V oic e s Of
My Ancestors
By Nancy Summersong
I wasn’t born in Maine. My mother was,
my grandmother was, and all of my
grandmothers before them were. Before
this place was called Maine. Before there
were borders and my ancestors were free
to cross the St. John River from one shore
to the other. Today, I hear the voices of
my ancestors calling to me-as I heard
them that day. A simple request-or was it
a command? Come. Come. . . .
The first time I saw Maine, I was
overcome by its raw beauty. It was more
than everything my mother had said it
was. So much more, that the anglers
fishing off the rugged coastline that day
had caught more than fish. I, too, had
been hooked . It was then I understood
-no-felt my mother’s passion for the
state where she was born and raised. The
emotion with which she always spoke of
her beloved Maine was now my emotionher Maine, my Maine.
Driving into Guilford’s town limits, it
seems time has stood still since she was a
child. I see and feel nothing reminiscent
of the hurried, burdened pace that defines
my own life in this 21st century. Standing
before the house where she grew up, t