Ardent Student

When I turned ten, my father had me attend a traditional
school in our village, where an old man taught Chinese
classics. At this school, all we had to do was memorize one
booklet each day. I would focus myself and complete the memorization
in a half hour. If I could stand in front of the schoolmaster and recite
that day’s lesson, then I was finished for the day. If the schoolmaster
dozed off in the early afternoon, I would leave the school and go into the
hills and meadows. The more time I spent in the hills, the more I knew
where to find edible plants. Eventually, I was eating enough of these plants
that I could go without lunch, and I stopped eating lunch at home.
At school, we read the Analects of Confucius and the works of Mencius,
and we were taught Chinese characters. I excelled at writing, and
by the time I was twelve the schoolmaster had me making the model
characters that other students would learn from. Actually, I wanted to
attend a formal school, not the traditional village school. I felt I shouldn’t
be just memorizing Confucius and Mencius when others were building
airplanes. This was April, and my father had already paid my full
year’s tuition in advance. Even though I knew this, I decided to quit the
village school and worked to convince my father to send me to a formal
school. I worked on convincing my grandfather and even my uncle.
To transfer into elementary school, I had to take an exam. To study for
this exam, I had to attend a preparatory school. I convinced one of my
younger cousins to go with me, and we both entered the Wonbong
Preparatory School and began our studies for the exam to transfer
into elementary school.
The next year, when I was fourteen, I passed the exam and transferred
into the third grade at Osan School. I had a late start, but I
studied hard and was able to skip the fifth grade. Osan School was
five miles from our home, but I never missed a day or was ever late
for school. Each time I would climb a hill in the road, a group of
students would be waiting for me. I would walk so quickly, though,
that they would have a hard time keeping up. This is how I traveled
that mountain road that was rumored to be a place where tigers
sometimes appeared.
The Osan School was a nationalist school established by Yi Sung
Hun, who was active in the independence movement. Not only was
the Japanese language not taught, but students were actually forbidden
to speak Japanese. I had a different opinion on this. I felt that we
had to know our enemy if we were to defeat it. I took another transfer
exam and entered the fourth grade of the Jung-ju Public Normal
School. In public schools, all classes were conducted in Japanese, so
I memorized katakana and hiragana the night before my first day of
class. I didn’t know any Japanese, so I took all the textbooks from
grades one through four and memorized them over the course of
two weeks. This enabled me to start understanding the language.
By the time I graduated from grammar school, I was fluent in Japanese.
On the day of my graduation, I volunteered to give a speech before
a gathering of all the important people in Jung-ju. Normally in that
situation, the student is expected to speak about his gratitude for the
support received from his teachers and the school. Instead, I referred to
each of my teachers by name and critiqued them, pointing out problems
in the way the school was run. I also spoke on our time in history and
the kind of determination that people in responsible positions should
make. I gave this rather critical speech entirely in Japanese.
“Japanese people should pack their bags as soon as possible and go
back to Japan,” I said. “This land was handed down to us by our ancestors,
and all the future generations of our people must live here.”
I said these things in front of the chief of police, the county chief, and
town mayor. I was taking after the spirit of Great-Uncle Yun Guk Moon
and saying things that no one else dared say. The audience was shocked.
When I left the stage, I could see people’s faces had turned pale. Nothing
happened to me that day, but there were problems later on. From
that day, the Japanese police marked me as a person to be tracked and
began watching me, making a nuisance of themselves. Later, when I was
trying to go to Japan to continue my studies, the chief of police refused
to place his stamp on a form that I needed, and this caused me some
trouble. He regarded me as a dangerous person who should not be allowed
to travel to Japan and refused to stamp the form for me. I had a
big argument with him and finally convinced him to put his stamp on
the form. Only then could I go to Japan.

Talking about the Universe with the Insects

Spending time in the forest cleanses the mind. The sound of leaves
rustling in the wind, the sound of the wind blowing through the
reeds, the sound of frogs croaking in the ponds: All you can hear
are the sounds of nature; no extraneous thoughts enter the mind. If you empty your mind and receive nature into your entire being, there is no separation between you and nature. Nature comes into you, and you become completely one with nature. In the moment that the boundary between you and nature disappears, you feel a profound sense of joy.
Then nature becomes you, and you become nature.
I have always treasured such experiences in my life. Even now, I close my eyes and enter a state in which I am one with nature. Some refer to this as anātman, or “not-self,” but to me it is more than that, because nature
enters and settles into the place that has been made empty. While
in that state, I listen to the sounds that nature hands to me—the sounds
of the pine trees, the sounds of the bugs—and we become friends. I
could go to a village and know, without meeting anyone, the disposition
of the minds of the people living there. I would go into the meadow
of the village and spend the night there, then listen to what the crops
in the fields would tell me. I could see whether the crops were sad or
happy and that would tell me the kind of people who lived there.
The reason I could be in jail in South Korea and the United States,
and even North Korea, and not feel lonely and isolated is that even in
jail I could hear the sound of the wind blowing and talk to the bugs that
were there with me.
You may ask, “What do you talk about with bugs?” Even the
smallest grain of sand contains the principles of the world, and even
a speck of dust floating in the air contains the harmony of the universe.
Everything around us was given birth through a combination
of forces so complex we cannot even imagine it. These forces are
closely related to each other. Nothing in the universe was conceived
outside the heart of God. The movement of just one leaf holds within it
the breathing of the universe.
From childhood, I have had a gift of being able to resonate with
the sounds of nature as I roam around the hills and meadows. Nature
creates a single harmony and produces a sound that is magnificent
and beautiful. No one tries to show off and no one is ignored; there
is just a supreme harmony. Whenever I found myself in difficulty,
nature comforted me; whenever I collapsed in despair, it raised me
back up. Children these days are raised in urban areas and don’t
have opportunities to become familiar with nature, but developing
sensitivity to nature is actually more important than developing our
knowledge. What is the purpose of providing a university education
to a child who cannot feel nature in his bosom and whose sensitivities
are dull? The person separated from nature can gather book
knowledge here and there and then easily become an individualistic
person who worships material goods.
We need to feel the difference between the sound of spring rain falling
like a soft whisper and that of the autumn rain falling with pops
and crackles. It is only the person who enjoys resonance with nature
who can be said to have a true character. A dandelion blooming by
the side of the road is more precious than all the gold in the world. We
need to have a heart that knows how to love nature and love people.
Anyone who cannot love nature or love people is not capable of loving
God. Everything in creation embodies God at the level of symbol, and
human beings are substantial beings created in the image of God. Only
a person who can love nature can love God.
I did not spend all my time roaming the hills and meadows and playing.
I also worked hard helping my older brother run the farm. On a
farm there are many tasks that must be done during a particular season.
The rice paddies and fields need to be plowed. Rice seedlings need to be
transplanted, and weeds need to be pulled. When one is pulling weeds,
the most difficult task is to weed a field of millet. After the seeds are
planted, the furrows need to be weeded at least three times, and this
is backbreaking work. When we were finished, we couldn’t straighten
our backs for awhile. Sweet potatoes don’t taste very good if they are
planted in clay. They need to be planted in a mixture of one-third clay
and two-thirds sand if they are going to produce the best-tasting sweet
potatoes. For corn, human excrement was the best fertilizer, so I would
take my hands and break up all the solid excrement into small pieces.
By helping out on the farm, I learned what was needed to make beans
grow well, what kind of soil was best for soybeans, and what soil was
best for red beans. I am a farmer’s farmer.
Pyong-an Province was among the first places in Korea to accept
Christian culture, so farmland was already arranged in straight lines in
the 1930s and 1940s. To transplant rice seedlings, we would take a pole
with twelve equally spaced markings to indicate where the rows would
go and lay it across the width of the paddy. Then two people would
move along the pole, each planting six rows of seedlings. Later, when I
came to the southern part of Korea, I saw that they would put a string
across the paddy and have dozens of people splashing around in there.
It seemed like a very inefficient way of doing it. I would spread my legs
to twice the width of my shoulders so I could plant the seedlings more
quickly. During the rice-planting season, I was able to earn enough
money to at least cover my own tuition.

Loving Nature to Learn from It

My personality was such that I had to know about everything
that I could see. I couldn’t just pass over something
superficially. I would start thinking, “I wonder what the
name of that mountain is. I wonder what’s up there.” I had to go see for
myself. While still a child, I climbed to the tops of all the mountains
that were in a five-mile radius of our home. I went everywhere, even
beyond the mountains. That way, when I saw a mountain shining in
the morning sunlight, I could have an image in my mind of what was
on that mountain and I could gaze at it in comfort. I hated even to look
at places I didn’t know. I had to know about everything I could see,
and even what was beyond. Otherwise, my mind was so restless that I
couldn’t endure it.
When I went to the mountains, I would touch all the flowers and
trees. I wasn’t satisfied just to look at things with my eyes; I had to touch
the flowers, smell them, and even put them in my mouth and chew on
them. I enjoyed the fragrances, the touch, and the tastes so much that
I wouldn’t have minded if someone had told me to stick my nose in
the brush and keep it there the whole day. I loved nature so much that
anytime I went outside, I would spend the day roaming the hills and
fields and forget about having to go home. When my older sisters would
go into the hills to gather wild vegetables, I would lead the way up the
hill and pick the plants. Thanks to this experience, I know a lot about
many kinds of wild vegetables that taste good and are high in nutrition.
I was particularly fond of a member of the sunflower family called
sseum-ba-gwi (scientific name Ixeris dentata). You could mix it with
seasoned bean paste and put it in a dish of gochujang bibimbap, and it
would have a wonderful flavor. When you eat sseum-ba-gwi, you need
to put it in your mouth and then hold your breath for a few seconds.
This is the time it takes for the bitter taste to go away and for a different,
sweet taste to come out. It’s important to get the correct rhythm to enjoy
the wonderful flavor of sseum-ba-gwi.
I used to enjoy climbing trees as well. Mainly I climbed up and down
a huge, two-hundred-year-old chestnut tree that was in our yard. I liked
the view from the upper branches of that tree. I could see even beyond
the entrance to the village. Once I was up there, I wouldn’t want to come
down. Sometimes, I would be up in the tree until late at night, and the
youngest of my older sisters would come out of the house and make a
fuss over how dangerous it was and try to get me to come down.
“Yong Myung, please come down,” she would say. “It’s late, and you
need to come in and go to bed.”
“If I get sleepy, I can sleep up here.”
It didn’t matter what she said; I wouldn’t budge from my branch in
the chestnut tree. Finally, she would lose her temper, and shout at me,
“Hey, monkey! Get down here now!”
Maybe it’s because I was born in the Year of the Monkey that I enjoyed
climbing trees so much. When chestnut burrs hung in clusters
from the branches, I would take a broken branch and jump up and
down to knock them down. I remember this being a lot of fun. I feel
sorry for children these days who don’t grow up in the countryside and
don’t experience this kind of enjoyment.
The birds flying free in the sky were also objects of my curiosity.
Once in a while some particularly pretty birds would come by, and I
would study everything I could about them, noticing what the male
looked like and what the female looked like. There were no books back
then to tell me about the various kinds of trees, shrubs, and birds, so
I had to examine each myself. Often I would miss my meals because
I would be hiking around the mountains looking for the places where
migratory birds went.
Once I climbed up and down a tree every morning and evening for
several days to check on a magpie nest. I wanted to see how a magpie
lays its eggs. I finally got to witness the magpie lay its eggs, and I became
friends with the bird as well. The first few times it saw me, the magpie
let out a loud squawk and made a big fuss when it saw me approach.
Later, though, I could get close and it would remain still.
The insects in that area were also my friends. Every year, in late
summer, a clear-toned cicada would sing in the upper branches of a
persimmon tree that was right outside my room. Each summer, I would
be grateful when the loud, irritating sounds of the other types of cicada
that made noise all summer would suddenly stop and be replaced by
the song of the clear-toned cicada. Its song let me know that the humid
summer season would soon pass, with the cool autumn to follow.
Their sound went something like this: “Sulu Sulululululu!”
Whenever I would hear the clear-toned cicada sing like this, I would
look up into the persimmon tree and think, “Of course, as long as it’s
going to sing, it has to sing from a high place so that everyone in the
village can hear it and be glad. Who could hear it if it went into a pit
and sang?”
I soon realized that both the summer cicadas and the clear-toned
cicadas were making sounds for love.
Whether they were singing, “Mem mem mem” or “Suluk sulu,” they
were making sounds in order to attract their mates. Once I realized this,
I couldn’t help but laugh every time I heard an insect start singing.
“Oh, you want love, don’t you? Go ahead and sing, and find yourself
a good mate.”
Gradually I learned how to be friends with everything in nature in a
way that we could share our hearts with each other.
The Yellow Sea coast was only about two and a half miles from our
home. It was near enough that I could easily see it from any high place
near our home. There was a series of water pools along the path to the
sea, and a creek flowed between them. I would often dig around one
of those pools smelling of stale water to catch eel and freshwater mud
crab. I would poke around in all sorts of places to catch different kinds
of water life, so I came to know where each kind lived. Eels, by nature,
do not like to be visible, so they hide their long bodies in crab holes and
other similar places. Often, though, they can’t quite fit all of their bodies
in the holes, so the ends of their tails remain sticking out. I could easily
catch them, simply by grabbing the tail and pulling the eel out of its
hole. If we had company in our home and they wanted to eat steamed
eel, then it was nothing for me to run the three and a half miles roundtrip
to the water pools and bring back about five eels. During summer
vacations, I would often catch more than forty eels in a day.
There was one chore I didn’t like doing. This was to feed the cow.
Often, when my father would tell me to feed the cow, I would take it to
the meadow of the neighboring village, where I would tie it up and run
away. But after a while, I would start to worry about the cow. When I
looked back, I could see it was still there, right where I had tied it. It just
stayed there, half the day or more, mooing and waiting for someone to
come feed it. Hearing the cow mooing in the distance, I would feel sorry
for it and think, “That cow! What am I going to do with it?” Maybe you
can imagine how I felt to ignore the cow’s mooing. Still, when I would
go back to it late in the evening, it wouldn’t be angry or try to gore me
with its horns. Instead it seemed happy to see me. This made me realize
that a person’s perspective on a major objective in life should be like
that of a cow. Bide your time with patience, and something good will
come to you.
There was a dog in our home that I loved very much. It was so smart
that when it came time for me to come home from school, it would run
to meet me when I was still a long distance from home. Whenever it
saw me, it acted happy. I would always pet it with my right hand. So,
even if it happened to be on my left side, it would go around to my right
side and rub its face against me, begging to be petted. Then I would take
my right hand and pet it on its head and back. If I didn’t, the dog would
whine and run circles around me as I walked down the road.
“You rascal,” I would say. “You know about love, don’t you? Do you
like love?”
Animals know about love. Have you ever seen a mother hen sitting
on her eggs until they hatch? The hen will keep her eyes open and stamp
her foot on the ground so no one can go near it. I would go in and out of
the chicken coop, knowing it would make the hen angry. When I would
go into the coop, the hen would straighten its neck and try to threaten
me. Instead of backing away, I would also act in a threatening manner
toward the hen. After I went into the coop a few times, the hen would just
pretend not to see me. But she would keep herself bristled up and her claws
long and sharp. She looked like she wanted to swoosh over and attack me,
but she couldn’t move because of the eggs. So she just sat there in anguish.
I would go near and touch her feathers, but she wouldn’t budge. It seemed
that it was determined not to move from that spot until her eggs had
hatched, even if it meant letting someone pluck all the feathers from her
bosom. Because it is so steadfastly attached to its eggs through love, the hen
has an authority that keeps even the rooster from doing whatever it wants.
The hen commands complete authority over everything under heaven, as if
to say, “I don’t care who you are. You had better not disturb these eggs!”
There is also a demonstration of love when a pig gives birth to piglets.
I followed a mother pig around so I could watch it give birth to its
litter. At the moment of birth, the mother pig gives a push with a loud
grunt and a piglet slips out onto the ground. The pig lets out another
loud grunt and a second piglet comes out. It was similar with cats and
dogs. It made me very happy to see these little baby animals that hadn’t
even opened their eyes come into the world. I couldn’t help but laugh
with joy.
On the other hand, it gave me much anguish to witness the death
of an animal. There was a slaughterhouse a little ways from the village.
Once a cow was inside the slaughterhouse, a butcher would appear out
of nowhere and strike the cow with an iron hammer about the size of a
person’s forearm. The cow would fall over. In the next moment, it would
be stripped of its hide and its legs would be cut off. Life hangs on so
desperately that the stumps remaining on the cow after its legs were cut
off would continue to quiver. It brought tears to my eyes to watch this,
and I cried out loud.
From when I was a child, I have had a certain peculiarity. I could
know things that others didn’t, as if I had some natural paranormal
ability. If I said it was going to rain, then it would rain. I might be sitting
in our home and say, “The old man Mr. So-and-So in the next village
doesn’t feel well today.” And it would always be right. From the time
I was eight I was well known as a champion matchmaker. I only had
to see photographs of a prospective bride and groom and I could tell
everything. If I said, “This marriage is bad,” and they went ahead and
married anyway, they would inevitably break up later. I’ve been doing
this until I’ve turned 90, and now I can tell much about a person just
seeing the way he sits or the way he laughs.
If I focused my thoughts, I could tell what my older sisters were
doing at a particular moment. So, although my older sisters liked
me, they also feared me. They felt that I knew all their secrets. It may
seem like I have some incredible paranormal power, but actually
it isn’t anything to be surprised about. Even ants, which we often
think of as insignificant creatures, can tell when the rainy season is
coming, and they go to where they can stay dry. People in tune with
nature should be able to tell what is ahead for them. It’s not such a
difficult thing.
You can tell which way the wind is going to blow by carefully
examining a magpie’s nest. A magpie will put the entrance to its
nest on the opposite side from the direction where the wind is going
to blow. It will take twigs in its beak and weave them together in a
complex fashion, and then pick up mud with its beak and plaster the
top and bottom of the nest so that the rain doesn’t get in. It arranges
the ends of the twigs so that they all face the same direction. Like
a gutter on a roof, this makes the rain flow toward one place. Even
magpies have such wisdom to help them survive, so wouldn’t it be
natural for people to have this type of ability as well?
If I were at a cow market with my father, I might say, “Father, don’t
buy this cow. A good cow should look good on the nape of its neck and
have strong front hooves. It should have a firm buttocks and back. This
cow isn’t like that.” Sure enough, that cow would not sell. My father
would say, “How do you know all this?” and I would reply, “I’ve known
that since I was in mother’s womb.” Of course, I wasn’t serious.
If you love cows, you can tell a lot about them. The most powerful
force in the world is love, and the most fearful thing is a mind and body
united. If you quiet yourself and focus your mind, there is a place deep
down where the mind is able to settle. You need to let your mind go to
that place. When you put your mind in that place and go to sleep, then
when you awake you will be extremely sensitive. That is the moment
when you should turn away all extraneous thoughts and focus your
consciousness. Then you will be able to communicate with everything.
If you don’t believe me, try it right now. Each life form in the world seeks
to connect itself with that which gives it the most love. So if you have
something that you don’t truly love, then your possession or dominion
is false and you will be forced to give it up.

Stubborn Child Who Never Gives Up

My father was not good at collecting debts, but if he borrowed
money, he would honor the pledge to repay, even
if it meant selling the family cow or even removing one
of the pillars from our home and selling it at market. He always said, “You can’t change the truth with trickery. Anything that is true will not be dominated by a small trick. Anything that is the result of trickery won’t go more than a few years before it is exposed.”
My father had a large stature. He was so strong that he had no
difficulty walking up a flight of stairs carrying a bag of rice on his
shoulders. The fact that at age ninety I’m still able to travel around
the world and carry on my work is a result of the physical strength I
inherited from my father.
My mother, whose favorite Christian hymn was “Higher
Ground,” was also quite a strong woman. I take after her not only
for her wide forehead and round face but for her straightforward
and high-spirited personality as well. I have a stubborn streak,
and there is no doubt I am my mother’s child.
When I was a child, I had the nickname “day crier.” I earned this
nickname because once I started to cry, I wouldn’t stop for the entire
day. When I cried, it would be so loud that people would think something
terrible had happened. People sleeping in bed would come outside to see
what was going on. Also, I didn’t just cry sitting still. I would jump around
the room, injuring myself and creating an uproar. Sometimes I would bleed.
I had this kind of intense personality even when I was young.
Once my mind was made up, I would never back down, not even if
it meant breaking a bone in my body. Of course, this was all before I
became mature. When my mother would scold me for doing something
wrong, I would talk back to her, saying, “No. Absolutely not!” All I had
to do was admit that I was wrong, but I would rather have died than let
those words out of my mouth. My mother, though, had quite a strong
personality as well.
She would strike me, and say, “You think you can get away with not
answering your parent?” Once, she struck me so hard she knocked me
down. Even after I got up, I wouldn’t give in to her. She just stood in front
of me, crying loudly. Even then, I wouldn’t admit that I was wrong.
My competitive spirit was as strong as my stubbornness. I couldn’t
stand to lose in any situation. The adults in the village would say, “Osan’s
Little Tiny-Eyes, once he decides to do something, he does it.”
I don’t remember how old I was when this happened. A boy gave
me a bloody nose and ran away. For a month after that, I would go to
his house every day and stand there, waiting for him to come out. The
village adults were amazed to see me persist until finally his parents
apologized to me. They even gave me a container full of rice cakes.
This doesn’t mean I was always trying to win with stubborn persistence.
I was physically much larger and stronger than other children
my age. No child could beat me in arm wrestling. I once lost a wrestling
match to a boy three years older than I was, and it made me so angry
that I couldn’t sit still. I went to a nearby mountain, stripped some bark
from an acacia tree, and for the next six months I worked out on this tree
every evening to become strong enough to defeat that child. At the end of
six months, I challenged him to a rematch and managed to beat him.
Each generation in our family has had many children. I had one
older brother, three older sisters, and three younger sisters. I actually
had four other younger siblings who were born after Hyo Seon. Mother
gave birth to thirteen children, but five did not survive. Her heart must
have been deeply tormented. Mother suffered a great deal to raise so
many children in circumstances that were by no means plentiful. As a
child I had many siblings. If these siblings got together with our first and
second cousins, we could do anything. Much time has passed, however,
and now I feel as though I am the only one remaining in the world.
I once visited North Korea for a short while, in 1991. I went to my
hometown for the first time in 48 years and found that my mother and
most of my siblings had passed away. Only one older sister and one
younger sister remained. My older sister, who had been like a mother to
me when I was a child, had become a grandmother of more than seventy
years. My younger sister was older than sixty, and her face was covered
with wrinkles. When we were young, I teased my younger sister a lot.
I would shout, “Hey, Hyo Seon, you’re going to marry a guy with one
eye.” And she would come back with, “What did you say? What makes
you think you know that, Brother?” Then she would run up behind me
and tap me on the back with her tiny fists.
In the year she turned eighteen, Hyo Seon met a man with whom
one of our aunts was trying to arrange her marriage. That morning
she got up early, carefully combed her hair, and powdered her face.
She thoroughly cleaned our home inside and out and waited for her
prospective groom to arrive. “Hyo Seon,” I teased her, “you must really
want to get married.” This made her blush, and I still remember how
beautiful she looked with the redness in her face showing through the
white powder.
It has been well over ten years since my visit to North Korea. My
older sister, who wept so sorrowfully to see me, has since passed away,
leaving just my younger sister. It fills me with such anguish. I feel as
though my heart may melt away.
I was good with my hands, and I used to make clothes for myself.
When it got cold, I would quickly knit myself a cap to wear. I was better
at it than the women were, and I would give knitting tips to my older
sisters. I once knitted a muffler for Hyo Seon. My hands were as big and
thick as a bear’s paw, but I enjoyed needlework, and I would even make
my own underwear. I would take some cloth off a roll, fold it in half, cut
it to the right design, hem it, sew it up, and put it on. When I made a
pair of traditional Korean socks for my mother this way, she expressed
how much she liked them by saying, “Well, well, I thought Second Son
was just fooling around, but these fit me perfectly.”
In those days it was necessary to weave cotton cloth as a part of
preparations for the marriage of a son or daughter. Mother would take
cotton wool and place it on a spinning wheel to make the thread. This
was called to-ggaeng-i in the dialect of Pyong-an Province. She would
set the width at twenty threads and make twelve pieces of cotton cloth,
thirteen pieces of cotton cloth, and so on. Each time a child would
marry, cotton cloth as soft and beautiful as processed satin would be created
through Mother’s coarse hands. Her hands were incredibly quick.
Others might weave three or four pieces of to-ggaeng-i fabric in a day,
but Mother could weave as many as twenty. When she was in a hurry
to complete the marriage preparations for one of my older sisters, she
could weave an entire roll of fabric in a day. Mother had an impatient
personality. Whenever she would set her mind to doing something, she
would work quickly to get it done. I take after her in that way.
Since childhood, I have always enjoyed eating a wide variety of foods.
As a child, I enjoyed eating corn, raw cucumber, raw potato, and raw
beans. On a visit to my maternal relatives who lived about five miles
away from our home, I noticed something round growing in the field.
I asked what it was and was told it was ji-gwa, or “earth fruit.” In that
neighborhood, people referred to sweet potatoes as earth fruit. Someone
dug one up and cooked it for me in steam, so I ate it. It had such a
delectable taste that I took a whole basketful of them and ate them all
myself. From the following year, I couldn’t keep myself away from my
maternal relatives’ home for more than three days. I would shout out,
“Mother, I’m going out for a while,” run the whole distance to where
they lived, and eat sweet potatoes.
Where we lived, we had what we called “potato pass” in May. We
would survive the winter on potatoes, until spring came and we could
start harvesting barley. May was a critical period, because if our store
of potatoes was depleted before the barley could be harvested, people
began to starve. Surviving the time when potato stores were running
low and the barley had not yet been harvested was similar to climbing
to a steep mountain pass, so we called it potato pass.
The barley we ate then was not the tasty, flat-grained barley that we
see today. The grains were more cylindrical in shape, but that was all
right with us. We would soak the barley in water for about two days
before cooking it. When we sat down to eat, I would press down on the
barley with my spoon, trying to make it stick together. It was no use,
though, because when I scooped it up in my spoon, it would just scatter
like so much sand. I would mix it with gochujang (red pepper paste)
and take a mouthful. As I chewed, the grains of barley would keep coming
out between my teeth, so I had to keep my mouth tightly closed.
We also used to catch and eat tree frogs. In those days in rural areas,
children would be fed tree frogs when they caught the measles and their
faces became thin from the weight loss. We would catch three or four
of these frogs that were big and had plenty of flesh on their fat legs. We
would roast them wrapped in squash leaves, and they would be very
tender and tasty, just as though they had been steamed in a rice cooker.
Speaking of tasty, I can’t leave out sparrow and pheasant meat, either.
We would cook the lovely colored eggs of mountain birds and the
waterfowl that would fly over the fields making a loud, gulping call.
As I roamed the hills and fields, this is how I came to understand
that there was an abundance of food in the natural environment
given to us by God.