two young ladies were at a table there, waiting for their order. They offered a seat as we waited and so the story begins. Sungho, my niece’s husband tells them about the new, English only coffee shop they are about to open and one of them answers him in English. She tells us she lived in the States and studied English there. Before we could ask, she said, “Michigan.” 

      Sungho points at me and my U of M baseball cap. Her eyes lit up when she recognized the Maze & Blue. She asked where I live and I said, “Grand Rapids.” Turns out, Haley Park lived in Hudsonville with her family for a while; studied English in Allendale. I said, “I used to teach school in Allendale.” Oh my, this is too much. We talked about Michigan and you would have thought we were best friends, for years. Our orders came and another table cleared, next to the girls. We continued our small talk and admired their Dankook jackets. The university has cool, traditional letter jackets. They come in different color combinations for different divisions in the university. Saw a black and white one the other day with “School Of Architecture” embroidered on the back. Today’s were blue and red for the school of statistics and another combination for health & food science. 

What are the chances I would accidentally meet in Korea, a young lady who used to live just down the road from me in West Michigan? It didn’t matter what the chances; there we were and there you are. In 2010 I was a Volunteer at Kenai Fjords National Park, Seward, Alaska and ran into Jenna Giddens, a Park Ranger from another small, nearby Michigan town. Our high school sports teams used to play against each other. In 1995, in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, a lady from “Mothers Against Drunk Drivers” came to our school. I thought she looked familiar and after the program she came to me and introduced herself. Her husband and I had been good friends in Kansas, 35 years before. She recognized me, sitting in the audience; what a surprise. What are the chances? I think the world is just as big as you let it be. 

CHOP STICKS

Food: sooner or later you accept the new culinary paradigm or you go hungry. I’ve played with chop sticks in my time but never had to depend on them. I could wimp out and accept the condescending looks that come with the fork but I like the idea of acquiring a new skill set. So I’m going native. We celebrated a birthday the other day at a traditional restaurant where they serve either Roast Duck, or Smoked Duck. We did the Roast Duck. It comes on a platter, stuffed with rice, berries, beans, nuts and pumpkin seeds. You have to separate the leg, wing or meat from the bird with chop sticks and it’s something you’d learn in a 300 level class at eating school.  I managed to get some meat in my bowl. In Korea, they like spoons so you can cheat there without drawing too much attention. When I discovered the stuffing, I brought in the spoon but kept the sticks as my primary weapon. 

We’ve all seen the low tables with seating on pillows; but you can’t really appreciate it until you have been down there for a while and need to get up. My companions were most courteous, they neither stared nor laughed out loud. In baseball, a batting average of .300 is great; with chop sticks you want to get food into your mouth at least, most of the time. I’d guess .800 or better would be good for a rookie like me. At the end of the day I was batting around .450 to .500, last to finish but did get enough to eat. You sit close to your food and lean into it. Most of what I dropped went back into a bowl so I got a second or third chance. What pleased me was, at the end, they noticed that my fork had not been touched which raised some eye brows. If anyone had been asked about our afternoon they would have said something about Grandma’s birthday. I’d have probably said something about going to chop stix practice and grazing on the side. I’ll get my own set of wooden chop stix. They’re lighter than the metal ones and offer more surface area at the point of contact. Then I’ll be like the pool shark who carries his own cue stick to the pool hall. They’ll see me coming and you can’t hide your Anglo heritage but maybe they’re expectations will rise a little. 

BIG CITY

Seoul, S. Korea; a forty minute bus ride from Yongin and my current quarters. I’m in Korea as the guest of my niece Terry and her husband, Sung Ho. Space is cramped in the apartment but when you step outside, every space is cramped. Everything I see reminds me of how spoiled, if you will, we Americans are with wide-open spaces to accommodate our expanding needs. With over 10 million souls in Seoul (pardon the pun) the only place left to go is up. Mile after mile, 25-30 story apartment/condo towers are laid out like corn rows in farm fields. On the streets below, amazingly, bumper to bumper traffic moves along. There is a powerful sense of accommodation, people yielding to the needs of the whole; but that’s a story for another day.

When we crossed the river, coming up from the south, Sung Ho pointed back to our right at the concentration of high rise buildings that dissolved, out of focus in the distance. “That is where you jumped in 1961.” In ’61 I was a parachute rigger, assigned to the 2nd 503 Airborne Battle Group, US Army, stationed on the island of Okinawa. In early spring we flew up in the wee hours and made a training jump on the Han River flood plain, across the river from the city. I’m good with maps and figured out where we had been. That was 53 years ago. Today, that sandy, scrub region, as far as you can see is named Gangnam, one of the most affluent sections of the city. Today, a helicopter would have trouble finding a place to land.

My job on the jump was to supervise recovery of parachutes and other air delivery items. The sun had just risen and first light was on the tall buildings. As my canopy opened I could see the city, a couple of miles west and across the river. On hitting the ground, I was surprised to see people living in makeshift shelters, between sandy berms and under bushes. Children appeared from nowhere and we had to protect our equipment from little pirates. The fun ended when trucks arrived at the assembly point and it became just another work day. That night when line troops were in the field on maneuvers, I was on board one of two C-130’s hauling parachutes back to Kadena Air Base, Okinawa. It was just a fleeting glance up stream as we crossed into the city but my recall was crystal clear. 

In Seoul, we walked the tourist section with booths and stalls, banners on every window and something marked down 50% in every store. A cold, cutting wind made us zip jackets and pull up hoods. In this vertical environment, sunshine seldom reaches the street. We ate at a restaurant that reminded me of Spanish Tapas, except the food itself. Kimchi, tofu, rice and stuff I didn’t recognize was served in separate dishes to be shared. It tasted alright which is good enough for now. Chop sticks will come quickly; all I need is repetition. I’m told that I should practice transferring M&M’s from one bowl to another.

Walking between tall towers, we come upon a clear, shallow space with an old, traditional, Buddhist temple and courtyard. Jogyesa Temple is the center for Zen Buddhism in all of Korea and people were arriving for the 7:00 service. Through the glass panel doors, two giant, gold Buddhas rose against the wall to the ceiling and the monk in charge was already chanting. The service had begun. Folks were seated or kneeling around the walls on pillows. The reds and golds along with the dark wood  was surreal. 

On the bus ride home, all I could see outside were oncoming headlights. When we boarded, the bus was nearly empty and we had our pick of seats. Soon, it was packed tight; little old ladies with shopping bags, brief-cased men in western suits and teenagers in school uniforms, back packs full of text books. Everybody, I mean everybody, except me; was engaged on their smart phones. Those standing, hanging onto hand holds were adept at shifting weight and changing hands as the bus lurched through traffic. A friendly, head nodding, smiling gentleman beside me was searching the internet until I dozed off for a few minutes. When I looked over again, a woman, flipping photos left and right had taken his place. Her fingernails should have precluded her cell phone usage but they would would have made a tiger jealous. Someday soon, I’ll be able to negotiate the bus schedule by myself and I’ll be comfortable with maps. My smart phone skills though, are sadly unpolished and I fear I’ll never catch up. 

 

ALL-NIGHTER

San Francisco: being stuck all night in a far-away airport is not a big deal. I’ve pulled all-nighters at SeTac in Tacoma, Midway in Chicago, Miami International and now at SFO in San Francisco. There are motels nearby and plenty of time but I have better ways to spend my dollar. Due to the long layover, I had to collect my checked bags and leave the secure area. I had made a date with a friend for dinner and went outside to the pick up lane. Shortly, an SUV pulled up, we threw my stuff in the back and headed over to San Bruno and a little Thai restaurant for a late supper. Nareen and I worked together at Kenai Fjords Nat’l Park in 2009 and remain good friends, too important to let the opportunity slip away. 

When I got back to the airport, the only place to camp out was a food court on the same level as ticketing. There was a Subway Sandwich shop that stayed open 24 hrs. with booths that had padded, bench seating. Most of the booth benches were already taken so I glommed onto one in self defense. With bags stuffed under the table top and secured with a belt and an electric cord, I dozed off at about 11:00. Several wake-ups, a trip to the bathroom and interruptions by cleaning crews were all anticipated but 5 hours of sleep was enough to see me through. An 11 hour flight on Monday would leave plenty of time to catch up.

I remember spit baths when I was a little kid. If we were out in public and my mom discovered an unacceptable smudge on my face or hands, she would spit on a white handkerchief that she kept in her purse, just for that possibility. I would get a hasty scrub down and we moved on as if I were spotless all along. Every time I scrub up in an airport restroom I remember those spit baths and be thankful for hot running water and paper towels. Freshened up, I went through ticketing, rechecked my big bag, shoeless through security and down the long corridor to the International Terminal. Decided to pass on breakfast. The long, nonstop flight to Seoul, Korea would involve several meals and I had trail mix in my back pack. I’d rather be a little hungry than the other way. But I did sit down at a restaurant table and break out the computer. Didn’t know when I’d get my next chance to bank on line and check my e-mail. 

The plane was really big, two decks high with a spiral staircase and a dozen attendants. Stepping inside made me connect with Jonah and the whale. We started boarding at 10:00 a.m., through two gates and a half hour later, we were still boarding. I was in Group 5 but stowing guitar and back pack was easier than expected and my isle seat was next to a no-show; I would have the luxury of some wiggle room. You can do the math but it still feels wrong, Leaving on Monday at 11:00a.m., flying 11 & a half hours and landing at 4:30 p.m. on Tuesday. The sun never went down and I lost a day somewhere but with jet lag it probably doesn’t matter. Hello Seoul; I was here 53 years ago but only for 12 hours and it was all work and no play. We'll have to make up for that. Lots to do tomorrow.

BEACH ICE

Lake Michigan has over 80% ice cover. I was here on the beach last week on a warm, sunny day and I was comfortable as a spring afternoon. It’s supposed to be wet and wavy, even when it’s cold but the lake-scape is stiff and rigid, with hard, crunchy convolutions growing up out of the deep, stretching out as far as the eye can see. 

Yesterday was clear and cold, like it's supposed to be and the edge on the wind made you want to look away. In all the world, Duane Watson is my best friend and yesterday we went to see the ice. He teaches biology at Allendale High School, where I retired some 13 years ago. He took an impromptu survey among his students and none of them had been to the lake shore this winter to see the ice. He scolded them for it; it may be a long time before it freezes like this again. Then he realized that he hadn’t been either, so he invited me to go with him to check out the ice. He said he wasn’t going to go out on it, just look through the glass and marvel at nature’s handiwork. 

The view from the road was awful so he parked in the lot at Bil-Mar Restaurant. We had to get out; couldn’t see over the snow heaps and started down toward the water’s edge. I took a few photos and looked up; he was out on the ice, walking away. When I caught up I said, “I thought you weren’t going to walk out on the ice.” It was a no-brainer; how do you, not walk on the ice? Looking back, we could see the top few inches of snow fence, sticking out of the snow just a few feet from where waves lap up in July. “How deep do you think it is here?” he asked. I figured it would be 6 or 8 ft deep but crunchy snow on top of the ice made it feel like the beach. Another hundred meters and the ice turned up at a steep angle. 

That was when the lunar syndrome kicked in and I couldn’t miss the metaphor, “It’s like being on Mars.” Duane laughed and we made our way down the other side. It was a miniature mountain range, like the Andes of Chile, 150 meters off shore, created by ice and wave action.  You couldn’t see north of the lighthouse but you didn’t have to. The jagged, icy discontinuity ran all the way north to Mackinaw, 200 miles up the shore. “Ain’t it great?” he said, talking to himself. I took more photos and saw he was going out onto the broken ice. It was a jumble that had fractured, shifted and refrozen, like a boulder field of ice. Several crevices went down a few feet to clear ice. It looked like one might fall through so we pulled up a big chunk and slammed it down on the thin spot. It clunked like a concrete block on the driveway. Not to worry about falling through. 

It was cold and I wore the wrong hat. After all, we weren’t going out on the ice. Heading back we got a view seldom seen. It was the shore line from a quarter mile out in the lake. I asked Duane, “How long has it been since someone walked on water?” He didn’t know, thought maybe we were the first since JC but all the foot prints in the snow suggested it wasn’t special anymore. I’m heading off for South Korea next week. Next time I’m in Grand Haven we’ll all be bare-foot and shorts and the beach will be full of kite flyers. 

TURKEYS & LOONS

I drove all day yesterday; needed headlights the last half hour. The driveway was fresh plowed but in the meadow, snow is waist deep. Another inch or two of lake effect fell by bed time. This morning I disturbed two turkeys who were pecking in the driveway. They were between my truck and the barn and didn’t see me until I was close. If I’d bent over and pecked at the ground they might have let it pass. But there was a hurried set of muffled wing beats and they lifted off, up into the trees. Thirty feet up they perched, one in one tree, one in another, observing me as if I were the wild one. 

The drive into town was slippery, anti-lock brakes chattering at every stop, and I was careful. After paper work at the bank and a hair cut, I came outside under blue sky and sunlight. I realized I didn’t need the jacket and I noticed the sound of tires on wet streets and water in drains and gutters. I was going to head for the coffee shop but decided to go to the lake shore first. I’ve walked that beach and pier so many times you might think I’d get enough but it’s a place with many faces, it's always new and I never tire of it. 

Hundreds of people were exploring the beach with coats over their arms and cameras in hand. It’s been a cold, wet winter here and wave action piles ice up on the beach, then freeze creates more ice and it gets added to the stack. Up and down the beach, ice is piled up 20-25 feet above the water line and everything is frozen solid. Small, dark pools interrupt the icy white at the river’s mouth but it’s a quarter mile out, beyond the light house before you see stretches of open water. Walking on lake ice is safer than navigating the slippery pier so as far as you can see, down the beach and out toward Wisconsin, dark specks move around and over upheaved, freshwater icebergs, locked in place until something warm and enduring happens. 

I was up on the lighthouse deck, looking north across the channel to the jetty on the other side. A congregation of loons dotted the water of an open pool and I listened to see if I could hear them. Loons are among the oldest birds alive. Their history goes back 50 million years and they’re still singing their eerie, wonderful songs. They may sound like laughter or a wolf’s howl, even yodeling during mating season. Today it was just little whistles and chirps. I remember a Canadian fishing trip where there was an abundance of both, wolves and loons. Sitting on the dock in the wee hours, we would listen, look at each other and roll our eyes. “What do you think?” Well, I think it’s been a great day, being blessed with the presence of turkeys in the morning and loons in the afternoon.

FOR THE BIRDS

Star Mississippi is easy to miss. If the light on the highway is green and you don’t have to slow down, you’d never know it was there. But I know. Just off U.S.49, behind the tall pines, the laid back, little community keeps right on ticking. I was there on Friday, last. I like to cut boards up and then put the pieces back together. When I get through I’ll have a cedar chest or a table, or maybe even a bird house. I make wren houses for my yard, my family and some of my friends. I think they are stylish and the birds love ‘em. That brings us to the Cypress connection. 

A furniture maker, friend from Livingston, Louisiana told me about Heartwood and Star, Mississippi. “You’re going to love the bird houses and it’s the best place I know to get good lumber. You can tell ‘em I sent you.” Heartwood is the business and their business is cypress birdhouses. With the office in an old silo, the shop and warehouse occupy one metal building with another, smaller one to keep cypress lumber out of the weather. Larry & Jerry Glass run the show and whatever they did before bird houses, they don’t have time for any more. There must be 30 or 40 different styles and designs and their creations are marketed all across America and around the world. 

I’m in Louisiana several times a year and lately I have reason to drive my truck. On my way back north, it’s a short side trip over to Heartwood and my friend was right; I love the bird houses and the lumber is tops. Larry gave me a tour and sent me over to sort through cypress boards, pick out what I wanted and settle up in the office. Last week was my third time through and I knew what I wanted. My lumber rack in the basement is nearly full of top grade cypress but I didn’t have one of their exotic bird houses. Now I do.