Category Archives: Photos

Korean Mom Cred

Until now, I’ve been a miserable failure as a Korean mother. My children have not grown up eating rice and banchan made of organic vegetables grown in my backyard. They do not speak a word of Korean. They are not on the straight and narrow path to becoming doctors or lawyers. Despite the long list of failures to my name, I think I can say that I’ve finally earned my Korean mom chops. How did I manage to accomplish this, you may be wondering?

Was it:

a) By starting my children on piano/violin lessons mere seconds after their umbilical cords were clamped?

b) By exploiting fully taking advantage of the free mini-workforce at my disposal?

c) By laying on my children’s tiny little shoulders the heavy burden of responsibility for each other?

d) By pulling off fantastic feats of frugality?

e) ALL OF THE ABOVE.

I’ve asked the boys to start giving their little sister piano lessons. Each boy is responsible for giving her one thirty minute lesson a week. I figure they’ll hone their own skills, get a little practice in, all while giving their sister free piano lessons!

Bwahahahahahahahahahaha! Look at me: I’m a Korean mom.

Valentine’s Day

It was not the Valentine’s Day of my dreams…

In the afternoon I attended the memorial service for a man with whom my husband and I used to sing. He was a retired minister with a warm smile, a twinkle in his eye, and a deep love and steadfast devotion for his wife. His son described the love his father had for his mother as a “perfect shelter.” One of his closest friends spoke movingly of the time he spent with him on the many hikes they would take together in the Shenandoah Mountains. He was one of those rare people in this world who simply radiate goodness and light.

I went alone to the service, and my husband stayed home with the kids. As I was leaving the house, I asked my family to think of something fun that we could all do together when I got back. I knew it would be a wrenching occasion, and I wanted to have something to look forward to when I came home.

When I returned, my husband suggested that we go for a hike.

?!

?!?!

Did he not remember that I had asked him to think of something fun to do?

Did he not remember that in all of the almost twenty years that he’s known her, his wife has always, most definitely been an indoorsy kind of person?

Did he not remember that we had just gone on a hike the weekend before, thereby 100%, maybe even 175% fulfilling the annual hike quota for 2015?

Did he not care that it was about 20 degrees outside?

No. The answer is no, he did not.

And so we went.

We went to the Ragged Mountain Natural Area, which at this time of the year looks like this:

I ask you: Is this view worth hypothermia?

As we walked along I kept hearing alarming creaking noises and thought it was only a matter of time before I got beamed on the head with a falling tree.

My fourteen year old had decided not to wear his winter coat, and in keeping with my resolution to let him make his own crazy-ass wardrobe decisions, I kept my mouth shut. He did not look very happy:

My daughter still has two legs. I have no idea where she hid the other one in this photo.

As we hiked, I was quickly outpaced and fell behind. Everyone disappeared from view, and I trudged along by myself, thinking sad thoughts and apprehensively eyeing the groaning tree trunks. Suddenly, I saw this brave little plant right in the middle of the path. It seemed to be miraculously growing out of rocks…

I thought it might be a sign.

When I reached the summit, I found this:

Note that my daughter lost her coat, but found her other leg and also a big, cheesy grin.

It was a beautiful view worth hiking for, and it made me smile for the first time that day.

My Valentine for whom I hiked. Outdoors. In 20 degree weather.

And then, to round off Valentine’s Day, we went to Lowe’s to pick up a part to fix a light fixture that had blown out…

And that’s how we restored a little light and love to Valentine’s Day.

In memory of John, who really did love hiking, and who brought so much light and love to the world.

It’s Called Love

First posted on December 28, 2013.

When we were younger and would gather together with all of our extended family for the holidays, there were a few uncles we would avoid like the plague. One of them, in particular, would freak us out by placing his hands around our faces and lifting us up off the ground. Later, when my sisters complained of this mistreatment, he said, “Hey, I did you a big favor! Look how tall you are now. I didn’t do it to her (he glanced meaningfully in my general direction) and look…”

My sister reminded us of another practice that our own dad would engage in when we were little. He would gently stroke our forehead until we fell into a stupor and then would give it a sudden, smart smack.

We chortled as we fondly reminisced about these and other sadistic Korean practices.

“What was that last one called?” my brother asked as he wiped away tears of laughter.

“Love,” my sister responded without hesitation.

After Christmas breakfast, my siblings and I remained at the table chatting. My brother disappeared and returned again with a piece of paper. He began industriously drawing up a list.

And then it happened. My brother became that uncle:

Noogies=Love

Remember, kids…it’s called love!

Getting ready for Valentine’s Day

I had the sad thought that this is the second to last year that I’ll have to nag a certain someone to finish making her Valentine’s Day cards for everyone in her classroom…

 

Mint Springs in Winter

One of our favorite spots in Charlottesville is Mint Springs. This lovely little park in Crozet has a small swimming lake and a sandy beach nestled in a valley. Every summer, my children look forward to paddling in the warm, spring-fed waters right alongside the curious sunfish that sometimes like to gently nibble at swimmers’ toes.

This weekend we took advantage of the unseasonably warm weather to visit the park for the first time in the winter. We hiked a well-marked mountain path that loops around for a little less than two miles and has an elevation change of about 370 feet:

A view of Crozet from about halfway up the trail…

This stone fireplace is all that remains of a house perched along the trail. I wonder who lived here?

I loved this rocky outcrop..

with lichen-covered rocks.

Along the way, we passed this brave little tree, which kept right on growing despite an assault by a ruthless vine.

Our favorite spot on the hike was this one, where we paused to listen to the sweet sound of the mountain stream…

Pomegranate

Stories from Easter Island, continued

My dad’s fantasies have always been of the horticultural variety. How I wish I could win the lottery and make his lifelong dream of owning a walnut orchard or a cactus farm come true! Having crammed exotic plants into every corner of his own tiny suburban yard, he has begun speculating about the possibilities my yard has to offer. In a recent conversation we had, he mused about the feasibility of moving my house toward the back of the property so that my front yard could be transformed into a fruit orchard.

He’s been fascinated by fruit for as long as I can remember. You know that exotic fruit ghetto in the grocery store? That neglected little corner with strange, lumpy things no one ever buys and wouldn’t even know how to eat if they did? That’s always been my dad’s favorite part of the grocery store. He was always bringing home unusual fruits to try. You’d often find a napkin with seeds culled from these fruits, drying on our kitchen windowsill to be planted whenever he deemed the conditions to be favorable.

Over the winter holidays this year, we ate a lot of pomegranate. The only time my kids and husband and I ever eat this fruit is when we’re with my parents. It’s one of those fruits that I’ve always liked, but not enough to actually buy. For one thing, they’re a royal pain to cut open, though you can avoid some of the squirting and staining issues if you open the fruit in a large bowl of water. Over the Christmas break, my mother did all the hard work for us. Every night after dinner, she would pass around a bowl of the gorgeous, translucent seeds and a teaspoon with which to scoop them out.

One evening, as my dad helped himself to a few of the seeds, he told us this story…

“We had a pomegranate bush when I was growing up. It’s not a plant that’s native to Korea, so it was quite unusual to see one. We were the only ones who had one for miles around. But, I never once got to taste a pomegranate until I was an adult.”

“Every year, there would be only a few fruits, and as soon as they were ripe, our mother would take them to give to women in our village who wanted to have a baby, but were having trouble. They’re supposed to help with fertility. They would be so happy to get the fruit!”

“Gosh, Dad!” I said, feeling sad about his childhood of deprivation, “You didn’t get to eat the sparrows and you didn’t get to eat the pomegranates!”

“Our mother was soft-hearted like that. When my dad was still alive, we didn’t have much, but we were doing OK, so she was always trying to help other people…”

Dad’s mother and four brothers who survived to adulthood

I’ve always wanted to plant a pomegranate…not so much for the fruit, as for the brilliant, flamboyant blossoms that precede it. This spring I’m going to get a couple plants at one of my favorite local nurseries: one for the notional orchard in my front yard, and one that I’m sure my dad will be able to squeeze into his own yard somewhere.