Marylou DiPietro

When I was five my parents took us on a trip to the White Mountains.  I had only seen pictures of mountains, so the idea of seeing real mountains filled me with excitement.

The two things I remember about that day were my father lifting me up to look into what looked like a gigantic parking meter to see the Old Man in the Mountain and going to a place called The Flume.  I had a feeling in the pit of my stomach that I had never felt before as we zig-zagged into a magical place which I secretly believed was the center of the earth.

My memory of coming out of The Flume is not as clear as the sadness I felt that the day was coming to an end.  As if my parents knew how we felt, they announced that we could each pick one souvenir from the shop that was built into the side of the mountain.

While my sisters and brother examined each of the souvenirs on shelves they could reach, I knew immediately which souvenir I wanted. It was a child-size treasure chest with a lock and key and the words “White Mountains, N.H.” written on it. When I opened the lid, the smell of my mother’s cedar chest escaped into the air. I remember holding my treasure chest on my lap all the way home, not knowing it would be the memory of that day that I would keep locked inside forever.