She died when I was in middle school. My memories of her are mostly of our visits up to their cabin in the Adirondacks. First at their big old white house on the lake and then later, after they sold the house, at the cabin they built across the street. My cousins and I dropping cold, snowy mittens and hats on the basement floor near a heater and running up the stairs for hot chocolate. Bonfires in the backyard. The annual hot air balloon festival nearby. Buying beef jerky at Oscar's. Driving up towards Lake Placid along the Keane river and stopping at all sorts of little places along the way. The way my dad would make games out of who could spot the first deer on our drive up, offering us a dollar if we saw one before he did. The way he'd pull over and let me climb on the boulders that were off the side of the thruway. Getting eaten by blackflies in May and June. Picking wild strawberries on the little hill between their big old house and the lake. Going horseback riding, and swimming in the lake across the street in the summer.
I also remember their condo in Florida (we lived in Florida at the time) where they often spent the winter. We'd drive around to see the lights and there was a house nearby that made a huge deal out of Christmas decorations and people would park and pay to go inside and see all of their decorations and trains. They had a huge santa and reindeer statue out front. At least it was huge to me then. But mostly when I think of them in Florida, I remember my grandma's mushroom soup that she made every Christmas Eve. We'd break holy bread together and pass it around, then pile mashed potatoes into the soup and eat it. I loved that soup. I haven't had it in at least two decades.
I'm going to have to give my grandpa a call for the recipe. It's about time, I'd say.
All that, in a little cactus.
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