On wet dawns in the rainy season my father would put a spade over his shoulder and walk out to the paddy. He was going to see to the 물꼬, mulkko — the gap cut in the bank of a rice field to let the water in and out.
I went along once. He pointed at the bank with the blade of the spade. “When it rains hard you widen it. Hold the water in and the bank goes.”
Open it when there is too much, close it down when there is none. He farmed his whole life by watching that one small gap.
He was not a talkative man, but there was a phrase he used often — 물꼬를 트다, to open the mulkko. He used it about people as well. “I'll open a mulkko with that family.”
When the rain goes on for days I still see him from behind, spade on his shoulder, walking the dark bank.