Ninny Beth Sees Dead People or What DO you do in the Korean Countryside?

Well, if your name is Ninny Beth and you are the token whitey guest of the Kim Family for Chuseok, (Korean Thanksgiving), here's what you do:

You shuck peanuts (or in the case of Sir Inguen, recently of Surrey England, you sit in a chair and supervise the peanut shucking while taunting the dogs). You make Seongpyeon, traditional tteok with sesame, honey and walnuts inside. Please notice that we are cooking on the floor again! Countertops be damned! Who needs them? Youngji and her Omma do a lot of talking while they cook. I am consistently amazed at the consistencies that find their way across cultural divides...this is when my mom and I talk too, multitasking during the "woman" work. However, we usually do it standing up.

The filling! YUMMY! This is the best part of Chuseok. I finally learned that there is a word for a girl like me, a tteok-a-holic. In korea, I'm referred to as a Tteoksunni. I'm not really sure of the exact translation. Don't tell me. While I secretely suspect that sunni is a variation on a theme of "pig", I'm going to believe that it means "connoisseur".

Evidently, if you can make pretty seongpyeon, you will make pretty babies. Youngji's Omma was openly dubious of my ability to create aesthetically pleasing SP. I plowed on ahead, thoroughly convinced that I would be revealed to have a hidden tteok shaping genius (and subsequent baby making talent). However, I was quickly humbled as I realized that this is no easy task for a westerner. Apparently, the prevalent ideal for SP is to make it look like a smooshed dog turd with finger prints in it. I had, up to this point, not really attempted such a sculptorial feat. Despite my lack of preparation, I thought I was doing swimmingly in my task because Hyunji kept saying, "Oh! I want to see what your kids look like someday." Surely, this was a vote of approval? Well, only later when Omma told me I had to eat all my own SP because no one else will want to eat them did I realize that Hyunji was implying that my unborn babies are going to be monstrously hideous. hrmmmphhh....they TASTED fine to me.

You EAT....and eat....and eat. With ne'rey a diet coke in sight, I was confronted with all manner of Weight Watchers unapproved deliciousness. Granted it was all organically grown in ye olde garden, but still....

You honor your ancestors in an elaborate and delicate ceremony at the top of a mountain.

ceremonial food or the fruits of the fall harvest: dried fish, apples and asian pears with their tops peeled back for easy spirit access, rice wine to entice the ancestral guests, beautifully made Seongpyeon (crafted by those with beautiful children), and nuts.

Appa trims the grave mound in defference to his Mother and Father. Doggedly pulling weeds and bringing the resting place of his parents (well off the beaten path) back to a respectable appearance.

The offering.

After the family bowed, I was introduced as an honored guest. I spent a few moments, silently paying my respects to those good men and women who fathered and mothered this lineage...There was no cultural divide as I bowed in gratitude. Thank you for sharing your loving family. Thank you for teaching them how to teach me. Thank you Omma, Appa, Youngji, Hyunji, Inguen, Ilsun for taking me in, feeding me, handing me purple eggplants from the garden when you knew I was homesick for my own mother, listening to me sing in a foreign language, giving me a name that means Voice of Jade and leaving me alone to rest on your quiet front lawn as the fireflies exploded overhead. It was Thanksgiving in every way.

The Carter Family - Wildwood Flower

I know that on my LDS mission to West Virginia I was supposed to listen only to MoTab and classical music...but come on! When a pervy/sweet old man named grandpa G feeds you beans and cornbread and asks you to sing old country songs so he can teach you how to play the dulcimer in his tiny trailer home up the holler, you just do it. This song was one of the best gifts I brought home from my mission. I love me some bluegrass because of that old man. Bless your heart, Grandpa (and that nasty skirt chasing dog Penny, too).

Pastoral. Andong Korea. Thanksgiving.

The only thing more terrifying than not understanding is this
countryside.
Leaves melting, yellowed and browned,
like butter sliding from tree bones
full moon gloating over
a completed harvest discarded clothes, flapping on a line
forgotten until tomorrow and destined to spend a cold night
dry, ready, unworn.
and this blue sky, thick and unrelenting in its clarity- quietly fading
without a moment of doubt.

I cannot say what we understand is communication.
sweat mingling with raspy breaths and unnamed
confusion?
A Korean model car
Hyundai, Daewoo, Samsung
trickles by and all heads turn to look at me with eyes blushing
hungry, tired
my nostrils burn with the scent of ripened rice.

It seems like home, but not quite
something.
something about these dogs like hyenas.
Everything goes dead here in silence.
The day shoots into night.
The perfectly flattened shapes of frogs
make deflated swastikas on rocks.
Children by the pond, like specters, their mouths open and close
gulp and spit English that doesn't quite reach me.

When the blood harvest moon clicks on at 6:30,
its illuminated sphere a solemn nightlight, I am aware
this is tomorrow-
One more early leaf flutters to the wrinkled grass
One more ancient cricket sings pansori to the beat of a sickly pulsing earth.
My eye catches at the hovering flight of an angry dragonfly
and I am afraid.

Reason number #34

sometimes I wear my retainer to bed.
Most times that I wear my retainer to bed, I wake up to discover that I have ripped it from my mouth and flung it across the room during the night.
It's a funny thing that makes me wonder what other acts of violence I am capable in a fit of unconscious discomfort.
It makes me want to get married just so I can really find out.

Miles Davis. Eggplant. Seoul Korea.

Saturday 8:44 pm.
lights dimmed over my kitchenette.
The smell of garlic simmering on my hotplate.
Miles Davis whispering in my ear.
Clarity.
I am cutting deep purple eggplant, yellowy green zuchini and red peppers into new shapes.
no one has called.
no one will call.
I wipe my hands on my apron, nibble the zuchini like a rabbit and start in on some onions.
stop.
listen to that horn line.
listen to that.
shake my head because I can.
Seoul Korea has a heartbeat tonight and it pulses in the light of my tiny apartment.
Supreme peaceful.
I am a whisper like miles.
air blowing through metal and tubes and subways and concrete.
can you feel me?
can you feel me there?
shake your head because you can.