Meandering Thoughts on the Country and Farming
Today we visited one of my mother-in-law's friends who lives in the country. My daughter loves animals, and had a great day seeing the dogs, chickens, roosters, and chicks at the woman's house. We took a walk to a nearby garden restaurant that kept quail, pheasants, and a very Flannery O'Connoresque peacock. We were invited into a farm house with two cows, my daughter's favorite animal.
The food my mother-in-law's friend cooked was probably the best Korean food I've ever had. It was traditional, much like the food prepared for the chesa ancestral ritual. It was only in this century that Korean food has become spicy, and many older folks prefer the original style food. I love hot and spicy food, but find that modern Korean cuisine often lacks subtlety. The hot pepper paste tends to overpower the other ingredients of a dish, and many of the side-dishes taste exactly the same. Today's food was different. The succulent kalbi was better than the expensive restaurants of Seoul. The other meats and fish were excellent, as was the beef stew. Even the rice was cooked to perfection.
After such a great day (and I was originally reluctant to go), my wife and I both felt the urge to get away from city life and resettle in the country, mostly for the sake of the kids. Every post on Jeff Culbreath's blog, Hallowed Ground, draws me closer to the beautiful town my wife and I were married in: Orland, California. To realize this dream that we are blessed to share, we'll defintely need to save for a few years, but could we someday devote ourselves to Catholic Rural Life?
Twenty years ago, I was a card-carrying member of the Future Farmers of America. Against the fervent advice of my guidance counselor, during my last two years of high school, I enrolled in a county-run vocational school. I spent every morning studying landscaping, horticulture, and greenhouse management, with classmates from the more rural parts of Erie County, in Western New York. We grew plants, spliced branches, we laid sod, drove back-hoes, learned about dicots and monocots, and applied rooting hormone.
The rural kids I spent every morning with were some of the most honest and generous people I've ever met. I struck up a friendship with a girl who was the chief outcast (in Korean, "왕따") of my own high school. For being from a farming family, she and her many brothers suffered unspeakable abuse at the hands of my fellow suburbanites (including myself on at least one occasion, if I remember correctly). She, and some of my other classmates, was labeled "slow" by the school establishment. Yet, during the freetime we found in the greenhouse, we discussed literature (Vonnegut, unfortunately). We talked about life. I introduced her to one of my more "intellectual" friends and we all hit it off. I even developed a bit of a crush on her.
She, and the others, were my true friends from high school. I'm sure they're all happy now, with families of their own, living good and virtuous lives. These are the people who make America great.
I managed to defy my guidance counselor's prediction and graduate with both a vocational and a Regent's diploma. The summer before entering college, I worked on a farm with greenhouses. I've never had a boss whom I admired more than the deaf, taciturn, 60-year-old owner of that farm, which he named after his only daughter (incidentally just down the road from the girl I mentioned before). I spent three hours every other day watering geraniums and the rest of the time picking tomatoes, broccoli, and peppers. That farmer and I, just the two of us, built a greenhouse together. I got to use a jack-hammer and other exhilarating power tools. We used his tractor for a hoist. In the Fall, I quit without warning (one of the things I feel guiltiest for), and left to live in Babylon.
Now, two decades later, my FFA membership long-expired, I can hardly keep my houseplants alive. I wonder of I could eke out an existence in the country.
Today we visited one of my mother-in-law's friends who lives in the country. My daughter loves animals, and had a great day seeing the dogs, chickens, roosters, and chicks at the woman's house. We took a walk to a nearby garden restaurant that kept quail, pheasants, and a very Flannery O'Connoresque peacock. We were invited into a farm house with two cows, my daughter's favorite animal.
The food my mother-in-law's friend cooked was probably the best Korean food I've ever had. It was traditional, much like the food prepared for the chesa ancestral ritual. It was only in this century that Korean food has become spicy, and many older folks prefer the original style food. I love hot and spicy food, but find that modern Korean cuisine often lacks subtlety. The hot pepper paste tends to overpower the other ingredients of a dish, and many of the side-dishes taste exactly the same. Today's food was different. The succulent kalbi was better than the expensive restaurants of Seoul. The other meats and fish were excellent, as was the beef stew. Even the rice was cooked to perfection.
After such a great day (and I was originally reluctant to go), my wife and I both felt the urge to get away from city life and resettle in the country, mostly for the sake of the kids. Every post on Jeff Culbreath's blog, Hallowed Ground, draws me closer to the beautiful town my wife and I were married in: Orland, California. To realize this dream that we are blessed to share, we'll defintely need to save for a few years, but could we someday devote ourselves to Catholic Rural Life?
Twenty years ago, I was a card-carrying member of the Future Farmers of America. Against the fervent advice of my guidance counselor, during my last two years of high school, I enrolled in a county-run vocational school. I spent every morning studying landscaping, horticulture, and greenhouse management, with classmates from the more rural parts of Erie County, in Western New York. We grew plants, spliced branches, we laid sod, drove back-hoes, learned about dicots and monocots, and applied rooting hormone.
The rural kids I spent every morning with were some of the most honest and generous people I've ever met. I struck up a friendship with a girl who was the chief outcast (in Korean, "왕따") of my own high school. For being from a farming family, she and her many brothers suffered unspeakable abuse at the hands of my fellow suburbanites (including myself on at least one occasion, if I remember correctly). She, and some of my other classmates, was labeled "slow" by the school establishment. Yet, during the freetime we found in the greenhouse, we discussed literature (Vonnegut, unfortunately). We talked about life. I introduced her to one of my more "intellectual" friends and we all hit it off. I even developed a bit of a crush on her.
She, and the others, were my true friends from high school. I'm sure they're all happy now, with families of their own, living good and virtuous lives. These are the people who make America great.
I managed to defy my guidance counselor's prediction and graduate with both a vocational and a Regent's diploma. The summer before entering college, I worked on a farm with greenhouses. I've never had a boss whom I admired more than the deaf, taciturn, 60-year-old owner of that farm, which he named after his only daughter (incidentally just down the road from the girl I mentioned before). I spent three hours every other day watering geraniums and the rest of the time picking tomatoes, broccoli, and peppers. That farmer and I, just the two of us, built a greenhouse together. I got to use a jack-hammer and other exhilarating power tools. We used his tractor for a hoist. In the Fall, I quit without warning (one of the things I feel guiltiest for), and left to live in Babylon.
Now, two decades later, my FFA membership long-expired, I can hardly keep my houseplants alive. I wonder of I could eke out an existence in the country.
Redeemed by Our Savior, I work out my salvation with fear and trembling in Pohang, South Korea, where I live with my wife, daughter, and son and teach English at a science and technology university. Baptized a Methodist and raised a Missouri Synod Lutheran in Buffalo, NY, I spent six years as a guest of the Anglican Communion before being received by the Grace of God into the One Holy Catholic and Apostolic Church on the Feast of Saint Andrew, my patron, anno domini 2002.
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