Korean Old Traditional Socks

by Soo Yong Kim

The texture of calico fabric is close-woven and thinner than cotton. Cotton fabric, by contrast, is thicker and has a faint yellowish hue.

When women spun cotton on a spinning wheel, they drew out delicate threads, bleached them with yangjatmul solution, and dried them. The calico woven on a loom gleamed as bright as snow. Calico was one of Korea’s most beloved traditional fabrics.

Calico looks lustrous and supple, while cotton appears coarse. Aristocrats wore clothing made of calico, while common people wore garments of plain cotton. During mourning, the chief mourners traditionally wore white coats and pants made of cotton as they greeted those who came to offer condolences.

I personally preferred cotton to calico. Yet when I saw calico fabric, I was deeply moved—as if hearing a musician play the gayageum, the Korean twelve-string harp, its sound exquisite and delicate. In contrast, cotton reminded me of the bamboo flute played by a clown—simple, rustic, yet authentic and sincere.

Both calico and cotton are natural fabrics, gentle on the skin and free from allergic reactions. Synthetic materials like polyester, however, often cause itching or rashes. They generate static electricity when rubbed. Cotton, by contrast, is healthy and kind to the body.

I grew up in the city of Andong, though my hometown was a small village. My father served the community as a judge, and our family moved frequently according to his government appointments.

My mother preferred calico to cotton. She often used it to make quilt covers. She would starch the sheets and beat them smooth with two wooden clubs on a stone block until they became stiff and glossy. Those quilt covers were cool and crisp in summer—they didn’t cling to the skin or absorb sweat.

When I was a student, I wore a school uniform with a white collar that my mother starched and ironed until it shone. It made me look neat and well-groomed, and I was always grateful for her care. She often reminded me to keep my collar clean and to set an example for my classmates.

As I grew older, I decided to part with my old-fashioned clothes—either to discard them or donate them to charity. For many years, I had kept traditional Korean silk garments in an antique chest that my mother had sewn for me before my wedding. She and her friends spent days making them, along with silk quilts stuffed with cotton.

One day, I opened the chest, which was made of paulownia wood—a gift from my sister when I emigrated to the United States. She had owned an antique shop. For decades, I had barely opened it. Inside, I found ten pairs of traditional Korean socks—five made of calico, five of cotton—along with silk fabrics, quilts, and white collars.

I could not bring myself to part with them. Each stitch carried my mother’s love. She never ordered from professional seamstresses; she made everything herself, with her friends.

I had also brought silk quilts and a quilted mattress to America, but I had never used them. Eventually, I donated them to charity—but I kept the traditional costumes, socks, and collars in the chest. One day, I opened it again, intending to throw them away. They looked old-fashioned and clumsy. Yet as I thought of my mother—how she had devoted days of work and poured her heart into them—tears welled up in my eyes. I couldn’t discard them.

I felt guilty for having ignored her devotion all these years. Those silk clothes and quilts were once precious, but I had let them lie useless. My heart ached. I should have donated them long ago, yet I kept them as treasures, because they held my mother’s most cherished love. Even after her death, I could feel her spirit lingering in them.

I told myself, “I would be a thankless daughter if I threw them away.”

So I wrote a note and placed it in my will:

“My children, remember what I say. When you place my body in the casket, please cover me with the clothes my mother made for me, and then close the lid.”

I put the note atop the garments inside the chest. When my children open it one day, they will find my message and fulfill my wish. My guilt eased, and my heart felt light.

I regretted never having worn those garments—as if I had disdained my mother’s artistry. A pang of conscience pierced my heart. I wanted to wear them once, to see myself adorned in the clothes she made, to feel proud of her even if no one else was watching.

With quiet reverence, I tried on each outfit and pair of socks, looking at myself in the mirror and thinking of her.

Nowadays, socks made of polyester or nylon are everywhere. But old-fashioned Korean socks of calico cloth are rare. They are my inheritance from my mother. If my daughter ever understands their value, I hope she will keep a pair as a keepsake. I miss my mother deeply. Though the fabrics are outdated, they are light and pure. The silk garments still look luxurious and graceful.

I remembered how I used to wear Korean rubber shoes. The largest women’s size then was 21, too small for me. My mother searched every market for size 22, which alone fit my feet. She also made traditional socks shaped with a small rounded tip over the toes. My feet were large yet slender and flat. When I saw how beautifully those curved socks fit, I was astonished.

Wearing my traditional Korean costume—a long skirt and short jacket—I opened my arms and looked into the mirror. As I raised my sleeves, their curved lines mesmerized me.

I was moved by my mother’s love and overwhelmed with nostalgia. For a moment, I indulged in a quiet reverie, imagining myself as a dancer or a nun in white, swaying gracefully in those old calico socks—light as if walking a tightrope, suspended between memory and love.