Ode to Winter > IDEAS & IDEALS

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The news on the television and in the newspaper that a highly decorated war hero of World War II, a brigadier general, was frozen to death on Christmas Eve on the street across from the White House in Washington made me sad at first, puzzled me later, and occasioned me to say a few words for this cruel season.

     At first I thought that the death came for the aged war hero as an accident. He might have drunk too much for his age, as everybody does around this time of the year, could not go home early for some unknown reasons, and had to spend the night in the street. And the temperature dropped unexpectedly far below the freezing point, and he died. But I was wrong in the conjecture of the cause of the hero's death. This highly honored D-Day veteran had no home to begin with, and he has been living on the street "homeless" for more than 20 years. The street was his home. In fact, he was one of the many homeless people in the major cities of the United States who live and sleep on the street.

     It seemed that the man had enjoyed some publicity during his lifetime even on the street as a homeless man. The man and his war merits seemed to have been well known to the people around him and to the newsmen. TV news showed a scene in which a friend of the general was squatting on the ground surrounded by several of his homeless friends, and was reading aloud the hero's brave acts from the citation, and the general was trying to stop him from doing it out of modesty or shame. They said that the man liked to push the wheelchairs for the aged and the sick when he was alive.

     What puzzled me was that why such a man should have lived on the street for more than twenty years. Was there no helping hand for the man at all? Are the Americans such indifferent people to the plight of others? I don't think so. And how could it be possible that there are so many homeless people, I mean, the people who live and sleep on the street, in the United States, one of the richest countries of the world? As far as I know, these homeless people are not beggars, since they do not live by begging for money or food from the passers-by. Most probably they receive money from the government regularly, although the amount is not much. They must be on social welfare. They are government pensioners, in my sense of the situation.

     Living on the street would be all right, even attractive, if the mercury would never drop down below zero. It would be a romantic life as well as a simple life. Henry David Thoreau would have tried that kind of life, if he had lived now in New York or in Washington, and would have recommended the way of life as an ideal example in his new Walden.

     When I was young, and was not tied up so much with family duties and social obligations as now, I slept often on the bench in the park in summer. Whenever I came under the influence of alcohol, I wanted to become a beggar; homeless, familyless, friendless, penniless beggar. Lying stretched on the bench under the roof of the starry sky, I felt free and great. I wept over my hopeless love, believed in the futility of life. I scorned all human efforts and endeavors. I was not afraid of my early death. When I woke up in the morning, I was completely wet with dew, and I could see familiar faces occupying the other benches. We exchanged understanding smiles with each other, mixed with shame and regret.

     But, unfortunately, I could not play the beggar in winter. The idea of sleeping on the bench in the park was out of the question. I found that getting a place around the hot-air pipes of a building or a nook in a boiler room in a cold winter night for some people was a struggle for survival, not a romance. I became afraid of everything in winter, especially of being frozen to death. I tried to wear a heavy overcoat, thick gloves and socks, and underwear without the slightest consideration of their aesthetic value. I came home early in the evening refusing even the free drink offered by the best friend of mine for fear that I might fall asleep in the snow on my way home and die.

     With its severe and stern whip, winter taught me to be a realist, not a romantic. It drove out from my head all the crazy and rotten fancies, noble rages and high ideals, and made my head clean and sober. It made me realize once more that food, clothes, and shelter are the three bigs for our living, and they come first and foremost before any other pretentious values in life.

     History tells us that the cold weather of Russia has defeated the will and high spirit of Hitler's soldiers in World War II, and of Napoleon's before that. One big reason, I think, that the Vietnamese could fight so long under such disadvantages against American soldiers was simply that they did not have to fight the cold weather at the same time. The seven-year-long desert war of attrition between Iran and Iraq will go on so long as the soldiers can eat and sleep in the trenches with no worry of being frozen to death.

     Man's shoulders as well as his vanities shrink up in winter. The paragon of animals realizes that man is least provided against the rage of the cold season among the creatures around him. He becomes envious of the furred animals and the feathered fowls. He also realizes that he is not such a simple creature as a frog who can enjoy the long sleep under the ground, nor can he be as stoic as an oak that stands and endures all the tribulations with grim determination in naked strength. He becomes humble enough to admire the wisdom of the insects that hide behind the bark of trees in order to survive this seemingly godforsaken time of the year.

     I am not sleeping in the park any more, even in summer. Last summer I visited my wonted bench in the park out of nostalgia. I found I could not revive the old passion for doing it again. Everything was changed. I could not see the familiar faces anymore. More than anything else, I found that the bed was too hard for me to sleep on. I could not even sit on it for long.

     It snows outside. I wonder what has become of those who spent the summer nights on the benches with me in the park. One thing is clear. They must have grown quite old by now with their hairs turning grey. On this snow falling day they are probably sitting by the stove and reading a newspaper or dozing, as I am doing. They are lucky. I am thinking of the death of an old soldier. I thank God for sending me the great stern teacher who slapped me hard on my cheeks with his cold hand, and prevented me from becoming a perennial bench sleeper in the park.
          (December 28, 1983)