DECEMBER 3, 2023 – Yesterday evening we enjoyed a brief visit with our younger-son-Byron’s birth-mother, whom he—and the rest of our family—refer to as “K-Mom.” The “K” stands for “Korea,” which is where K-Mom lives and Byron was born. He first parted company with K-Mom immediately after delivery; the two were reunited for the first time 13 years later when he and his “M-Mom”—the “M” standing for “Main”—took a trip to Korea to meet K-Mom. They had another brief rendezvous two years later during a Taekwondo-centered tour of Korea.
Fast forward to 2019 when K-Mom flew to New York for a grand visit with Byron, Mylène, M-Mom, Jenny, and me. It was a splendid encounter, filled with extended conversations thanks to a Korean/English – English/Korean translation app, and capped by a glorious feast prepared by K-Mom before she flew back to Seoul. Later in 2019, K-Mom returned to the U.S. for Byron and Mylène’s American wedding[1]. She stayed with us for two weeks—along with Mylène’s parents and brother from France (but of Portuguese extraction).
The advent of Byron and Mylène’s first-born brings K-Mom back for another rendezvous. The first leg of her Seoul-to-Connecticut trip was to MSP, so an 18-hour layover was arranged to permit K-Mom’s overnight stay with M-Mom and me.
We met her as planned at the exit under the sign, “INTERNATIONAL ARRIVALS – NO ENTRY” at the far end of the lower level of the sprawling airport. If I’ve aged since 2019, K-Mom didn’t look a day older—staying well in step with M-Mom. After a long group hug, I took stock of K-Mom’s luggage: a smartly-styled valise—on sturdy wheels, fortunately, given that it weighed half a ton; a matching carry-on of more manageable heft; and a large styrofoam carton—no wheels but nearly matching the main valise in weight.
I knew the box contained Korean food—in quantity inversely proportionate to my Korean language skills. Based on my own travels abroad, I reflected on the role of food in international relations. In my experience, the largest cornucopias seem to be reserved for the linguistically impoverished. There’s a logic to this: since it’s hard to talk with your mouth full, sharing a common language is less relevant.
True to her generous and gracious character, K-Mom showered us with gifts. The “us” included Illiana, older-son-Cory’s daughter, who was the darling flower girl at Byron and Mylène’s American wedding and who went fully off script (as any film director would instruct), much to the crowd’s amusement.
The centerpiece of K-Mom’s presents was a hanbok or traditional formal dress—and accessories—for Illiana. It fit perfectly, and for precious moments in our living room, our eight-year-old half-Korean granddaughter filled the room with magic. As she posed for photographs then twirled about, she levitated in her delight and made time stand still for her teary-eyed grown-up admirers.[2]
From the styrofoam carton K-Mom pulled tightly wrapped 5-kilo bags of homemade kimchi—enough to open a Korean food mart, especially when combined with the year’s worth of dried seaweed from the carton, plus more squid than I’ll ever eat, an industrial-size sack of rice powder, bottles of soju, and other goodies. After unloading all this fare, K-Mom closed the carton and retaped it for the trip to Connecticut. When I went to carry the box back out to the car, I expected it to be significantly lighter, but it still weighed half a ton. Byron and Mylène won’t be starving anytime soon.
K-Mom presented M-Mom and me (I think!) with two carefully wrapped porcelain vases. They will forever grace the top of our piano, like opera stars in full regalia on stage at the Met.
For the banquet in honor of K-Mom, we resorted to the quintessentially American fall-back choice: tons of quality pizza . . . the one Western food to be found in abundance in Seoul, as we’d noticed on our family trip to Korea a thousand years ago. Being a multi-culturalist of the first and impromptu order, however, I deftly added to the festively decorated dining room table a bowl of . . . kimchi . . . for kimchi pizza. (I noticed, however, that K-Mom ignored my conspicuous example and ate the kimchi separately from the “Greek,” “vegetarian,” and “pepperoni” pizza, all of which selections she appeared to enjoy.)
With Illiana’s parents lying low at home with colds, the chipper eight-year-old was the sole representative on hand from that local branch of the family. As little Ms. Sociable, she bonded easily with K-Mom, or in the little girl’s case, “K-Great Aunt.” Before we knew it the two were playing a “board game” that Illiana had previously designed. The game was color-coded, and advances were determined by the toss of a die. These features surmounted the language barrier between the two enthusiastic players.[3]
But then came the capstone event of our rendezvous: Illiana’s “Play-Doh” sculpture contest. She’d introduced the idea to us a couple of weeks ago. The names of random things are jotted down on pieces of paper and mixed in a hat. Each contestant is given a plate and a chunk of Play-Doh. Before each round, one of the noun-bearing slips is pulled blindly from the hat and revealed to the group. When the timer starts contestants mold their respective lumps of Play-Doh into the designated object. Again, no common language required—except the universal one: art.[4]
Veteran competitors M-Mom and Illiana had developed impressive skills at Play-Doh sculpture. But when K-Mom/K-Great Aunt unleashed her quiet genius, We Three Americans from Orient Aren’t fell off our chairs. It appeared that our Korean guest was an unheralded Grand Master of Speed Sculpture in Clay. Holy. Moly. At our kitchen island counter before our very eyes, she created one masterpiece after another—a likeness of M-Mom for “Grandma”; followed by an apple (with stem and leaf . . . and worm); a cross-eyed lady bug; a pea pod; and more. Her work was museum quality, each detailed piece completed under the pressure of a timer.[5]
What brought the most delight, however, was the amazement in Illiana’s eyes and single word, “WOW!” in reaction to each new piece.
* * *
An infinite array of wonders brightens life on this tiny spherical spaceship of ours. If one side of earth is in perpetual darkness, the other side is always basking in sunlight. We just need to go back to second-grade science to remember that fact so we can appreciate more on the bright side of life.
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© 2023 by Eric Nilsson
[1] Their third marriage ceremony; the first being small, with a New York Superior Court judge officiating on an Upper West Side terrace with a couple of witnesses in attendance; the second being a storybook-like celebration in Mylène’s ancient ancestral village (and nearby olive grove), attended by friends from around the globe; and the third being something out of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, this time at our family’s Red Cabin in NW Wisconsin—attended by another set of friends from around the world—including “K-Mom.”
