The Daisies and Me

The enchantment tucked in every nook at the farm, eventually found its way to me. In early summer, just beyond the apple orchards, steadfast daisies conquered the fields. Then and now, if you listen closely, you can hear the hint of a childlike chorus singing the praises of simply being alive. Proud, hopeful and unwavering, they nod in approval at my decision to refrain from plucking too many of them from their essential revelry.

At a young age, I realized that picking them was a bit selfish; therefore, I limited myself to perhaps two daisy chains a season.

One sunny afternoon I tried to place a chain on an endearing cow, my grandfather quickly protested; the cows would only eat them. His infinite wisdom triumphed.

The selection process should not be taken lightly. In fact, please don’t pick any flowers without integrity of purpose. Maintaining balance is vital. A group of daisies plucked from one general area will result in a hole in the face of beauty. Adhere to these simple rules when harvesting daisies and enduring magic will prevail.

1). Always have a pure heart and good intentions.

2). Always give thanks to the daisy before plucking.

3). Never pluck two daisies side by side.

4). Never take the last daisy, even if it means improvising, such as making an anklet.

5). Pick near the root to have plenty of stalk to work with.

6). Always leave the roots in the earth to insure rebirth.

7). Always give thanks to Our Mother after.

Daisies are clearly the flower of choice, but pansies, buttercups and poppies work well too. Actually, most single-headed flowers can be used; the additional blends of colors are likely to result in a masterpiece. In a pinch, wild clovers will do, but I advise against using dandelions or any other milky-stalked weed. All endangered wildflowers are out of the question.

I usually fashioned my daisy chain into a faerie crown. Twirling and dancing around my heaven – the edge of a woody mountainside farm overlooking a dreaming lake – wearing a crown, was a natural rite of passage. The power of the crown lived long after wilting, sustaining and transforming, until the thin, supple stalks became too brittle, and then I crumpled the cherished remains into little balls and tossed them into the air. Oh how happy are we.

Fresh ~ innocent ~ young: wilted ~ wise ~ elder.

Maryjane on Mary Jane.

Yin is characterized as slow, soft, yielding, diffuse, cold, wet, or tranquil; and is associated with water, earth, the moon, femininity and nighttime.
Yang, by contrast, is fast, hard, solid, focused, hot, dry, or aggressive; and is associated with fire, sky, the sun, masculinity and daytime (1). 

Every day, I followed my grandfather around the farm and every day he pretended to ignore me. His gentle handling of the cows emerged through gruffness and great physical strength. He worked hard and I admired him for that. However, his love for animals did not transfer to those around him. For some reason, people bothered him. I didn’t allow his disdain for humans to be an obstacle in getting to know him. I accepted the challenge.

The reassuring crow of a rooster intruded, inhabiting my twilight dream. I was ready to embrace the new day. The scents of fresh brewed coffee, maple and bacon mingled with men’s laughter and drifted throughout the boarding house.

I quickly dressed and dashed off to the chicken coop to collect fresh eggs. Musical and clever, chickens amuse. I was enamored with puffy broody hens that march about the barnyard with a line of baby chicks following. I might carry a fuzzy yellow chick – rejected by its mother – in my oversized shirt pocket.

An egg about to hatch becomes a favorite moment. The egg moves slightly; you can hear the peeping inside. Then, a tiny pointed beak begins to poke its way through the shell. I feel each tap alongside my beating heart. Breaking out of the shell is an arduous task for a baby chick; therefore, the hatching time varies from one chick to the next, as the weaker chick requires more rest. To observe the final wiggling free of the shell, is to witness another of nature’s little miracles, one in which I shall never tire.

Rampant roots in my grandmother’s garden nestled safely and took nourishment from the rich brown soil within the breast of Our Mother. Vegetables, herbs and flowers meandered without boundaries, over well- intentioned stone walls. The air – thick, pungent and sweet – overwhelmed my senses, imprinting on my fundamental nature. Pure joy is to pluck a ripe, juicy tomato straight from the stock and bite into it like an apple.

We picked from the garden, my grandmother and I. Quite different from my grandfather, she was simple, affectionate and friend to all, especially to me. We harvested together of earth and soul, sharing in silence and words unspoken. Two Maryjanes, two kindred spirits, one with Gaia.

Old and young shared wisdom. Through her, I learned of Our Mother. Through me, she learned the language of music. I would sing and she would tell me how lovely my songs were and then ask me to sing another. I think her favorite word was lovely.


1  Osgood, Charles E. "From Yang and Yin to and or but." Language 49.2 (1973): 380–412.

JSTOR. 16 Nov. 2008 .

Excerpt from Ballad of a Sandwich Girl, a Memoir.

An Unlikely Ally

He was a cantankerous old man. When he wasn’t chewing and spitting tobacco, he smoked a pipe and he always wore a red plaid shirt. He was the archetypal New Hampshire farmer, a lost art form. He rarely, if ever, smiled and most people avoided him. I decided that I wouldn’t. For some reason, I knew that under his knitted brow, and through the smoke and grumbling, lived a kind soul. As hard as he tried, he could not hide that from me.

I made it a habit to watch. I yearned to know about him, and I adored the cows.

“Hi Grampa.” I interrupted the constant clanging of steel from the milking station; the scent of fresh hay permeated the air.

He mumbled something inaudible, yet familiar. He continued working amongst the customary sounds of cows lowing, chickens clucking and the rumbling of tractors.

“Whatcha doin’?” It was obvious, but I knew he would at least consider explaining it to me.

“ I’m trying to fix this pump.” He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, looked at me briefly and then leaned back over the pump.

“Can I help?” An impossible question, but I tried nonetheless.

He grunted and kept working. I took it as a no.

“Guess what?” I clung to the edge of the gray wooden fence.

He didn’t answer; I continued. “When I grow up, I’m going to be a farmer.”

“Well…” He held a match to his pipe, looked at me and then back at the pump. "Good for you."

“I’m just going to sit here and watch you.” He couldn’t dissuade me from being there. I sat quietly until my cousin Annie showed up on her bike and pestered me to join her.

“See you later, Grampa.” I rode off on my bike.

He allowed me to play with the calves. I loved to sit on the edge of their pen and sing to them as they looked at me with large chocolate eyes. I named each calf and did so based on his or her distinctive personalities. After a certain amount of time, the males were shipped off somewhere. Sometimes there were dozens of calves. One morning after breakfast, I went to the barn and realized that the males were gone. I looked inside the barn and ran off to find Grampa. He swore under his breath and turned away from me.

“Grampa, what happened to the calves? A lot of them are gone. Where are they?” My questions irritated him more than usual.

He paused. “They had to go. This is a dairy farm.” He walked away.

I scurried around to face him. “Where did they go?”

“Questions, questions…” He walked away again, this time I didn’t follow.

I left the barn. I knew it was time to seek out my grandmother,” Woman” to him. She was either in the kitchen or in the garden. She always had time for me; it didn’t matter what she was doing. When I asked her why some of the calves had to go, she sat on the steps of the front porch and fiddled with the corners of her pink flowered apron and explained it to me. As much as I didn’t want to hear that bulls were for meat and cows were for milk, if I wanted to become a farmer one day, I needed to accept the bitter truth.

From that day on, I tried very hard not to bond with the male calves, but it still bothered me when they were gone. I thought it unfair that these innocent creatures of God were only in existence to be slaughtered. I carried on as their only friend, an ally of sorts, even though there was nothing I could do to save them.

Excerpt from Ballad of a Sandwich Girl, a Memoir

Sailing on the USS Constitution: Crossing Generations

When my son Miles invited me to go underway on the USS Constitution – “Old Ironsides” – there was no wavering. I was eager to climb aboard the oldest commissioned warship afloat in the world where my son happens to have the honor of being a sailor.

It is appropriate for Miles to serve on the USS Constitution, as he is a devoted historian with roots meandering back to the first English settlers of this country, including William Trevor, one of two hired seamen on the original Mayflower and two families – Pettengill and Ingersoll – that sailed to the New World with the Winthrop Fleet in 1629. Miles’ English ancestors were founding fathers of towns such as Newburyport, Salem and Sandwich, MA. Sailing historical ships is literally in his DNA.


Speaking for myself, I am entrenched in historical research. I am no stranger to Unites States History, spending many years as a Civil War musicologist, performer, reenactor and having recent writing projects steeped in New England History.

On the morning of July 4, I stood before the USS Constitution and watched as sailors in period uniforms scurried around the shipyard in preparation for the cruise. As a seasoned reenactor, I recalled that familiar sense of pride as people stare in awe, stealing a glimpse into our nation’s rich past.


I followed my son up the gangway. He stopped and saluted the flag and then the officers on deck. His perfect posture – a strong 6’4” frame outlined by the sun – summoned an unexpected surge of emotion and overwhelming pride. Other than reading, research and musicology, I have no experience with the military.

There have been Pettengills documented in all of the wars of this country beginning from the Pequot Wars in the 1600’s to my father who served in Occupied Japan. There were over 90 Pettengills in the Civil War. As a historian and earthy artist, unless written in a book, almost all military terms are foreign to me. Seeing my son in this setting is fitting for him and awe-inspiring for me.


Some of my strongest reactions actually strike me as odd, probably because I have no reference point. For example, the boatswain’s whistle gets me in the solar plexis. Whenever a dignitary boarded the ship, the announcement of his name and rank was followed by a series of whistles. The whistle means many different things to me. It means that my son is truly a sailor on board this historical ship; he is no longer eight years old; he has become a remarkable young man. The whistle means that it is real, that the rituals and protocol of the United States Navy are my son’s way of life.


Miles is accustomed to musical signals and prompts. I smile at the memory of calling my kids home by playing reveille on my trumpet (as a professional trumpet player, this made sense). The kids in the neighborhood thought it was very cool; my kids did not know what the big deal was. For instance, at suppertime, I walked over, pulled one of my horns out of my case, stood on the back porch and wailed on it. Then I listened. If I heard them making their way home I could go about my business. Sometimes they were deeply engaged in play, requiring another blast. I returned to the back porch and belted out reveille twice as loud. After a pause, one of them would yell…”Coming, Mom!” They could gage by the loudness of the call and the last note, whether or not I was agitated. (An exaggerated glissando meant get home now.) They rarely pushed me into playing reveille three times or playing the 'horse race bugle call' or 'call to post', which let them know that it was urgent.

People crowded together as the sun beat down on the shiny black wooden ship. I was glad that I wore shorts. Tearful pride returned and swelled in my chest at the sound of fifes and drums playing familiar ballads, airs and marches that have stayed with our country, becoming our own folk music.


The period attire of most of the crew consists of the 1813 naval uniforms, the officers wear three-cornered hats and wool coats with brass buttons and some men carry muskets. If it were not for the woman jammed beside me wearing springy, metallic stars on the corners of her sunglasses, I could have sworn that it was 1797.


Soon the ship got underway. Because the sails are being restored, two tugboats navigated the ship. The stark contrast between the red and white stripes of the huge flag waving against the blue sky begged me to take photos; it was almost surreal. The last time I felt this patriotic was three years before at Miles’ graduation ceremony when over nine hundred sailors in Cracker Jack uniforms sang “Anchors Aweigh”. That scenario brought me to my knees. I wasn’t sure if it was from exhaustion, playing the song hundreds of times in one of my brass bands, or the fact that my son was now in the United States Navy, and he and the lives of nine hundred others – as of that moment – had changed forever. It was everything. I cried.

Being on the deck of the USS Constitution brought me back to that “Anchors Aweigh” moment. A colossal sense of pride engulfed me. I gripped a nearby thick rope when three lovely young women – The USO Liberty Bells – sang the “Star Spangled Banner” a Capella. It was not like one of those divas who sings before a ball game, going crazy with a series of arpeggios as if enduring a root canal. They sang in beautiful, tight, melodious harmonies.

Miles went to a lower deck, as a “Damage Control Fireman”. He was a part of the cannon (long guns) operation. I know that this is partly due to his training and experience as a QM and Diver aboard the USS Chancellorsville – a Ticonderoga-class guided-missile cruiser.

The ship was surrounded by security such as the US Coast Guard, Boston Harbor Police and State Police Boats. The Coast Guard boats had men with machine guns on the front. For someone who cries at Bambi and Free Willy, this is significant. A Fireboat with streaming sprays led the way and the 125’ Schooner, the Liberty Clipper, remained close by. There were boats and ships of all types, sizes, classes and ages encircling us at all times.


At one point, a retired Navy LST passed by in the other direction. There were a series of whistles. The sailors on board stood along the outer decks at attention until a certain whistle signaled them to return to their business.

As we approached Fort Independence on Castle Island, we were given a two-minute warning before the 21-gun salute – the firing of the cannons. I pulled the complimentary orange earplugs from my pocket even though I brought my own. Crowds of waving people lined the walls of the fort. I felt the booming cannons beneath in my feet and each shot fired shook through to my core. Thick clouds of white sulfur smoke hung in the air burning my senses. I could only imagine what it would be like for our ancestors, as we only experienced reduced charges.

After the return fire, all of the surrounding ships and boats sounded their horns and the people from the fort and onboard cheered. Was the surge of tears from the sulfur or the thought that I was sharing a unique event from many centuries ago with my own son? I pondered the question while listening to “America the Beautiful” sung by the Liberty Bells, which was poignant in itself.

She then did her famous turnaround back towards her berth in the Charlestown Navy Yard. On her return sailing, she gave a 17-gun salute at the U.S. Coast Guard Station in the North End. I did not flinch or secretly dab tears from my eyes upon hearing the uplifting strains of “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” by Juliet Ward Howe, the woman who created Mothers Day in the name of peace, only no one really knows this and most continue to honor Hallmark.

The guests received a parting gift to commemorate the day – a spent shell casing marked with an image of the ship, which is perfect for my office.

I carried the heavy shell in my backpack and returned to the lounge with my son to eat pizza. I walked down the hallway of the barracks, lingering and looking at photos of heroes, officers, sailors of the year and even a photo of my son holding the American flag as a color guard at a Celtics game.

I watched while he ate pizza. I saw my little boy in his eyes…the innocence of the child who I cradled and sung lullabies to every night, and convinced that there were no clowns in the woods…the boy who taught me the names of every type of tractor and urged me to trap big spiders under glasses for him to return outdoors instead of killing them…the boy who believed in Santa Claus and never chewed gum when he wore braces… the strong boy who carried fifty-pound feed sacks on his shoulders to the barn…the boy who finally mastered math just because he believed that he could, and the boy who played the trombone in my brass bands.

He wanted me to be proud. I was. When I praised him, he used to say, “Mom, you’re just saying that because you’re my mother.”

Yes, Miles. I am your mother. And I will tell you now as I always have, I am proud of you, and you just happen to be my son.

PTSD In Utero - Thanking Hitaji, Energy Healer

About five years ago, my close friend Marion rushed over to me in the cafeteria at Vermont College. “You have to see Hitaji and have an energy healing.” Marion is a serious woman, never taken lightly.

I thought of Hitaji, very different than I am, larger than life, unaffected by her overwhelming presence. She studied and embraced her African American heritage, bringing healing and wisdom into her world. I simply did not know what to make of her. When overcome by the spirits, she broke into boisterous chanting and dancing. As a rooted, earthy New Englander, I admired her from afar, not knowing or trusting myself at the time how to react or respond.

Unaware of the possibilities and deeply absorbed in my exploratory study process, I rejected the idea. Agitated at my uncertainty, I wondered what I feared.

Marion grabbed me by the arm and pulled me towards Hitaji, who sat quietly, enjoying her lunch. Marion was not a physical person; her intensity was unsettling.

Hitaji did not look up; she continued eating her lunch and told me when and where to meet her and to make sure that my hands and feet were clean.

I returned to my room and wondered if my feet were clean enough, as I had taken a shower a few hours before. I washed my hands and stared at my reflection in the mirror. What was I doing?

The dorms at Vermont College are very old and traditional New England with bricks, cinder blocks and old tile floors like what they have in hospitals, only these are not shiny. I hesitated as I took the flight of stairs down to the lower level and approached the seemingly empty dorm room. Hitaji sat on an antique wooden desk chair, her head lowered in meditation. I paused.


“Come in, Mj. Don’t be afraid.” Her voice penetrated; I sweat. She knew.

She dragged another chair before her, got up, flipped off the light and returned to her seat. She sat in front of me rubbing lavender oil in her palms. She instructed me to close my eyes as she massaged the oil on my rigid hands. My fear lingered. I struggled to take slow and even breaths until I finally relaxed.

She brought me face to face with generations of women in my family. She asked for their presence so that they would stand with me. Much of my research is based on my paternal lineage of grandmothers reaching as far back as the early 1600’s. I already knew a great deal about them, their lives and interesting journeys through the passage of time. Hitaji summoned them into my circle.

After reaching a relaxing place and state, she then told me that it was time to let go of the fear and trauma of the accident that I had as an infant. She instructed me to advise my inner child that it was okay and that (I) Maryjane, the adult, would protect her. I was floored. What accident?


At the end of the session, she asked me about the ‘accident’, that I encountered as a child. I had no idea. She suggested that I seek answers.

That was it, so I thought. I knew that I did not have any memory of an accident and that no one spoke anything of the like.

During my entire life, as far back as I can remember, I suffered from night terrors. I believed them to be bad dreams or nightmares. I have no recollection of any part of the dream that would offer clues as to their origin – no colors, sounds or specific people. I used to think that my blood curdling screams actually scared the memory of the dream from my consciousness. I could not explain the dreams or terrors, nor could I trace them to any particular event or person.


When in the dream state, I envisioned being in a very dark, silent place, the darkest place that I had ever encountered. It was almost like a vacuum. My conscious self tried to make sense of this, so I labeled it a cellar or dungeon. Sometimes I thought that I was in a coffin because it was so tight fitting that I could not move and felt wildly claustrophobic. The root of the terror was that my life was in extreme danger and no one knew I was in there, hence the loud screaming that often left me hoarse.

These dream events were so common, that people in my life became accustomed to them – sisters, parents, husband, children, roommates…I simply screamed at least three or four nights a week and woke up in a sweat with my heart racing and then I apologized and went back to sleep. It became an ordinary part of who I was.

After my return from Vermont College, I had dinner with my parents and my sister, Susan. I asked them if they recalled any accident that I was in or that I may have witnessed as a baby. Everyone shook their heads no and continued on to other topics of conversation.


Suddenly my father interrupted and looked at my mother. “How about when you were pregnant with Maryjane and you fell down the stairs. You were holding onto Susan and you had to go to the hospital.”

Everyone was quiet. I couldn’t believe that I had never heard this story. However, the science of my parents’ generation was not as advanced as today; they had no reason to think of PTSD in utero. My mother went on to tell me that she fell down a steep staircase with Susan – my older sister – who had to have stitches in her chin and that she (my mother) went to the hospital and remained there under doctors’ care for two weeks until my birth. I was born slightly prematurely because of this accident. Perhaps I was really going to be a Leo instead of a Cancer. Another thought to ponder, although I am a typical Cancer with strong Cancerian traits.

I knew that when my mother discovered that she was pregnant with me, her doctors advised her to have an abortion because they believed it was a tubal pregnancy. Obviously, she refused. I did not know about the accident on the stairs. I talked with my family about the probability that my lifetime of night terror and fears stemmed from this in utero experience. I was proud of my father – born in the 1920’s – for having the insight to consider that my trauma was in fact prior to my birth.


Later on that night, I meditated. I faced my frightened inner child with conscious awareness of the accident. I assured her that she was safe. I fell into a deep sleep.


Since this truth unfolded, I have not experienced a night terror. I have an active dream life; I acknowledge my dreams and record them in a journal. The trauma of my pre-birth accident, which resulted in a lifetime of Post Traumatic Stress, has been resolved.


Thank you, Hitaji for your gift of healing. Thank you, Dad for considering all possibilities. Thank you, Mom for ignoring the doctors. Thank you, Sophia for your infinite wisdom and guidance.

A River or a Pond

It is better to walk in a river than a pond. The river bursts wildly, gushing over speckled, well-worn rocks. The pond waits silently, relying on banjo frogs and flitting dragonflies to create ripples on the otherwise glasslike surface.


When stepping into the river, it is vital to choose a stable rock. Chances are, unless the rock is in standing water, it will not be slimy. Luckily, river rocks are not as prone to algae because of the constant rushing water. A well-placed foot causes the current to re-route – white rushing water tickles if you take time to linger.


A pond is an entirely different story. Everything is slimy, a haven where life clings to all surfaces, making the water murky and brownish. If I strain, I can hear a subtle trickle where an underground brook empties into the pond. Today, I noticed two very fat tadpoles sitting quite still on a rust colored rock which begs the question, is the rock rusty or is it the water?

The cattails are now taller than I am. They are a staple of indigenous peoples, still used throughout the world. Dig up the roots in early spring to find delicious sprouts that can be eaten raw. Now, in early summer, the 2 to 3 foot stalks can be peeled for their tasty core, known to some as “Cossack asparagus”, which is consumed raw, boiled or steamed. Beside the cattails are a handful of exquisite wild irises. Their roots look alike, but the irises are poisonous, so it is crucial to identify the stalks carefully and in the presence of established cattails.


I rely on the spirit and energy of water. When my own well is dry, I go to the source, each offering its own unique gift. The pond is closest and it beckons. If I step in the muck, my feet will disappear and I will be unable to move. Today I am unable to ignore the agitated deer fly that circles my head before buzzing deep into the curls on the nape of my neck.


I stood before the pond and waited; it would not work today. The tranquility lulls me to sleep, covering me with a thick dark blanket that is so safe that it becomes unsafe when I cannot crawl out from under it.

Although it is raining lightly, I think I will go to the river instead. The quickening current shouts into the wind and thrashes by, not noticing or taking the time to invite me in. It is up to me to figure out that it is to my advantage to wash away the toxic clutter of the material world that invades my senses. After all, my awareness whisked me away from serene muckiness to invigorating commotion.


The river is clear. The river is cold, so cold that I gasp when I first go under and bathe in her spirit. I am able to focus on the tiniest specks of gold and mica on the endless rock floor. I tread water in the deep, round, emerald pool and rest my eyes on two gigantic spiders clinging to the side of a granite rock. I am not afraid.

Banjo Frogs

As soon as the sun sets, the bullfrog orchestra warms up, tunes and begins a musical marathon. They are all singing in the same key. They inspire one another. One begins, another repeats from another section producing a beautiful canon.


Some Banjo frogs make a series of swallowy glugs – typically three descending gulps – while the others sort of moan.


When I shine a flashlight on them, they suddenly stop; when I move it around, they start up again. Therefore, instead of cueing those to come in, they stop; it is reverse conducting. With practice, we can perform a symphony. The Duncan Lake Frogharmonic.

They are so loud, it is necessary for me to wear earplugs in order to sleep. This is an attention issue. I am unable to stop listening.

From my memoir – “The Summer at Duncan Lake”     July 2009