Molto Carina

It’s that time.  Sausage on a stick time.  Smoke in your eyes time.  Moss for a mattress time.  Dirt under your fingernails time.

A few West Philly friends and I officially kicked off camping season a couple weekends ago at Harriman State Park just over the New York border.  I arrived to the park at sunset, and by the time we hiked to the spot our friends staked out for us darkness had fallen completely.  But even though I had to wait until morning to take in my surroundings, there’s nothing like unzipping the tent at dawn, popping your head out, and discovering you’re situated at the top of a rugged hill that overlooks a pond on the one side and an entire valley on the other.  Even though temperatures dipped below freezing that night, the next day slowly melted to a heavenly sun drenched afternoon.  Between my snug sleeping bag cocoon, the peepers that sang us all to sleep, the leisurely pace of cooking breakfast over a campfire (that inevitably segues into cooking up more sausages for lunch), and a relaxing nap in the sun, I came back to the city feeling completely refreshed and ready for spring!  The ten mile hike (that was probably only supposed to be six) left me with slightly sore muscles, but it was a good sore.  Just like the touch of sunburn on my nose.  Fresh air and scenery sure did this city kid some good!

Our perfect little hill.  (Click to expand.)

 

We hiked up to a vista where you could just barely make out the NYC skyline in the distance.

I always have to explain to people why I have an Abuela.  There is no Spanish-speaking blood in my body, yet “Hola, Abuela!” and “Te quiero mucho mucho mucho!” were parts of my vocabulary at a young age.  My family was adopted by Abuelo and Abuela before my sister and I were even born.  I’ve heard the story so many times how my parents could smell garlic and potatoes wafting from their landlady’s kitchen on the other side of the wall…about a half-hour before they would find a fresh, warm tortilla waiting on their doorstep.  I can’t drink ginger ale without thinking of Abuela.  She always took care of me as a kid when I was too sick to go to school, and we would drink ginger ale and watch soap operas in the kitchen while she cooked.  And when my own Grandma and Pop Pop lived too far away to come to Grandparents’ Day at school, Abuela and Abuelo were there with me instead.

On my birthdays, Abuela would always write me out a card I couldn’t understand.  But I knew somewhere in the curly Spanish script, she was telling me she loved me, she thanked God for me, and she wished me years of blessings.

And last weekend, we all got the chance to tell her the same.  Because Abuela just celebrated her 90th birthday!  Happy birthday, Abuela!  Te quiero mucho!