When I think of New Hampshire, I think of my mom, Elizabeth.
I grew up in Concord, and my first job as a 10-year-old was delivering the Concord Monitor, thanks to Elizabeth’s insistence. I would wake up around 4:30 each morning, roll papers, slap an elastic band around them and stuff them into their thin, blue plastic bags. Sundays were the worst because the papers were often twice as thick as on weekdays. Fifty-plus papers are heavier than you’d think.
My dog Pumpkin was my sole companion during these morning treks in darkness, covering the blocks from Center and North State streets to Washington and Rollins. I saved every dime I made as a paper carrier, which came mostly in tips (particularly around Christmas). And again, per Elizabeth’s urging, all of it went into my first savings account at Banknorth in Stewart Nelson Plaza.
Having a job at 10 was pretty unsurprising since my mom was a local businesswoman. I was building character. For her, your word was your bond, and discipline and a strong work ethic were invaluable. But as an avid amateur outdoorswoman, she also believed deeply in fun and adventure.
From the time I was a baby, we spent countless weekends exploring New Hampshire’s incredible natural wonders, doing everything from biking around Bear Brook State Park and hiking up Mt. Kearsarge, to camping in the White Mountains (even in winter) and canoeing on the Pemigewasset or Saco rivers. In the summers, when we kept things hyper-local, we would bike from our house on Montgomery Street (previously Summer Street) to East Concord to swim in the Merrimack, using our Therm-a-Rest pads to float along the current or across to the sandbar in the middle of the river. Sometimes we would camp out among the white pines near the riverbank, hidden in our tent by a camouflaged fly (definitely a no-no per the Les Clark Nature Trail rules).
My mom wanted me to inherit her affinity for the outdoors, and when I was in high school, she told me about summer volunteer opportunities with the Appalachian Mountain Club trail crew. This was a formative experience that led to unforgettable seasonal jobs working for their Storehouse department in Pinkham Notch.
My memories of her, and by extension my home state, are endless: spending hours at the Concord Public Library reading Zoobooks magazines and nearly every Nancy Drew mystery; waiting for her to pick me up at the YMCA “Busy Bee” after-school program, and later occasionally spotting her among the other parents during my high school swim meets at that very same YMCA; visiting grandparents in Loudon and swimming in Clough Pond or picking wild blackberries and blueberries in Canterbury, trying to fill our empty Nalgene bottles after we were done gorging ourselves; eating dinner with her and my dad at Moritomo’s restaurant and walking across Fort Eddy Plaza to browse for hours at Borders; begging her to let me pick my fill at Granite State Candy; staving off boredom while she and my dad enjoyed martinis at the Tea Garden bar, debating how far they’d make it on “Survivor”; watching a seagull swallow a stick of butter whole at Wallis Sands; and talking to primary candidates at random Bow or Hopkinton open houses.
My mom made New Hampshire’s modest 9,350 square miles feel vast, and I’m convinced we explored every inch of the state together. I cannot think of New Hampshire without remembering her.
Alice Burt grew up in Concord.