my mother’s big orange Maine Coon cat, so they
can dress him up in their dolls’ clothes. Their
voices are calling, and I’m no longer enveloped
in a memory my mother shared with me, but
instead, watching them run around the old twostoried house I’d heard so much about, I feel as if
I’m running with them.
of long ago. The trail we tread, freshly groomed
for the modern day snowmobile, is no longer a
snowmobile trail but the footpath once taken
by my French grandfather who trapped the
wild creatures I now fight to save. I follow his
footprints, for though they’re no longer visible,
I can surely feel them beneath my feet as they
take me off the well-worn path and lead me into
Here in Guilford, I’ve caught a glimpse of her
the woods where I am the only human beinglife as she knew it, and am able to connect with
where I can hear his voice whispering to me in
her in a way most children never get to connect
French, guiding me deep into the lush seclusion
with their parents, and before I leave I have the
of the forest. Within the trees, the ever-present
privilege of being able to visit my mother’s friend wind is buffered into a gentle breeze that carries
who, these seventy-some years later, still lives in
my grandfather’s voice to me and the scent of
the house next door.
the wild creatures to my dogs. They take off,
bounding through the trees, and while I may
My Native American ancestors were the first
be chasing ghosts, they are not. I follow them
people to leave their footprints in the St. John
to places where God and his creatures thrive.
Valley where I now live, and where their spirits
Where a bull moose steps onto the path I have
still walk. From my back deck, across my little
just left, coyotes seem unaware of my presence,
plot of wilderness stretching to the beautiful St
and black bears peer from their hiding places.
John, known to my ancestors as the Wolastoq,
Where chickadees fearlessly flutter around my
the sunlight filters through the poplars and
shoulders and squirrels scurry about my feet.
pines, their shadows playing across the river.
Where I can hear my grandfather’s voice more
I watch the ghosts of my native grandfathers,
clearly, and though I don’t understand the
their canoes silently cutting a path through
French still spoken in my little town on the top
the tranquil water, their voices traveling to me
of Maine, here on this path- in these woods-I
from the primordial past. Landing their boats,
understand it very well.
longbows in hand, they make their way onto
the Canadian shore and, one by one, vanish into
the trees along the riverbank. Staring past the
red raspberry bushes and wild roses, beyond the
field of Joe-Pye weed to that distant shore, I’m
beguiled into believing there’s no highway on the
other side of those trees.
On the American side of the river where my
house sits on U.S. Route 1, one of the oldest
roads in the United States, I’m just steps away
from another time, and with my dogs I cross the
ancient road, newly paved, and set my feet on
the path that will begin my journey to a Maine
SUMMER 2015
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