Twenty Years Later…

Back in August of 2004 I did something crazy; I threw caution to the wind, packed up what I believed would get me through a year overseas, and moved to Korea to be an English teacher.  I had not trained as an English teacher, nor did I know much about Korea - I hadn’t even tried the food when I boarded the first of 3 planes that would bring me to the other side of the world.  There were lots of nervous tears, some hysterical giggles, and a huge adjustment period, but before the end of that first year I had extended for four months and was working out the logistics of teaching art for a proper international school.  With the exception of a short hiatus following my second stint in Korea, I haven’t looked back since.  At least, not until now.

At a temple in Seokcho, summer ‘05

Back in June I left Mongolia for the last time, but it has taken until now for me to realize that I’m not going back.  It hit me one morning a day or two before I moved, when I was figuring out the logistics of finishing my packing, and I realized that I could not, after all, stay up all night right before my flight packing.  This is because I wasn’t flying to my new home, I had to get up that morning to go collect my U-Haul, which I would be driving the 6 hours it would take me to get to Minneapolis.  So no all-nighters for me.

Twenty years ago, boarding that plane was the hard part.  I felt like I was stepping into an unknown world without support - when my second flight was delayed, I was panicked that I would miss the third, and when I arrived in Seoul no one would be waiting for me.  Fortunately, that didn't happen, and over the last 20 years, I’ve come to realize how well my schools have supported me.  This summer proved to me how hard it is to move just within the States, from finding an apartment (let alone jump through all the hoops necessary to rent - thank goodness for the Evil One's Bank & Trust), to driving a moving van, and especially remembering that everyone here speaks English and maybe I should try saying “fuck” a little less often.

It also occurs to me how daunting it is to do this without my dad.  It’s stupid - he couldn’t have helped me load the moving van, or drove up there with me.  He was actually probably looking down on us as Shaggy, Babysis, and Gameboy helped me thinking that he’d at least dodged that bullet.  But there was just something about him that made you feel reassured, that everything would go smoothly, and if it didn’t, he’d help you figure it out.  I feel a bit adrift in the world, knowing I can’t ask him for help anymore.  And that makes it hard to leave my mom behind.  I couldn’t have stayed - I have no job in Glenwood nor do I WANT to have a job in Glenwood, and I’m a city girl through and through, being out in the country with no car and nothing to do would eventually have driven me crazy - but that doesn’t change the fact that I feel like the worst daughter ever.

Spoonbridge and Cherry at dusk

But I feel like Minneapolis is a good compromise, and in a way, it feels like I’ve come full circle at this point.  You see, this was the last place I went before I took that first big jump.  Not only because my mentor teacher, Lulu, used to bring her NAHS kids up here to see the art and tour MCAD, but because my parents decided they could fit my two younger siblings and I in a Ford Contour and take us on a road trip to the great northern beyond (we fit, but it was not a comfy ride).  And THEN, my classroom at GDA was actually called Minneapolis.  So there was a definite sense of fate as I set off two weeks ago in a 10' U-Haul with a smattering of possessions...

...mainly art supplies, to return here and try something that now felt just as crazy: starting back in the States on a slightly different career path, by going back to school.

It's been over a week since I got here and things have gradually started to move forward.  I've made approximately one trip to Target every two days (it's only a 6 block walk).  I've tried out at least six different restaurants on Eat Street.  More excitingly, I've met with three different mentors and chosen one to work with as I start the program.  I've moved into my studio and began to set things up - and gotten back to work.*  I've gotten my ID, am meeting with the professor for whom I will be TAing, and have gone to the two big art museums.  In a lot of ways, it really feels just like starting in a new country, with the notable exception being the fact that new classmates apparently aren't as eager to go socialize as new coworkers...I guess the fact that we're from the same country doesn't hold much weight when so is everyone else.

*Let me tell you, I think that was the hardest thing about this summer.  I've done sketches and things but not started actually working on anything in months - it is absolutely the worst kind of edging.

Down to the River

I have no travel blogs for you this summer.  Ok, I should have them, because there have been a lot of places I’ve been and things I experienced in those places that happened long past which I haven’t sat down and caught up on…and yet I still haven’t, so I don’t.  I don’t know how to describe my mental state this summer other than altered.  It’s been a weird one, to say the least.  Other than Minneapolis, where I sit typing this on the couch in my new apartment, my travels only took me down to “the farm,” to lay my father to rest.

My dad was from a tiny southern Missouri town called Rocky Comfort.  He didn’t want a funeral or a memorial service, but he purchased burial plots in the cemetery where my grandparents and great-grandparents are buried, so we planned to bring his ashes home this summer.  My mom let his extended family know what we were doing, and even though he probably didn’t want us to make a fuss or waste money on it, I think he would have been touched to see that so many people gathered to say goodbye.  And afterwards, we gathered at my grandmother’s church and had a meal of some of his favorite foods.

Roaring River hatchery, as seen from above

So that was the first day.  However, one of the things that my dad always did when we visited his parents was to go fishing at a state park called Roaring River.  It’s fed by a spring that wells from a huge cave under the park, so the water is actually cold enough for trout, which are raised and released for all the eager anglers to catch.  He’d get up before dawn and drive through the dark to the park, buy a fishing permit at the shop in the lodge, and wait for the siren, when he’d start casting his line, with a shiny silver rooster tail, into the river.  This was the fish I grew up eating, rainbow trout caught by my dad.

So that’s how we remembered him.  My brother, nephews, brother-in-law, cousin, and uncle went fishing.  And I went to do the same weird shit I always did while my dad went fishing - feeding fish at the hatchery, admiring the spring, hiking the trail, and chatting with whoever had gotten bored of fishing.  It’s a pretty nice way to spend a morning.  I got to catch up with my aunt for a while, sketched fish and the cave entrance, walked probably more than I should, considering how inactive I’d been the preceding month.

The spring has always fascinated me.  It’s hella deep - even using diving equipment with rebreathing techniques, they still haven’t managed to get to the bottom of it.  The water is a brilliant blue, and the fish grow fat up here, where fishing is forbidden.  I don’t know the lifespan of a trout, but I’m pretty sure some of these guys were here when I was a kid.  It’s beautiful in a way I’d never seen anywhere else during my formative years, and also scared me more than a little.  Like if I fell in, I’d be lost forever - and yet I was still drawn to it.  

Now that the niblings have started playing DnD, I might have to use it in a dungeon…

Near the spring is Deer Leap Trail.  This trail basically goes straight up, skirts the edge of the cliff above the spring, and then comes straight back down behind the lodge.  Even though it’s steep as hell and I am in the roundest shape of my life, I wanted to hike it to remember my great-uncle.  When I was old enough to come down to the farm on my own, I remember having dinner with him in the park restaurant, and having him tell me about how he hiked Deer Leap every 10 years on his birthday.  He wasn’t sure he’d be able to do it on his 80th, both because of his fitness for it as well as because all of his brothers had died in order before their 80th birthdays, but he actually lived to see 90.  After we buried my dad’s ashes, JD’s last wish was also finally fulfilled, as his ashes were sprinkled on his wife’s grave.

Which brings me back to the river.  After the fish were caught and everyone was gathered, we drove to a little fishing hole a little further downstream.  My dad used to take us there from time to time, away from all the hustle and bustle of the other fishermen.  There was a deeper pool, and lots of rocks for skipping, and I remember splashing around in it with Shaggy, when the other kids were too young to enjoy it.  I couldn’t have told you exactly where this spot was, but he knew, and he led us there.  Once everyone had gotten out of their cars, we spread the last of his ashes into the water, to rest in this place he loved.  It’s been hard to let him go, but if I had to imagine what heaven would look like for him, it would be to spend eternity fishing, surrounded by his family.