SAM McGEE

Jukjeon, Korea; I know that March is still winter and you can’t expect it to warm up just because you’re in a hurry for spring, but I was hoping. After three weeks, the wind has kept its bite. Even though the weather report says it’s 45 degrees, it feels much colder. People on the streets keep hands deep in pockets and walk with a sense of purpose, to get where they’re going and be inside. I kept hoping but soon realized that spring's arrival wasn't about me. On Sunday, I felt the need for exercise so I put on my coat and hat, headed down the stairs to the street. Normally I swim or ride my bike but walking is my only option here. The sky was clear but city streets are almost always in the shadows so I stayed zipped up, hands in pockets. 

I knew there was a soccer field across the highway, on the way to Yongin, but I had not been there. The facility is modern, maintained and open to the public. When it came in sight, people were everywhere, and many weren’t wearing coats. I took my jacket off. It was warm and the slight breeze was warm, what I had been waiting for. An informal soccer game was going on with adults, wearing colored vests. Parents had their kids out on the track, 9 lanes of all weather surface. Kids on bicycles, tricycles; parents pushing baby buggies and young couples strolling, hand holding and I thought of the epic poem, “Cremation of Sam McGee” by Robert Service. A gold miner in the Klondike, before he  froze to death, begged to be cremated . So his partner dragged his frozen body across the wilderness until they found a ship, frozen in the ice. His body was thrown in the furnace and the ship set on fire. The man looked to see how the fire was progressing and the dead man was sitting, warming himself. He called out, “. . . it was the first time I’ve been warm since I left Tennessee.” It was kind of a long stretch but I was warm for the first time in a long time and thought of Sam McGee. The last few days have not been so warm but neither have they been so cold. Maybe I’ll be able to put the coat in the closet and rely on a sweat shirt soon.

LA MADERA

Trees, leaves, limbs, logs, boards, even sawdust; irresistible. I’ve always loved trees, since I was able to pull myself up, one branch to the next. The smell of sawdust in my dad’s wood shop attracted me like a worm on a hook attracts fish. As a biology teacher, you teach best what you like the most. I liked birds, feathers, songs and the fact they can fly. But even more, I liked trees and I liked teaching about trees. When you understand what makes one different from another, they take on personalities and I consider them creatures, if not friends. I love wandering thru nurseries where baby trees are waiting to be delivered. Instead of a stork, you go to the nursery and bring it home in the back of a truck. Once in the ground, it grows, makes shade, makes shelter for other creatures and gives bare ground quality of character like nothing else. I plant trees whenever, wherever I can. When a tree is harvested or cut down, the wood can be good forever; almost. I make things out of wood too. So when I come across a wood working venue, I take great interest in the wood itself and what is being created. 

Yesterday, my nephew Sungho had a piece of wood that needed to be sanded. My thought would be to get some sandpaper but he has a friend who has a furniture shop and we went there. Just south of Seoul, one line of ridges and small mountains after another. Between them, in valleys and canyons it is densely populated with high rise apartments and cramped business districts. We drove up into a narrowing space where wooded hillsides squeezed closer and closer to the road and buildings got smaller. The furniture factory was about the size of a medium size gymnasium. Outside, stacked on the parking lot were a hundred or more, huge slabs of wood. I sensed this wasn’t going to be simple kitchen chairs or plushy sofas. 

We met a sawdust coated man with a respirator who took the little piece of wood and disappeared inside. Through the open door I could see a large, industrial bandsaw, planer and table saws. The smell was wonderful. The plant manager came out and welcomed us. I’m getting used to ignoring the language I don’t understand, tuning in on body language and connecting the other dots as best I can. We were being invited into the show room. Lighting was mostly daylight coming through windows and from a few small fixtures. The ceiling was low and the concrete floor did nothing to showcase the furniture. But then it didn’t need any special effects. There were tables, big tables; made of exotic hardwoods. They were simple enough in design but the mass of the wood was overpowering and the finish was spellbinding, even in the poor light. We went from one table to another, each unique, one of a kind. I knew the answer before I asked but I asked anyway. Sungho translated, “Who are your customers?” Then, I didn’t need the translation coming back. I read perfectly his smile and the thumb, back and forth across finger tips. “Very rich people.” I asked the price for one particular table that I liked. Twelve million Korean Won, or well over $10,000. I thought it would be even more. Making our way back to the shop, I touched as much wood as I could, sliding my finger tips across the grain and palms against the edges. 

Back in the parking lot I saw a huge plank of wood, 5 inches by 4 feet by 10 feet. He saw me eyeing it and said, “Oak”. I guess oak is oak or he knew at least that much english. I started to ask where but he cut me off; “U.S.” OMG, I should have known that. When I shop for wood at specialty stores they always tell me, the best stuff goes to Asia. Boatload after boatload of our best hardwoods are sold abroad every year. On the way back to the car I walked by the slabs I noticed when we arrived; didn’t need someone to tell me they were walnut. I pulled out my smart phone and snapped a photo. I’ve got some walnut in my basement but nothing like this. Sungho had his piece of freshly sanded wood and we were off to do something else.

CREO - PIENSO

After two weeks in Korea, I can handle yes and no; nod my head up and down, and side to side. Staying with my niece and her family, I stick pretty close to them. If I ventured out by myself I’m sure, I could get myself seriously lost and probably in trouble in a hurry. In 2005, in Patagonia I was alone all the time but had Español survival skills, could read some signs, recognized familiar culture. Here, I’m really out of my element. So when something strikes a familiar chord you pay attention and if you’re lucky, enjoy something cool that you hadn’t expected.

Yesterday we were in Osan again, by the Air Base. Outside the main gate of any overseas, U.S. military base is a dense, tightly organized neighborhood where shops, business and restaurants cater to Americans. Osan is no different. A narrow street winds down through 2 and 3 story buildings with something for sale to fit anybody’s need. Then tiny alleys branch off the the side, expanding into a network of even tighter alleyways, like a spider’s web. Just how far you can go down into that maze, I don’t know yet but it is on my (Korean) bucket list. Sungho (Mr. Nephew) had some business to take care of in a real estate office. Terry and I waited patiently while other people were paying rent or inquiring, keeping both of the employees busy. Several people were waiting in line. 

There is an unexpected reward here I hadn’t anticipated. Terry is fluent in Spanish. My Spanish is weak at best but I can make myself understood in most cases and if you speak slowly, repeat often, I can understand, sometimes. So here we are, Korean the obvious challenge but I’m taking advantage of the opportunity to work on my Spanish. In the real estate office, Sungho is engaged with the manager in Korean. I noticed his assistant who looks to me to be, maybe, an Anglo. I said to Terry, “Creo ella es un Gringa.” Then I thought about the verb I had just used and wondered if I should have used Pienso instead of Creo. The difference being, I think, and I believe. I asked her which was best and she came back in Spanish, “Either one is o.k.” After a short pause, the woman sitting next to us, working on her smart phone turned to us with a puzzled loook on her face. She was an Air Force staff sergeant who had just finished with the Gringa lady. She said, “Were you just speaking Spanish?” I admitted that we were. Terry ask if she spoke as well and she nodded. “I thought I was crazy for a minute.” she said. “So many languages going on around you and you lose track of what’s in you head.” Kia Mendez is an administrative assistant to her squadron commander. After college in Puerto Rico, she enlisted and has been in the Air Force for 5 years. When she enlisted, she didn’t speak any English. The only word she knew was, “Attention.” Beyond that, she just said, “Yes Sir” and “No Sir” and did like the people around her. When the drill sergeants talked down to her it didn’t bother her since she didn’t know what they said. She would look straight ahead and say either, “Yes Sir” or “No Sir”, which ever seemed right. Kia, Terry and I talked for a long time and it was just, such a neat, unexpected encounter. I didn’t leave the house with a plan, to meet a total stranger and explore a new personality. Life is an experience, a string of encounters and the meaning you discover there. If it’s all about the decisions you make, then it’s also about the decisions you do not make, and it’s about life’s merry go round, and who sits down beside you.

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.