[Weekend Essay] 5

“Weekend Journey with My 85-Year-Old Mot

“Weekend Journey with My 85-Year-Old Mother” – Episode 5

A Summer with Her Rival, and the Reason for Ten Minutes

Summer has arrived.
A heat wave warning was issued today.
On days when the sun pours down relentlessly, the countryside house heats up even faster.

Every Saturday, I regularly visit the countryside.
But the days when pesticide needs to be sprayed on the pepper field are different.
On those days, my mother calls me first on a weekday evening.

> “Son, the pepper leaves are all dried up and withered.
What should we do? We need to spray some pesticide...”



I respond as usual,

> “Then I’ll come early tomorrow morning.”



The next dawn, I head out.
Still half-asleep, I drag myself up, drink a glass of grain powder drink (misutgaru) to fill my stomach,
throw on some clothes without showering, and get in the car.
It takes about an hour to reach my mother’s house from the city.
Although my younger brother lives just five minutes away by car,
my mother never calls him.

> “Your brother works in an office.
It’s too hot for him to be working outside…”



Spraying pesticide takes just about ten minutes.
Yet I always rush over just for those ten minutes.
By the time I arrive, usually before 6 a.m.,
my mother is already out in the garden, bent over, pulling weeds.
That’s how she always greets me.

After spraying the pesticide, I prepare a few side dishes for her,
fry a single egg, place it on the table, and then head straight back to work.

> “Hey! Did you eat?”
She always asks.



I answer out of habit,

> “I just had some grain powder drink before coming.”



In truth, I haven’t eaten. I didn’t even wash up.
But I don’t want to trouble her.

In the past, she used to say,

> “Eat before you go,”
then pull out a mackerel from the freezer,
grill it, and quickly whip up some soybean paste stew.



But at some point, that changed.

Her bent back no longer allows her to stand long at the sink.
Washing dishes, peeling onions, chopping scallions,
fetching doenjang from the clay pot—
all of that became too much for her.

So now, whenever I visit the countryside,
I always say,

> “I had something before I came.”



One day, she chuckled and said:

> “What on earth do you always eat before coming?
Do you have that many things to blend at home? Heh…”



Then, with a sigh, she added,

> “My back hurts so much now, I can’t do anything anymore…”



While I was spraying the pesticide,
her “rival”—my aunt—passed by on her morning walk.

> “My, you’re so diligent!
You even come early in the morning to spray pesticide~”



She strolled leisurely around the neighborhood,
and my mother turned her head with a small sigh.

> “Your aunt still has so much energy.
But I worked too hard when I was young... and now my body is broken.”



Orchards, rice fields, pepper fields,
even peaches, grapes, and pears...
She worked her whole life in the fields and orchards.
That’s how I remember her.
One of my clearest childhood memories is of her applying pain relief patches to her knees after a long day in the orchard.

Maybe that’s why—
She calls me instead of my brother.
It’s not just about distance.
It’s an extension of a lifetime of reliance.

After spraying and preparing a simple meal,
I head back to the office.

And my mother—
loads the vegetables she grew herself onto her walker
and heads to the neighborhood “alley market”
where she joins the other elderly women.

There, her rivalry with my aunt resumes again.
Depending on who sells more,
or who sells out first,
her mood that evening is decided.

I quietly hope—
that a cool patch of shade finds that alley market today.

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Weekend Essay, Life With Mother, Aging With Grace, Korean Countryside, Mother Son Bond, Family Reflections, Memoir Writing, Quiet Moments, Rural Life Tales, Generational Love