(Written on May 27, 2021)

 

So far, I’ve shared many stories about my mother. Today, however, I want to recount an incident that made me truly appreciate my father’s greatness. It was during the summer vacation of 1966, when I was a first-year high school student. One day, while I was at home, my father said to me:

 

“Son, we’re delivering a truckload of taffy to Yecheon. Want to come along?”

At that time, I had grown into my body, carried the stature of an adult, and my business sense had sharpened as I worked hard as both a laborer and a payment collector for our taffy factory.

 

“Yes, I’ll go.”

 

Our Yecheon client’s son was about my age. Every time we visited, I would sit down for a drink and chat with him. Although he was one grade ahead of me and had long been involved in the family taffy business like I was, what truly drew me out of Gimcheon—a town scarcely larger than one’s hand—was the opportunity to escape its confines. Eagerly, we loaded a truck full of taffy and set off for Yecheon early that morning.

 

In the early days, our taffy factory primarily served clients in Gimcheon: confectionery factories in the city and street vendors who not only purchased our taffy but also collected scrap metal in exchange. The confectionery factories bought our runny taffy, of excellent quality, even though it was cheaper than sugar, to mix with sugar while making sweet goodies. Meanwhile, the taffy shops would purchase our hardened taffy, heat it until it melted slightly, and then, much like pulling noodles in a Chinese restaurant, stretch and cut it into strands to sell on the streets. Originally, our factory was the pioneer in Gimcheon, but with growing competition, even in our own Moam-dong neighborhood, there were four different taffy shops. As production increased, selling everything solely in Gimcheon became difficult. That’s why we began securing clients outside town, with the Yecheon taffy shop being one of the larger accounts. In those days, all our external clients were taffy shops.

 

Even though the ride beside the driver was bumpy, nothing compared to the thrill of leaving the stifling confines of Gimcheon. Cruising along the country road in a well-worn truck, the wind rushing in through the open window stung my face, but in a way that felt exhilarating. The road was unpaved, and yet that roughness only added to my excitement. The idea of carrying a full load of our products made me feel unusually proud, as if I were someone important. After only a few hours, we reached our client in Yecheon. The client’s son greeted us warmly; while my father unloaded the taffy, I joined him for lunch at a local tavern. Although it might seem odd for a high schooler to drink, in the countryside, even middle schoolers were treated as adults and accepted a glass of makgeolli (Korean rice wine) with good-natured encouragement.

 

“Aren’t you now a young adult receiving higher education? It’s all right to have a drink,” I recalled hearing from a friend’s father when I was in the second grade of middle school.

 

After a pleasant lunch, I returned to the client’s, only to be met by a tense atmosphere. A heated argument had broken out between my father and the shop owner.

 

“Listen here—you may manage this delivery, but you must pay off your previous credit first!” My father’s words were firm. The money the man had offered was barely enough to settle the earlier unpaid debt.

 

“Mr. Kim, please try to understand. Business has been slow lately. There’s just not enough cash flowing in,” the client pleaded.

 

Hearing that, my father’s expression grew stern as he glanced toward the storage area. After a moment’s pause, he said:

 

“We must collect the previous debt. Without it, we can’t afford to buy the raw materials to run our factory, and if we don’t get cash, we’ll take your scrap metal instead. How much do you have stored?”

 

The client led us to a cluttered storage room where scrap metal was piled haphazardly. To my eyes, it looked utterly worthless.

 

“Is that supposed to be money? My father is practically handing over his precious taffy in exchange for this junk,” I grumbled silently.

 

Then, with impressive efficiency, my father set the workers to work, directing them to sort the scrap. “This is brass, that is cast iron, and over there…” he enumerated, as though he were speaking a language only he understood. Following his expert instructions, the messy heap quickly transformed into neatly separated piles of useful material. The shop owner’s eyes widened in surprise.

 

“Ah, now that it’s organized, it looks much better—perhaps I shouldn’t have let you take the scrap so easily.”

 

Without the aid of a computer, my father manually weighed each type and calculated its market value. Despite never having attended school, a side of him I once underestimated now shone with undeniable expertise.

 

Later, my father explained that he had left his hometown at the tender age of nine because of a difficult life with his stepmother. He had fled to Daegu city and started peddling taffy on the streets—a small child working alone to earn his keep. My grandmother had married a man of leisure and, after having only my father and his sister, soon passed away; then my grandfather took in a much younger woman, leaving my father essentially an outcast. In Daegu, the nine-year-old must have begun as a mere street vendor, seeking work at a taffy shop for even a meager meal. Yet, through sheer perseverance and honesty, he soon earned enough respect to run his own taffy business. By selling the scrap metal he collected to Japanese dealers during the Pacific War, when scrap prices soared to astronomical heights, a truckload of scrap could fetch the price of a fine tiled house. His steadfast character and integrity won over the Japanese merchants, making him remarkably successful before he even reached twenty. It was said that when he worked in the factory, he would occasionally burst into song, charming the dealers with his excellent vocal skills. Whether true or not, his voice was reputed to be clear and captivating—the kind that even enchanted local entertainers. I’ve often been told that my voice carries a certain resonance, and I know I owe that in part to my father’s remarkable influence. Truly, when it came to both taffy and scrap metal, my father was the expert—the consummate professional whose morning routine included nothing less than precisely sorting and valuing scrap.

 

On the return trip to Gimcheon with the truck loaded full of scrap metal, my father smiled contentedly and said:

 

“Son, we struck gold today. Brass prices are insanely high. When I go to collect payment from the taffy shops, I deliberately wait so I can pick up some scrap metal if the chance arises. Today, I noticed that the pile had an abundance of brass, so I quickly claimed it. That shop owner, lacking an eye like mine, simply piled up scrap, thinking nothing of it. I told him I’d take it, and he didn’t hesitate. Once we’re back in Gimcheon, this scrap will be worth far more than the taffy itself.”

 

“Dad, I truly respect you. I learned something valuable today,” I thought, admiring him even more.