July 20th, 2024 ~ 2:00 pm
Please Join Me
~ Down from the Tree ~ Book Event
A Celebration of Truth and Acknowledgment July 20th, 2024 2:00 pm
Greetings, Friends.
The original tree that inspired the title and much of the sentiment in my book, Down from the Tree, stands proudly at the edge of the ball field of my youth in Sandwich, NH.
When I returned to this town in 2009, one of the first things I noticed was that this grand oak tree still stands. I cannot pass by without a rush of emotions from a day long ago—my eighth birthday—when I left a part of my soul there, in the heart of this tree.
It took me until I wrote the third book in the Etched in Granite Historical Fiction Series to realize that retrieving the part of me that remained there was crucial to becoming whole once again. It did not happen instantly, but it was and still is a process.
First, I penned the book (followed by another). However, it is time to share my story with friends and family beneath this sacred tree. What happened there? And why is it significant?
It is vital to share our stories. Sometimes, we view our childhood experiences from afar, watching and dreaming of earlier versions of ourselves and not wholly inhabiting who we were then. Through authentic telling, retelling, and remembrance, we can call the fragments of our souls home to reunite. This can occur via the sharing of stories and dreaming.
I am calling you together to share in honor of a little girl on her eighth birthday (so many years later).
It is time to tell my story. This is not only my story but also the story of my sister, friend, and people who were connected despite their efforts to reject their vital roles in this event. Some have long passed, while others still linger in some way. These are the ghosts I used to see when I looked at that tree. I have long since set them free. Like others, I know this tree has many stories within its leaves, limbs, and roots.
This gathering will occur on Saturday, July 20th, at 2:00 p.m. at the ball field in Sandwich, NH. (Look for the balloons.)
Bring a chair or blanket and a cold drink. You can park at any public place near the tennis courts, library, street, and school and walk to the tree pictured in the photo below. It is at the far side of the field, on the right, at the end of a row.
Down from the Tree: Unveiling the Story is the act of acknowledgment. I invite you to share your tree story. And of course, we will discuss Samuel and his tree, but this is about the original tree and the art of sharing.
If you have a friend who may be interested, bring him/her along. As always, I will have copies of my books on hand.
Warmest Regards, Mj
PREFACE
What does it mean to come down from the tree? The answers lie in the heart of it. For a child, a safe and secret world is essential. Life-giving power and healthy growth and development dwell in the roots—the bones of the land. Self-trust and the freedom to explore, even in the harshest of conditions, may provide much-needed stability and relief.
Perhaps a child accompanied by the lowest members of society, afflicted by dire poverty—devastation, death, physical, mental, and emotional impairment, war, sin, and more—would not want to come down at all.
Poverty is not limited to one’s socioeconomic status; it is often a predicament of the soul as well. A child inmate at the County Farm would have done well to have such a tree. It is a way up, an attempt to restore what was lost, possibly the making or unmaking of a boy. It is imperative to pause and assess whether the needs of today’s children are being met or, depending on the current political climate, remaining an endless burden.
One of the most frequently asked questions by my readers is about the fate of this little boy: “What becomes of Samuel?” It is time for Samuel to share his youthful journey. We learn of the unfortunate circumstances leading to his birth, and we meet him briefly at the end of both Etched in Granite, Book One, and The Angels’ Lament, Book Two. He shows up at the train station, where, for the first time, he meets his Aunt Sarah, who had been away working in a textile mill. We encounter him as a child at the stone garden, and we endure the loss of his beloved mother.
In this part of the story, Samuel’s father, Silas, has an opportunity to claim his son, to right the grievous wrongs that plagued them all for so long. Will he succeed?
For many, this will be a reunion as we revisit Abigail, Silas, Nellie, Moses, and the others that we came to know so well in the first book.
Samuel, the sole narrator in Down from the Tree, fills in the missing years and provides a fresh outlook of life on the County Farm. His bold innocence reminds us of that which is basic. Since Samuel never went beyond the fence, his comprehension of what most might find harrowing is often enlightening. He evokes what many elders in our society may consider long-forgotten, fundamental values. For instance, while gruel and bone pickin’s may repulse one, it could well be another’s feast.
His vision—oftentimes expressed from the heart of the tree—is startling, offering an alternative perspective of that which has been hard-wired into the human psyche. From childhood to adulthood, we create and incorporate a vast array of filters, born of multiple experiences, altering the perception of nearly everything in our path. By nature, our personal history is viewed through these complex lenses as they continue to evolve and change.
When I set out to write this novel, I had a goal. It was to answer the pressing question about the fate of young Samuel. I needed to dig deeper into the County Farm and face the very same issues that we confront today regarding the destiny of our children. There is a fine line between the old and the new as we fail to eradicate overwhelming poverty—homelessness, hunger, lack of medical care, and equal access to quality public education.
During the crafting of the Etched in Granite Historical Fiction Series, I became accustomed to unearthing omitted history. This discovery process has proven to be life-altering as I continue opening doors that lead to stories untold. A crucial element of this unfolding is trust, not knowing what awaits, and having the courage to stay or walk away.
Over and above the research, I had not experienced or fully anticipated the emotional depth of losing one’s mother. Whether living in an upscale home, a crowded tenement, or a dismal almshouse in rural New Hampshire, this loss is momentous.
As I was preparing to write this novel, my own mother fell ill. It was not a lengthy illness, but it brought her to the grave. To write about a child enduring the loss of his mother at that time was inconceivable. At a loss for words, I stared at the blank page. In time, I accepted my state of ungrieving. I had an idea of what I wished to convey in Samuel’s story, so I wrote. It was dispassionate at best. I had stepped outside of myself when I penned over twenty chapters. Both inside and out, it was a long winter.
I needed to leave the Farm—Samuel, Abigail, and the others—behind. Day after day, I sat in the darkness of being “undaughtered.” I longed to experience my version of healthy grief. The deaths of our mothers had become messy, and I intended to keep them separate.
Leaving an opening for his return, I awaited his protests or for my walls to crumble. I resumed my creative, transformative work, often related to my ancestral roots. I have traced back centuries, swirling within the intricate bonds that transcend several generations.
The stories of my grandmother, my mother, and her twin sisters beckoned Sarah and Bess to the page. Along with a woman buried at the pauper cemetery, my great-grandmother inspired Nellie’s narrative. Acknowledgment invites healing, and it waits patiently in the wings.
I was ready. I scrapped the original chapters and started over, this time, hand in hand with Samuel. Together we witnessed maternal death. We made sure to view the world without her in it—to recover the senses—feel the wings of the crow, smell the fresh dirt, see that which was previously unseen, and hear the sounds silenced in our unknowing absence.
Like Samuel, I too climbed trees. My tree, also at the edge of a field, still stands today. The difference is, when I was eight-years-old, I fell from my tree. It was before I knew about magic as I do now. The skies were bright, and the summer winds high. I had nearly reached the crown [...]
What happened?
Until meeting Samuel, I was unaware that I had left a vital part of my soul in the heart of that tree. So, we climbed higher than I had ever climbed before. He brought me up to where the outstretched limbs touch the stars, where I retrieved the part of me that I had left behind. He then carefully guided me down to the thick, meandering roots—back home to a place of nourishment and self-care, where once again, I became whole. Mj Pettengill, Author Etched in Granite Historical Fiction Series
Full of meaning and insight . You should make the gathering an annual event .