Culture No. 21: Homesickness

The last time I was home was June of 1998. I finished eighth grade. I went to Disney World. I took a Spanish placement test for a Regent's course I would never take because - come July - I moved to Connecticut where no one - not even school administrators - knew what the hey Regent's was. (Ah, New England. So charming in its own insular way...)

Fourteen year-old Sarah would continue this post as a diatribe on the horrors of moving two months before starting high school, but fourteen year-old Sarah also read too much Salinger and needed to put her copy of Jacob Have I Loved down before her tear ducts exploded. Thankfully, the intermediate thirteen years have decimated my ability to create/appreciate angst and drama, but the fact remains that since '98, I have lived in two countries, four states, and ten different houses/apartments/dorms rooms - an average of one move every 15 months. I think I'm in a pretty poplar boat as far as many of my peers go, but it doesn't change the fact that - for me - home is less of a place and more of a concept. Is it where my parents live? Is it where my desktop sits? (Huzzah for being set free from the tyranny of feeling obligated to cart a laptop around!) Is it where I'd rather be instead of where I am?

I bring this up because I had a very unexpected bout of homesickness recently. I'd been planning to spent this past week in New England for awhile now, but our plans changed last minute and Bert brought me up a few days early. In our flurry of last-minute packing, I suddenly realized I didn't want to go. (I should qualify that statement: I wanted to go, but I didn't want to leave. If you have any estrogen at all in your system, you will understand that that makes perfect sense.) I didn't want to leave Bert and - dare I say it - our home for a week. I wanted them to come too.

These pangs of homesickness didn't last too long - they petered out somewhere north of Scranton - but the fact remains that they shocked me by their very existence. I thought I was inoculated for this a long time ago. I don't consider NEPA or Connecticut home, which presents an odd question I have no answer for: what is home and where is it? Ideas?

Top 100 Signs I Married the Right Man No. 92

92. He is proud (and not embarrassed) when I successfully identify a Porsche 911 GT3 before he does. (Thank you, Jeremy Clarkson!)

Too Hot To Homemake

This wretched heat is interfering with my ability to write/think coherently, so I am retreating to the cool confines of Target as soon as logistically possible. (I hang out with all the moms and pretend Junior is with the nanny because everyone knows Trophy Wives don't actually raise the children. Case in point: I shipped Nora off to summer camp on Sunday. Lucky cat. Mama & Papa V. have AC.)

Anyway, in order to keep you entertained/help you procrastinate, I leave you with this magnet, part of my (long-past) birthday present from Sister V. She bought it from this Etsy seller, who is from Fairfield County (aka "the Trophy Wife capital of the world") and specializes in her own, Anne Taintor-esque brand of snark. Enjoy!

"I asked myself, 'Where would people never notice a town full of robots?...Connecticut!'"

Culture No. 20: Jim Thorpe, PA

The first time I ever heard about the town of Jim Thorpe, Pennsylvania, was circa 1995 and courtesy of my grandmother’s copy of Uncle John’s Bathroom Reader. She had one book from the series – quite the feat considering it is the only publication in history to give Chicken Soup for the Soul a run for its money in terms of “who can publish the most ridiculous spinoffs” – and I faithfully read it every (prolonged) trip to her restroom for the majority of my childhood. That’s how I remember that Uncle John was the first to tell me about Jim Thorpe, because he was also the second, third, fourth, etc., etc., et. al.

As a wee one – no pun intended – I never really thought I would ever to have a reason to visit Jim Thorpe. Pennsylvania was a vast, unknown territory that smelled like cows and rhymed with Transylvania. I planned on living in New York forever, excepting the time I spent as an astronaut on the moon. Obviously, things didn't pan out, which is why, I guess you could say, I found myself in Jim Thorpe this past Saturday. The space shuttle was already full. And not headed in the right direction.

Mama and Papa V. came down for a “one day vacation” this past weekend, so on Saturday we took off through the Poconos for a spin through good, ol’ J.T. As the “designated local,” I felt obligated to give my parents a brief history of the area. Here is what I cobbled together from my memories off the loo and the always-venerable Wikipedia:

Jim Thorpe the town was founded in 1818 by a coal-shipping magnate and originally went by the really terrible name of Mauch Chunk. (It means "bear mountain" in Lenape and refers to - you guessed it - a local mountain that looks like a sleeping bear.) Obviously, once the coal industry started to go downhill, a small borough with a terrible name in the middle of Nowhere, PA-tucky is not going to attract a lot of business. During the 1950s, the leaders of the town were desperate to change things, but – alas! – not having much luck.

Jim Thorpe the man was an athlete who won the gold medal for the pentathlon and decathlon in the 1912 Olympics, in addition to playing professional football, basketball, and baseball. He was half Native American and grew up on a reservation in Oklahoma. When he died in 1953, the state declined to build him a memorial and his angry wife vowed to take the body elsewere. When she heard about Mauch Chunk's predicament (How, I’m not sure, because the Thorpes were living in California at the time…), she struck a deal with town officials. They would bury Thorpe, erect a monument, and rename the town in return for the publicity. The end.

That was 1955. The town still thrives on tourism today. In 2009, it ranked #7 on Budget Travel's list of "America's Coolest Small Towns." It’s the base camp for many outdoor activities in the Lehigh Gorge – rafting, hiking, and biking – and a showcase of turn of the century architecture. Broadway – the main thoroughfare – is full of little shops that sell largely the same uninspired mix of country home repros and homemade soap, but there are a few galleries and antique dealers that stand out and make a stroll through town worth it. (This lady was my favorite!) You can also buy tickets for an hour-long ride on the Lehigh Gorge Scenic Railway. We didn’t, but Bert and I definitely made a mental note to come back in the fall and hike the gorge ourselves. It’s a beautiful town in a beautiful place and definitely worth the Turnpike tolls.

Thank you, Uncle John. You were on the money for this one.

Culture No. 19: Hoyt Library

I did it. I finally did it. I gathered up every single ounce of nerve and gumption I posses, marched down the street, and signed up for a library card. Score!

That first paragraph is not as lame as it sounds if you understand my sordid history with the library system. As a little bug, I loved the library. Five year-old Sarah was probably 100% responsible for overplaying and ruining the Shenendehowa Public Library’s only vinyl copy of “Peter Cottontail.” "Peter Cottontail" was my "Baby Beluga." I just couldn't get enough.

But as I grew older, things changed. Checkout times grew shorter. Librarians got meaner. (Apparently, my face just screams, “I’m checking these books out for the sole purpose of clipping the pictures and creating collages full of teenage angst.”) And then, one day – in a small Connecticut town with particularly creepy librarians who always threatened to come after me if I didn’t return my books on time – the most traumatic thing that could ever happen to someone in a library happened to me: I witnessed a stabbing.

And by witnessed, I mean I was checking out a movie when the bloody-scissor-wielding perpetrator ran down from the upper level and yelled, “Call 911! Someone’s been stabbed!” which is pretty much the same thing as being a witness. (Ask Mama V. She was there. She wanted to wait in the car, but I was so scared to go into that library by myself even before the stabbing that I made her come in with me.) Obviously, the mean librarian wouldn’t let me check my movie out after that. And then I was almost run over in the parking lot by the responding policeman. Needless to say, that was the last time I ever went to that library. (Mama V.’s been back. They have free movies and popcorn in the summer. Like her second offspring, she’s a sucker for the free snacks. ;)

So really, voluntarily signing up for a library card is a big step for me. And so far, so good. The Hoyt Library is within walking distance of our apartment, snack-friendly (They sell snacks AND drinks at the circulation desk. GASP!), and brand-spanking new. At first I thought, Oh, how nice. The library is new. Then I found out the library is new because the roof of the former library collapsed after the Valentine’s Day Blizzard of 2007.

…

You see? Told you so. Libraries = Danger with a capital D.

But the librarian who signed me up was unbelievably nice – just as nice as the people on the other end of the Sonic intercom, who I love because they always want me to “have a supersonic day!” – and made me feel very welcome, loved, appreciated, safe, and everything else someone who is scared of libraries needs to feel.

And then the nice librarian disappeared and I’ve been stuck with the resident crank ever since. This particular lady seems to disapprove of every book I check out (from Jesus to banana republics) and has already yelled at me once for trying to check out a reference book. (In my defense, it was in the regular stacks. I swear I wasn’t trying to sneak it home for an art project.)

But you know what? Going to the library just wouldn’t feel right without that extra bit of fear. It’s like channel-surfing past TBS: “Will they be playing Jurassic Park? Will I catch a glimpse of a dreaded raptor scene and not sleep for a week? Will I make it through alive?” Libraries and raptors, my friends. You never know when either will jump out and bite.

Charity No.1: Mozambique

As much as I love the W-B, there are a few things the Wyoming Valley just doesn’t have. Anthropologie, for one, which is probably a good thing – always best to keep your kryptonite as far away as possible, right? (In related news, they just put in a Banana Republic Outlet. I am so dead.) There’s also a legitimate lack of coffee shops open past five, which I find ironic seeing as how the packies are always open much later. But most importantly – and probably due to a water supply that only suffers from sporadic contamination of the mining variety – there is a serious shortage of Typhoid vaccines. And travel clinics that supply them. And doctors who know where a Typhoid-vaccination-seeking-traveler could even begin to look for one. (Oh, yes, Dr. F., I am talking about you!)

And so last week I found myself driving to a travel clinic down in Hazleton, a town I know only from passing on 81. (During the college years, I always stopped at the much-more-interestingly-named and a bit-more-farther-south establishment of Frackville.) I refused a flu shot (27 years and running!), explained the powerhouse that is my remaining thyroid, grabbed a box of live Typhoid pills (currently residing - quite happily - in our fridge next to the cheese), and went on my merry way. The question is: why?

I thought everyone knew I was going on a missions trip to Mozambique in September until I mentioned it to one of my besties and received the “Huh? What?” response. “Oh, you didn’t know?”

That was 150% my fault. The decision to go was made about a month before Bert proposed and immediately lost in the wedding hubbub. We decided not to send out support letters, since it seemed a bit rude to ask for money so soon after the wedding, and I just assumed everyone would find out somehow. Like through osmosis. Or carrier pigeons. (Full Disclosure: I was so relieved to nix the dreaded asking-for-money letter, which everyone knows is like a cover letter, only 1,000 times worse. Read an excellent/hilarious explanation of the whole process here.) But as our molecules do not seem to be communicating and the pigeons are nowhere to be found, I can think of no better place to explain the whole shebang than my very own soapbox.

Ahem.

I am going on a missions trip to Mozambique in September. Ta-da! (If you’re not up for a long blog entry, that was your early exit. There's no pictures in this post until the end, so you gotta be in for the long haul. ;)

Obviously, there’s a bit more to it than that. This will be my second time in Africa since 2009. My first trip to Uganda was run through an organization called Engineering Ministries International (eMi), a group I first heard about in architecture school, then again in 2008 when Papa V. went on a trip to Congo. eMi is a "non-profit Christian development organization made up of architects, engineers and design professionals who donate their skills to help children and families around the world step out of poverty and into a world of hope." This includes helping churches and NGOs realize their visions through the design of hospitals, schools, orphanages, bridges and utility supplies.

My Uganda team, a mix of American and English architects, engineers, and surveyors, was asked to survey and design a site layout and facilities for an orphanage run by Show Mercy International. (You can read more trip details here in an article I wrote for iBerkshires.com.) In the two years since then, Show Mercy has done a miraculous job in building out the site. What they've accomplished in 24 months would be impressive for a Stateside nonprofit, but in Africa it is absolutely unheard of (and usually impossible). You want to see some evidence of divine intervention? Check out the photos here.

September’s trip to Mozambique will be a little different. This trip was organized by my parent’s church in Connecticut and managed by their youth pastor and the ever-adventurous Papa V. (For those who know either of those persons, you know that “a little different” might garner me the “Understatement of the Year” award. ;) We’ll be in Mozambique for ten days (plus two days there and two days back) and running around like mad men for the most of it. I hesitate to say “we'll be doing this” or “we'll be doing that” because, quite frankly, we will be doing a little bit of everything: children’s ministry, teen ministry, adult ministry, prayer ministry, and any other ministry that God feels like tossing our way. I am quite possibly the least flexible person on earth, so for me, it will be an interesting exercise in patience and faith. (I shall henceforth be known as the "Flexmaster," if only to prepare myself for things to come. ;)

Papa V. and I will focus on designing a new ministry center for the missionaries we’ll be visiting. They currently live in the capital city of Maputo, but would like to move farther north to where they own a small plot of land. We won’t be able to visit the site while we’re there, so we’re working exclusively from photos and drawings to come up with a set of plans. The 1,000-1,200 square foot ministry center will initially function as a house for the missionaries, but later on (after another house is built) will host offices and short-term guest housing. We’re still kicking around a few conceptual drawings, but I hope to have at least a rough set of construction documents done before we leave. (This is a lot harder when you’ve lost all access to Auto CAD. I never thought I'd miss it!)

So, that's a rough outline of September's trip. Now, if this post were the aforementioned dreaded support letter, this would be the part where I asked you for money or prayer (but really just money). And I won't lie: my inner control freak had a major panic attack when we decided not to send letters and to instead rely on God to provide. I mean, that is something you say to sound good and holy, but it's not something you would actually ever do, right? Right?

It amazes me how God can use a missions trip that hasn't even happened yet to teach me a lesson or two. He has provided the money so far (even if it's as humble as Mama V. picking up quarters from the side of the road), and I am (oh-so-slowly) beginning to realize that, hey, he'll probably continue to provide, both for this trip and in other areas of my life as well. (Fun Fact: Newlyweds are chronically broke. So broke, in fact, that we hack into Mama and Papa V.'s Netflix account on a daily basis. That broke.)

I've also begun to realize the importance of prayer (and not just money) in an endeavor like this. The turning point? When my friend told me she didn't know I was going, my stomach did a little flip-flop. Was I nuts? Who tries to do something this big without prayer? (Mmm...I do, apparently.)

So that is how I will end this letter/post amalgamation: with a very serious request for your prayers. Design is a struggle for me sometimes - I know people with architecture degrees aren't supposed to say things like that, but I'm a big fan of saying things I'm not supposed to say, so I'll say it anyway - and it's been difficult to work on this project while being so far away from the rest of my team. I am also really bad at working in metric. And, you know, we'll be in Africa. There's a whole continent-full of prayer requests right there. But God will provide. I am learning that. Slowly.

To get a better idea of where we’re currently at, take a look at a few of our schematic plans. (Rendered by the talented didn’t-go-to-architecture-school-and-still-draws-better-than-me husband, of course. He even put shadows in the bathtub. I love that. ;)

Culture No. 18: Back Mountain Trail

Hey, kids.

Pretty quiet weekend down/up our way. Saturday morning we had a cookout with our Children's Pastor and his family, then spent the rest of the day at Sears getting new front struts for Geoff the Mazda*. And when I say "rest of the day," why yes, I do mean we were stuck at the Wyoming Valley Mall for 5.5 hours. That was not so fun, but Geoff is now the happiest little car on the entire block. As of July 4th, they finally stopped cold patching, so he should be in good shape till...mmm...October at least.

After church on Sunday, we downed a few grilled cheese sammies (+ basil + a husband to cook them = amazing!), then went up to Trucksville (Yes, Trucksville. That is why I <3 PA-tucky.) to explore the Back Mountain Trail. It turned out to be more of a bike path, less of a hiking trail, and chock full of wonderful views of 309 and the local DPW, but it was a beautiful day and it was nice just to be outside. Did I get any sun? No, of course not. But a girl can dream.

Usually such a good sport for blog photos, the huz refused to look up for this one.

Bert, modeling the proper usage of the bike ramps. And his wedding band, which I may or may not have almost accidentally thrown out last week. Whoops. ;)

* Why Geoff? Learn about his namesake here.

Cancer No. 8

Why yes! It is time for the update on everyone's favorite thyroid!

When I left you last, I had just received a very-early morning phone call from my surgeon with the happy and benign news. Ned's diagnosis was a little delayed due to the fact that no one could tell what the hey he was (They even sent him to Johns Hopkins! How fun!) (You know what's not fun? Dealing with their inept billing department.), but better late than never, right?

Since then, all my post-op appointments have gone very well. Per the surgeon's orders, I've been using Mederma on my scar, which seems to be working, albeit reeeaaalllyyy slowly. (Please note: It has the tendency to itch like none other, so if you ever use it, make sure you rub it in reeeaaalllyyy good or else it will feel like liquid poison ivy.) I also had my first blood test a few weeks ago and I'm happy to report that my right thyroid - aka "Rightie the Mightie" - is blastin' enough T3 and T4 to make the world go round. (Translation: No synthroid for me!)

Unfortunately, this means I can no longer use "I only have one thyroid" as an excuse to skip out on unpleasant events or to shame others into doing them for me. So if you catch me moaning about being unbalanced due to less organs on the left or any other similar rubbish, you are hereby permissed to totally call me out. I was blessed with a good surgery and an awesome biopsy. No more complaints here.

Sorry the photo's so small. I couldn't figure out how to make it bigger. :( Maybe it's better this way... Less gross, you know?

Culture No. 17: Hillside Farms

I love ice cream.

I love it so much that I could stop writing right this instant and still totally consider this a well-thought out and legitimate post. That is how much I love it. Enough to not even attempt to explain my love. It is sonnet-worthy. Ballad-worthy. I'm kind of a big fan.

Good ice cream is hard to find. There’s decent ice cream, of course. And okay froyo. And I’m-having-a-fat-day Italian ice. (Ice cream should never - at any point - exist in a powdered form ipso facto soft serve is not ice cream and shall not be discussed here.) Generally speaking, I have discovered two important factors in deeming ice cream “good:”

1. It must be American.

I know it’s July 5^th and all, but I promise I’m not trying to pull a patriot act here. I have just never had good ice cream outside of the States. (Minus the Ben & Jerry’s in London, but I don’t think that counts…) It’s either too icy or too…gelato. And there are never enough crunchy bits. (Read this post for my feelings on the appropriate level of crunch.) Conversely, there are some desserts that the US of A can never seem to quite pull off either. Crème brulee, for example.

2. It must be from a farm. (Extra points if it’s a stinky farm.)

The goodness of a particular kind of ice cream is directly proportional to the proximity of its producing cows. The closer the cow, the better the ice cream. Pretty simple.

In New York, we had Stewart’s. (Not a farm, granted, but when you’re Upstate, the farms are close enough.) In Connecticut, we had Tulmeadow. (Extra points for extra stink. Omg, that place reeks.) In Virginia, I almost died because Southerners don’t eat ice cream. (Hence, why they lost. The universe couldn't handle the perpetuation of such a travesty.) In Massachusetts, I had Stewart’s again. (Thanks to the close proximity of Vermont.) And in Pennsyltucky, we have Hillside.

Hillside Farms is a 412 acre processing dairy farm - the last of its kind in Luzerne County. The farm was originally built in 1881 as a summer estate for a coal-brokering Scotsman. In 1997, his descendants built an ice cream parlor and dairy store on the property, which was turned over as a nonprofit in 2005. They have beautiful gardens, a store full of delicious-looking local products, and a lot of educational programs, but - in case you only started reading this post at the beginning of this paragraph - I am pretty much all about the ice cream.

When Mama V. came down a few weeks ago, we brought her up to the farm one night so she could give it a go. She had a Whitehouse Cherry. I had a Red Raspberry with chocolate sprinkles. (Bert, being Southern, did not have anything and was forced to play photographer.) As you can see, both flavors were delicious and consumed in no time flat. (No lie: this is the best photo of the bunch. We were too preoccupied to be photogenic.)

After we polished off our cones, we roamed around the grounds for a bit. The Momster immediately connected with the pond full of ducks, while I tried to convince Bert that we needed to rescue the farm's two barn cats. (It didn't work. Nora's got him on her payroll.) Mama V. also totally blew me away by knowing the name of every single flower in their gardens. (Or at least making them up with authority.) Here I thought trophy wife-ing was all about cooking and tennis lessons. Now I have to know plants too?

NTOTD No. 7: Panko Breadcrumbs

When it comes to cooking, I am the queen of substitution. Nothing is sacred. Beef and turkey are interchangeable. Chicken broth works just as well as white wine, as does water when the grocery budget is really having a rough week. The way I see it, recipes are more like “guidelines” rather than any sort of binding law. And so far, everything’s worked out pretty well.

Exceptions

1. Peas in the Quiche. I never realized how strong a flavor peas actually have until I had to eat a multiple-pound dish of pea-flavored egg and cheese. Ugh. I’ve tried to stick to peppers and spinach since then.

2. Mozzarella in the Mac and Cheese. The consistency and texture of cheddar and mozzarella are totally different and definitely not interchangeable. Who knew?

Until recently, whenever a recipe called for panko breadcrumbs, I’d just use regular ones. Because breadcrumbs are breadcrumbs, right? Japan, Italy – does it really matter what country they’re coming from? Crumbled bread is crumbled bread.

But now, post-Christmas Tree Shop splurge on a box of Emeril’s finest, there will be no more substituting in the breadcrumb department. Panko has won me over. Why? Because they are so dang crunchy. And everyone knows that the crunchy bits are the best part of everything and anything.

Evidence

1. Ice Cream. Ice cream is extremely dull without copious bits of Oreo, cookie dough, sprinkles, nuts, etc., etc., et. al. Honestly, when was the last time you bought/ate Neapolitan? Exactly.

2. Flurries. See “ice cream.” Fact: I cannot eat a flurry without ordering “extra crunchy bits.” There is nothing grosser than a half-empty, partially melted cup of soft serve.

In fact, to be honest with you, I might switch over to panko entirely. My tube of regular breadcrumbs just seems so “skim milk” now. Thank you, Emeril, for showing me the light.

Emeril-hating employees @ the CTS? What a mean place to put the sticker...

Culture No. 16: F.M. Kirby Center

When J. was here this past week, we spent an evening in downtown Wilkes-Barre at the F.M. Kirby Center for the Performing Arts. The Kirby is an old theater on Wilkes-Barre's Public Square that is a self-described "advanced art deco dream." The exterior is a little dull, but I've been dying to go inside for a better look. (Just needed an excuse to!) The Center usually hosts NEPA Philharmonic concerts, off-Broadway plays, and various other currently-unaffordable-to-us events, but they do play one indie/foreign movie a week all summer long. And that we can totally swing.

Unfortunately, in the grand spirit of most indie movies, all the ones they've played so far this year have been a little too...mmm...indie for my taste. But fortunately coinciding with J.'s visit, they finally picked one that intrigued me enough to cross the river: Another Year, a British "kitchen sink drama" centered around an almost-elderly English couple. And, of course, as there is nothing I can resist more than adorable old people (Particularly the menfolk. Particularly when they're English.), this we had to see.

Results? Art deco is generally not my favorite style, but the Kirby's interior was lovely. (And impressive when you consider all it's been through.) The movie? It felt a little slow at times - it was paced more like a play and less like a film - but it was worth the showing and I'm glad we went. I'd definitely recommend giving it a shot!

Culture No. 15: Ricketts Glen

I have a problem. People come and visit “the newlyweds” and I am forced to research and plan fun and exciting events for all to enjoy. If we lived in New York or Boston or another area with a sizable amount of activities (or an Ikea), I’d be set. But we don’t. We live in Northeastern Pennsylvania, where church bazaars (raffles + beer + perogis = a cultural experience I’m still acclimating to) are the highlight of the summer season.

Oh wait! Did I say this was a problem? I meant to say it’s awesome. Call me Rumpelstiltskin, but I’ve discovered I actually enjoy turning straw into gold, not to mention all those visits from our nearest and dearest. Perhaps I should consider a career in event planning or hospitality. NEPA breeds excessive amounts of creativity, I'll give it that. (It also seems to breed excessive amounts of spiders. Ugh. Sooo many spiders in this house...)

But as creative as the 570 is forcing me to become, I am still light years behind my friend J., who popped down from the 413 this week to visit the Carlton B&B. J. and I have been through many adventures together, including (but not limited to): exploring the wilds of the Irish coast, babysitting/handling starchitects and their pretentious antics/groupees, and crafting (or attempting to craft, in my case) anything and everything that could conceivable be handmade. (J.’s ability far exceeds my own in the latter activity. She is the one who made those awesome scarves for our wedding.)

J. is also a former hiking buddy. Together, we set a record (of some sort, I’m sure) for the fastest hike up Mount Greylock on the hottest day in human history, despite a record number of scary mountain men/AT hikers. Oh yes, we are that good.

So while she was here, I thought it might be fun to reenact our woodsy feat. One thing I like about NEPA is the abundance of close and decent hiking. Ricketts Glen State Park is a scenic 45-minute drive away and is probably one of my favorite hikes in the area. The 7.2 mile loop is tougher than most of the trails around here, but it’s totally worth it for the 22 waterfalls along the way.

J. and I drove up there on Wednesday morning and scored absolutely gorgeous weather, zero bugs, and a quiet trail to boot. (It’s a popular hike in the area, so it tends to be a bit crowded sometimes.) One of the reasons why I love this particular hike is because it reminds me of the Cascades (x22) in Pembroke, Virginia, aka “the hike that every Hokie must make a billion times before they graduate.” I have so many good memories of that trail, so it's nice to find something similar a little closer to home. (Bonus: Ricketts Glen has free parking. Way to go, state taxes!)

Moi, rockin' the pale look.

We didn’t set any records this time, but we had a lovely day with plenty of snack stops - a vital part of hiking - and good conversation. It was a good adventure to add to the books. Our next one? Martha's Vineyard in July with the extended Western Mass. crew. Our first island trip ever. I am so excited (and stockpiling yuppy clothing like you wouldn't believe!) Miss you, J., but I'll see you soon! Thanks for coming down! :)

J., rockin' the outdoorsy look.