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The change each year was slight but obvious, like unwelcome rings of time surreptitiously added to an oak tree. Yet through the lines, her eyes beamed with eternal youthfulness, a spirit never changing, never failing to reveal delight in seeing her loved ones. Her love of life was thoroughly rooted in her family and her home. And for her, there was only one family and one home, and that home was always and forever her beloved state of Maine.

Born in Hallowell in 1921, life bore little resemblance to the fabricated world of Ozzie and Harriet. There were no white picket fences, no storybook lifestyles. Life was headed for stock market crashes, depression era Maine, illness, sanitariums, and the winds of war. Losing her father and a brother at an early age put her and her mother to fend unexpectedly for themselves.

Despite the hardships, life around Hallowell had fond memories. There she was
surrounded by aunts, uncles, cousins, and a settlement of camps surrounding
Cobboseecontee Lake. Summers on the lake were glorious, a place where the turbulence
of life wafted away in the summer breeze. Throwing down a little laundry detergent on a
wet wharf created the perfect barefoot ski ramp into a frigid lake. Those dark chilly
Maine nights no doubt lent themselves to the clandestine practice of skinnydipping.
Though no verbal confessions were ever coerced, a slight grin may have been a
giveaway.

In town, her uncle rose in the wee hours of the morning to stoke the brick ovens
of his bakery. Many hours were spent enjoying the aroma and the more than occasional
pastry he was famous for. A favorite was hot bread pulled from the oven with long
wooden paddles only to be quickly lathered with melting butter and greedily consumed.
People came from all around with bean crocks to be baked in his brick ovens.

This was where her love for Maine was forged and ingrained. The smell of the
pines and the mournful cry of loons echoing over the lake never failed to enthrall her.
With her musical voice, she would speak to them, and they would answer.

War now approached that would bring more tragedy and everyone rushed to the
war effort. As Rosie riveted, she soddered and assembled radios for the military. Her
remaining brother joined the Marines for the duration and was sent to the South Pacific.
His duration ended at Iwo Jima and he was buried in Hallowell. She never recovered.

After the war, she married another Marine from across the river – from rival Cony
High School. Little was said about the war. The invisible scars were left to heal with
time, if they might.

They bought a house on Peaks Island and lived there as they wondered where life
would take them. The wondering lasted only a short time, taking them far from Maine, to
the desert Southwest where his new found career in the Border Patrol sent them.

Once expatriated, all true Mainers must return like salmon drawn to the
streambeds from whence they came. And they did – ten years later. With four kids now
in tow, they found themselves really deep into Maine – up in the North Maine woods on
the Canadian border. The “County”, as it is called, was a place where even downstate
Mainers debate the existence of life. A place where some have said, “it may not be the
end of the world, but you sure can see it from here.”

But it wasn’t the end of the world to my mother. It was Maine through and
through. And that was all that mattered. It took me 40 years to appreciate just how
strong that love was. Any suggestion on moving, whether to a warmer climate or even a
different house after the kids had moved out, was totally and utterly rejected. She loved
that house as much as she loved the land. It was 100 years old and had no heat upstairs,
but it was her Maine house. I remember heading downstairs on cold winter mornings
before school and standing on the register. But that was what Maine was all about in her
mind. There were no winters that were too harsh, too cold. There was no such thing as
too much snow. ‘The sunlit wintry wonderland simply delighted her while waiting for
spring to bring her birds back. Summer meant relaxing hours on the back porch and fall
was a magical fireworks display. There was nothing she didn’t love about it.

Even a move to the house on Peaks Island was rejected. It was great for
vacations, but she would not be isolated, separated from the world by a ferry boat. No,
her love for her home in the North Maine woods was that strong and nothing would take
her from it. She loved her church and her community and was known far and wide in
those churches as the lady with the “voice.” A voice that shook rafters and could bring
both tears of joy and sadness at will.

It also took me 40 years to realize the strength of her faith. Because when the
time came, there was no remorse, no apology, no hesitation to pass from one life to the
next. With the same resolve she had displayed all her life, she went unwavering to the
God she loved and sang about. I am sure she knew that a God who could make a place
like Maine could in no way make anything less beautiful in heaven.

Now, with no fanfare typical of a Maine woman, she would come full circle,
being laid to rest back in Hallowell beside her mother and her brothers – laid to rest once
and for all and never to leave the land that she loved.

In Loving Memory

B. Annette (Bourassa) Sherwood

1921-2004

The Lost Coin by Samuel Hayes Sherwood now available on Amazon. Buy now!