Country Life - Rough Draft #1

I remember the days where I lived countryside.
Skies were blue and hazy and sidewalks were covered in un-mowed grass. All I really remember is the summertime.

We lived mountainside so the mornings were still cold and damp. I would get ready to go to school at the crack of dawn in the upstairs apartment, where we lived, above my dad’s Shell gas station store. My mom would walk me to the bus stop, which was unfortunately next to our blue dumpster. I was always embarrassed about that. But nobody cared - they all grew up in the countryside too. The bus would spin up the rickety mountain until we reached the top. I remember looking out the condensed window, streams of water droplets running down it, and watch the bus make tire marks on the black mountain gravel. It was a dangerous feat, driving up and down every morning with a bus full of kids. The morning radio would buzz as the kids would chit-chat. Not me, though. Once we got to the top, Seamus, the only boy who lived there would come sit next to me. He lived with his mom on her “farm.” A janky old RV and a goat pen outside. She had me milk the goats once and wrapped me some goat milk soap to give to my mom. Sometimes, Seamus and I would go to his grandmother’s house to play froggy in the attic, or play in the creek with the horses. He had so many animals. We would fish in the river after riding horseback. It’s crazy to think about it now, but I swear one time I saw a tiger fish. I remember he and his babysitter taught me about not stepping in a cowpie (poop), and about putting on citronella oil to help with the mosquitos. We would ride on his tire swing and bug his older brother. For my birthday, Seamus had brought me an Obsidian stone, the book, “My Friend Flicka,” and a horse toy, which I cherished for a long time before I forgot the meaning of them in my teenage years. I think about those gifts. I wonder if Seamus remembers me the way I remember him.

Summer nights were another thing.
After living in the gas station for a while, we moved into a house. I can just picture it. It’s pitch black everywhere else, where there’s no light or lamp. And all is still. My mom would make us play piano in the playroom, where I could almost swear, lived a ghost. There would be inexplainable sounds and I know my mom heard them too. I saw the fear in her face once. It’s cute to think she was scared too in those moments. The house was quiet and old. I wish I could see it clearer. Back then, I didn’t think to take pictures or even appreciate vintage. I know I would’ve loved it now.

The nights would be warm. One night in particular, my dad took us to church - a local white people church - for a cultural night. I think we were the only family that really shared our culture. My mom made us wear Hanboks to the event. She made Dduk for everyone to share, which they loved. Small town people are so welcoming and usually eager to learn. I remember they took care of us very generously. I even remember having dinner at one of the elderly couples’ houses. They offered to look after me while my parents were out. The pork chop was dry, but I enjoyed it. It was my first time trying it like that. I don’t think I felt Asian at that time. And I didn’t really think of them being white. I just thought that they were new friends. And it felt like I had a perfect set of white grandparents looking after me. Times were simpler back then.

The church was a big part of our lives in this small town even though my dad was not pastoring there. At this time, my family was being taken care of. In rehab.
The pastor’s wife, would take my brother (maybe 2) and I into the depths of the church, to be found with toys and crafts. Sunday School here was so different than at a Korean church, but it was captivating and interesting. Our lessons would be held in the attic - a light filled room that would get hot and humid in the summer. I begged for a window to be opened. It smelled of warm cedar wood and Molly (maybe her name) would fascinate me with Bible stories. After a while, she’d let me watch Vegetales on the 12” TV. I felt safe here. No one to judge or disrupt us. We were the only kids at church, so we got most of the attention.

Once church was over, I would watch my parents have coffee and donuts and converse in their broken English. We would walk just around the perimeter of the white paneled church and hang over the bridge to watch the creek stream down. Overly ripe apples from the church apple tree would plop into the water and bobble in the pool. I rested my head on the bridge to watch them. The sun was hot, but the sound of the creek was refreshing. I can’t help feeling like God had meant this time in this small town to be a safe haven for my family. A time of rest and a time to ponder on life’s beauty.

On the fourth of July, my school field was open for a firework show. There was no announcement or flyer about it - people just knew. I guess the church had told my parents to come with snacks and a picnic blanket. The field was vast and plush with green. The whole community set to come out that night. White Pass Elementary, Middle, and High School. There was only one school for the whole town, so you knew everyone was there. That was the first time I saw such amazing fireworks. They weren’t the normal starbursts in the sky, rather they were pictures. Pictures of the American flag, a soaring eagle, and stars illuminating the night sky. I heard those kinds of fireworks are banned in most cities for representing fading patriotism. But that night, it was the very opposite of that. I never felt more proud of being an American. I felt so loved with my family, huddled on a small picnic blanket in that very moment. I wish time had stopped there.

But as things go, time chugged along.

My life in this town was quiet. I was a quiet child - shy, but sort of mischievous around my parents.
My dad’s gas station gave me life in a lot of ways. My mom bought me a pair of Disney Princess skates, where the wheels would pop out at the touch of a button. A compromise from Heelys. I would skate up and down the store, even when customers were there. I would get scolded a lot from my dad. But I didn’t care.
The store was my home and after school, I would race in to grab a fried chicken breast and a cup of ranch from the heat shelf. My dad would say, “Those are for the customers!” but would always let me have them. The chicken was as dry as the Sahara and that’s why I loved it. It would soak up the Buttermilk Ranch and I was in heaven. That’s probably why I like dry chicken to this day.

I didn’t love watching my dad work. I thought he was better off being a pastor somewhere. The store stressed him out. He wasn’t good at cooking or being organized. My mom did all of those things behind closed doors. Yet his picture came out in the town’s newsletter for being the best Asian chef in Randle, Washington. And they were proud.
But there was something else that I was proud of.
My mom and her garden. Located in the back yard of the store was a big lot of dirt. When we first moved in, it was dead and dirty. But in no time, my mom had plowed - sewed into the soil, her blood and sweat. And the harvest was great. Pumpkins, zucchinis, peppers, tomatoes, lettuce heads… so much abundance. And it was amazing to see this lady provide for our family, and also give to others in this way.

I worry a lot about my mom and her memory here on Earth. If anyone other than me even remembers her or the love that she graced us with. I think often, “What a waste of a person. What a waste that nobody has seen the skills or beauty that she had for people!" I get scared at the thought that her ashes have blown away in the wind and her seat on Earth has been cancelled out. And the only one remembering her is me.
As I sit and write after moving back to a quiet suburb, I realize that that is not the case. My family has been pushed and pulled in many ways. Mountain to sea, from town to city, small fish to big. My family has proven its elasticity. Our love has been poured out and also poured into. After being emptied, our cups have been filled in many ways. My mother’s love, my father’s hardship, my brother’s gentle smile, and my witnessing has been stretched to many people. And now, has been connected by a heartstring from Heaven to Earth. My brother and I are the living embodiments of our parents in strength, in creativity, and in love for people.

After writing this, I have peace. I’m reminded that even at this time, before I knew Christ, He was always there looking after my family. Fervent prayer and blessings shown through a warm community gave us a driving hope. He provided this safe haven that we could rest for a little while. And I’m eternally grateful for it.
The thought of my life in a small town, then to a big city, and now back to a quiet suburb is funny. My experiences have been grounding to me and I’m thankful that I was able to see the technicolor of what life could be. For now, I think I came full circle. It’s also funny to me that this story was only less than 20 years ago. But to me, it feels like a previous life. What life has in store for my future, I don’t know… but my heart will always be back in the countryside with my family.