The following is an abbreviated version of a story I wrote a few years ago. In 2014, it was the recipient of First Place in the personal essay contest for High Sierra Writers in Reno, Nevada.
“There’s a legend I want to tell you about,” my father said. “A spring called El Chorrito is at the top of La Pica. The water is so pure people come from all over to get buckets full of it, for its healing properties.” His voice shook as he continued, “When we go home, I want to take you there.”
“There’s a legend I want to tell you about,” my father said. “A spring called El Chorrito is at the top of La Pica. The water is so pure people come from all over to get buckets full of it, for its healing properties.” His voice shook as he continued, “When we go home, I want to take you there.”
La
Pica is the torturous road that traverses one of the highest peaks in Puerto Rico. For over a century, it was the only way into the village of Maunabo
Maunabo is still considered
unspoiled. Due to the tall surrounding mountains, it has remained removed from
the rest of the island. Many still consider it a colonial city.
In 2006, my husband Brad and I
traveled to Maunabo with my father. It was Dad’s first trip “home” in over two
decades.
For me, the purpose of the trip was
to do research for the book I had
recently started writing about Dad’s life, and to meet Nitza, a cousin I had
been corresponding with for two years to learn more about the León family.
Nitza was an amateur genealogist.
When my father, Brad and I met
Nitza and her husband Felix at their home for dinner, Dad raised his glass of
wine and toasted, “I have taken you people completely into my heart and soul!”
I have never seen my father, usually taciturn, so animated. It was a long
journey for him at age 83, yet during this trip, I witnessed a new vitality in
him.
Just like in the old days, we traversed the old road La Pica, even though today there is a
new highway into Maunabo (Puerto Rico Highway 53). Nitza braved La Pica just
for me, so I could experience it again. “I’m too scared to go up there by
myself, but as long as Cousin Alberto drives-I'd only do it for you!” Nitza
laughed as she embraced me.
And the old road was exactly as I
imagined. Bungalows painted peach, green, or ochre, reminiscent of a Diego
Rivera mural, dot the road. San Juan
has its fine homes and sophistication, but out here in the country, there are
signs of a land plagued by economic woes. Many of the houses are in states of
squalid decay and the roadside is littered with rusted cars whose only
occupants are lizards darting in and out of the broken windows and wild vines
and thickets growing over the hoods. The vegetation is so lush it’s like
driving thorough a canopy of leaves.
As we drove, a memory bubbled to
the surface from when I was a child of six or seven: Dad honking the horn
around each hairpin turn, Mom gasping in fright, my two sisters and I crammed
in the back seat, wide-eyed at how primitive and wild everything looked.
The purpose of the 2006 trip
was research, but I got so much more on my first time back to Puerto
Rico since I was that little girl in the back seat. My family used
to go to Puerto Rico every year at Christmas,
to celebrate my grandmother’s birthday on Christmas Eve and Three Kings Day on
January 6th. What I remember most are the parties, the gathering of
family, the camaraderie and love; my Tiá Lila making paella, and my Abuela (grandmother) Chepa pinching my
cheek and crying, “Que linda!”
Dad returned “home” after a long
absence, and in many ways, so did I.
Have you traveled back to a home of the past, either physically or through
photo albums or found objects? Write about your trip and a memory it triggers.
Share your story and photo here.
