A pair of accompanying canes
An old man’s "jipang-i," or cane, is more than just a walking aid — it is a companion that supports mobility and offers reassurance. Unlike the double sticks used for skiing or mountain climbing in youth, the cane becomes a trusted partner in later years.
Korea is already a "super-aged society," with 20 percent of its population 65 years old or older. While many retain their health, their mobility — in particular one's ability to walk — is one of the most worrisome concerns in life. The damage of cartilage in the knees or other joints have far more devastating consequences in old age.
After suffering several falls on escalators and stone steps, I came to rely on my canes more than ever, grateful to the orthopedic doctors who helped me recover. Although it's a different situation, which can often reduce quality of life, including the subtle loss of confidence in having to rely on canes, I would like to draw on the items and the memories that my parents have passed on with their canes.
At my octogenarian age, I keep two canes at home, each with its own story. One is a light aluminum cane, golden-white in color, purchased in Los Angeles when my late father visited the United States in the spring of 2002 — the same year he passed away at 88. The other is a goose-foot cane, a special gift presented to centenarians by the nation’s president, which my mother received in 2014 when she celebrated her 100th birthday. She lived to 105, leaving behind this symbolic legacy.
The aluminum cane often draws attention. Once, while walking in my neighborhood, a middle-aged woman stopped me, admiring its elegant design. She asked where she could buy one for her husband. I explained that it had been obtained abroad long ago, though similar styles might be found in Seoul. She eagerly photographed it, thanking me for sharing.
The goose-foot cane carries a different kind of weight — heritage and honor. My former classmates were fascinated when I brought it to our luncheon gatherings. They touched it reverently, took photos and marveled at its rarity. One friend cautioned me never to take it out too often, fearing such a precious item could be lost.
As far as I can walk on my own, I will continue to carry these two canes — one from my father, the other from my mother. They are not only practical aids that protect me from falls, but also cherished reminders of my parents. Holding them, I feel as though I am walking alongside them once more. An octogenarian, I am nevertheless thankful that the walking aid is more than what is is that helps me keep their memory alive in my twilight years.
Lee Sun-ho (wkexim@naver.com) is a freelance columnist living in Seoul.