Namji: Walking down Memory Lane by Hyunsoo Kim

Whenever I tell my friends that my grandparents have a “farm”, they envision rolling hills

of wheat crop and barns full of speckled chicken eggs. In actuality, it’s more like a vast, very

well-kept garden complete with an office seemingly stuck in the 90s and an abandoned factory

warehouse. It used to more closely resemble a farm in the past, with a plentiful amount of barn

animals. There are no more chickens or horses left, but a farm, nonetheless.

Every year, I take the one-hour trip from Masan to Namji with my grandparents. Since I

only visit Masan for two weeks every year, we make a day out of the visit to the farm. In the

morning, I help my grandma pack leftovers to use as dog food and compost. From dawn, the

house is busy with excitement for the day ahead. On the way there, we stop for lunch at the

same Korean barbecue restaurant with a play place in the back, packed with blue and white

plastic balls and toy trucks. The authentic Korean food scratches an itch I can’t fix in America.

After our meal, my brother and I sneak a handful of the complimentary hard candies, smaller

than a penny. We suck on the assorted fruit flavored treats on the rest of the car ride. As soon

as my grandpa parks the car in the gravelly pebbles, you hear loud intimidating growls from

inside the gates. There have always been two guard dogs at a time on patrol at the farm,

shackled to their dog house. I always felt disheartened watching them in their tiny living space,

only given shade by low pine trees. The current guard dogs, Jjongi and Jjeck, were treated

differently at the start. As puppies, they were allowed to run around freely. However, after a

year, they were shackled to the entrance of the farm. By now, they’ve forgotten what it feels like

to be the companion of a human, so you’re not allowed to go near the dogs. They only see you

as a threat. If you step within their territory, they’ll lunge, snapping their vicious jaws at you.

The only person they don’t attempt to kill at first sight is my grandma. She always makes sure to

toss them some salty, leftover fish bones from breakfast.

After greeting the light biscuit-colored guards, I follow my grandma throughout a lush

maze of perilla leaf, eggplant, and green and red chilli pepper plants. She instructs me through

the process, teaching me which ones are perfectly ripe and how to yank them off the stems

without damaging them. We stroll through the tall, leafy rows with a woven basket in hand,

taking just enough for the six of us. The farm is impossibly scorching and pesky mosquitos are

everywhere, so my grandma always carried a bottle of roll-on, bug bite medicine in one hand

and a basket of vegetables in the other. The trick is to walk quickly; then they won’t be able to

catch you. The fresh veggies are then transported to my grandma’s mini kitchen space in the

farm. The room is cramped and the tiny fan barely works, but I’ve had some of my best

memories there. Last summer, my brother began having a mild allergic reaction to a singular

cashew. None of us thought much of it, until we realized we hadn’t seen him in thirty minutes.

My cousins and I began hurriedly running through the farm yelling his name, imagining him

lying unconscious in between rows of peppers.

We peeked inside the kitchen, not expecting to see anything. There was my brother,

wheezing with a bottle of ice cold Makgeolli pressed to his neck. While he was rapidly losing his

ability to breathe, my grandma was busy washing dishes and nonchalantly assuring him that he

would be fine. At the moment, it was a dire emergency, but now it’s something my entire family

can laugh about.

Then, I make my way to the best part of the farm: the old office. By this point, you

already feel like you're melting in humid, summery heat, which is why I always make a pit stop

at the air-conditioned office. The office itself feels like a slice of the 80s with a chunky beige

landline and worn-out floral wallpaper. Numerous yellowed family reunion photos are nailed to

the wall which feature my dad as a little boy, appearing identical to my younger brother.

Strangely enough, these photos are always eerily formal without a single smile. Everything is

covered in grey dust from the small exhibit of the company’s old products to the pink himalayan

salt lamp that I unfortunately used to secretly lick. However, the small, wooden book shelf by

the office entrance has somehow collected more dust than anywhere else in the office. It holds

all of my aunt’s paperback books from when she was a teenager, which I take a few more of

every year. My grandpa used to run a food company which sold pre-made goods like tteokbokki

and udon. The remnants of the company survive through the farm with the clear, acrylic display

case of signature products and abandoned factory to the right of the office. The factory must

have abruptly stopped its productions without any warning; bulky metal pipes and neon

workers’ vests lay discarded on the grimy cement floor. It’s safe to say that the factory has

accumulated even more dust than the office.

The only place that is free from the grime of the decades is the small lounge room on

the very left corner of the office. Every time my family is at the farm, like clockwork, we all

simultaneously make our way to the lounge room. My grandma, a retired professional in Korean

tea culture, brews fresh tea in a pale-blue ceramic kettle. While boiling water, she teaches us

the specifics of the tea leaves - the flavor and color of the finished product. Meanwhile, the rest

of us nostalgically comment on old photos. On top of my grandpa’s desk is a photobooth strip of

my aunt and uncle on one of their very first dates. There’s a heavy beauty filter on the image

which enlarges my aunt’s eyes and lightens my uncle by ten shades. Next to it, is the one of my

dad’s stoic middle school graduation. My, then, slim dad stands in between my grandpa and

uncle in a navy suit, holding up a graduation certificate. Again, no one is smiling in the photo.

Across the room, the photo of our family on our 2012 Disney themed trip to Hawaii sits on the

cabinet. In it, Goofy and Daisy Duck cheerfully pose next to my stroller. I’m absolutely terrified

at the sight.

We never stay at the farm for long; having to constantly evade the mosquitos gets tiring

after a while. On our way out, we greet the farm’s only employee who has worked for my

grandparents since before dad was born. He’s even older than my grandparents, but he still

arrives at the farm everyday to cut down weeds and shoo away pesky birds, pecking at the

plants. Although he looks quite mild-mannered and easygoing due to his age, I know that

there’s more to his story. According to my dad, he had a pet owl back in the day who would

perch on his arm and hunt down poisonous snakes which my grandma would then skin and

cook. I’ve also been told that he has prayed for me and my brother since the day we were born,

so I guess he’s a man of many unexpected multitudes. The farm tends to work like that. Photo

albums and perfectly preserved, old-fashioned rooms tell me the surprising story of my family

before I came along.

Today, I see my uncle as a mature, ordinary man who works for a lightbulb company. To

me, my dad is very extroverted and popular among big groups. He is always the star of the show

at dinner parties and church meetings. My grandma is a down-to-earth woman who cares

greatly about health and not so much about aesthetics. She always tells us to walk with our

chest puffed out and arms wildly swinging back and forth. It’s not very pretty, but she swears it’s

kinder to your spine than regular walking. Lastly, I see my grandpa as a stony, devout man who

is not wired to show affection. However, the photos show me a different family. My uncle used

to be a popular jock who charmed the two Japanese exchange student girls in high school. On

the other hand, my dad was a bit lankier, more awkward and a devoted member of the church

choir. His silvery recorder from his teenage years still plays fragmented Korean gospel music. My

grandma, who rarely wears makeup now, was a fashionista, always sporting dark, thin brows

and a deep burgundy lip. Finally, my grandpa who spews inspirational proverbs like small talk

and upholds his rigid moral code, single-handedly held together his family.

Decades ago, my grandpa’s brothers fell to alcoholism and gambling. On top of providing

for his own children, my grandpa took care of everyone else, getting their dads out of debt and

sending them to college himself. I would’ve never known this if I hadn’t visited the farm and the

photo albums and artifacts that triggered conversation of old family controversies. My grandpa’s

not the type to brag or overshare, honestly, none of my family on my dad’s side does that either.

My grandparent’s farm is like a portal: uncovering bits and pieces of the long-gone, vibrant, and

hectic lives of the reserved people who raised me.

*** THE END ***