As wisely said in Once More to the Lake by E.B. White, "It is strange how much you can remember about places like that once you allow your mind to return into the grooves which lead back." The grooves are worn into the unpaved road to the lake act as the path of memory. Like the literal grooves in the road become a track for car wheels, the grooves of this particular memory haven't been used in a while but take him right back to once he begins to think about his past there. The old grooved road he remembers leads him back to the place and the history.

Like White's, my special place takes me back to my past. One of the fondest, most memorable places from my childhood must be Killington, Vermont, where my family and I would vacation—from the drive into Vermont, seeing beautiful, white-capped mountains off in the distance, to indulging in copious amounts of maple syrup snow candy. Every time I remember back to that place, I can't help but smile as I think about all the beautiful memories associated with Killingtons magical white paradise. 

                                I can still recall sitting in the back of my family's frozen car and breathing in the crisp Vermont air while I impatiently waited to arrive. My five-year-old imagination ran wild of what this winter wonderland I was promised would be like. I even thought I could make out little snow-topped mountains in the distance. I squirmed relentlessly in my car seat as I continued to ask my dad if we were there yet every ten minutes. Of course, the answer was no.

I fell into a deep sleep, and when I woke up, it was like I was magically teleported to a beautiful winter wonderland. It was unlike anything I had ever seen in my beach town of Ventnor, New Jersey. The closest I had ever come to snow was my town's white-sand beaches. After getting out of the car and unpacking our things, I knew I had to explore. So I pulled on my little snow jacket and boots and headed out with my family.

My parents insisted that we go skiing, despite this being my first trip to Vermont. We pulled on the ski materials and headed out to the child-sized hill, which felt like a monstrosity at the time. I held my dad's hand as we slid down the behemoth of a mountain. As I picked up speed, I felt the wind push harder and harder in the opposite direction, but my pink jacket broke resisted. The reflection of the winter sun on the untouched snow made it difficult to see the path. My warm breath fogged my mask as if I had taken a steamy shower. Finally, I clench my dad's hand and push the pole a little too forward. I face-plant right into the sharp, freezing snow.

To this day, I am a horrible skier. It is still difficult for me to successfully ski down a hill. However, whenever I see the icy Vermont atmosphere, it takes me back to spending quality time with my family. Maybe one day, I will even take my own future family so they can experience what I once had.