Precerpt: In with the East Wind: A Mary Poppins Kind of Life (Leaver) - Acton ME
Precerpt (excerpt prior to publication from the forthcoming memoir, In with the East: A Mary Poppins Kind of Life by Dr. Betty Lou Leaver
Chapter One: Acton
I was born in Rochester, New Hampshire, but my earliest memories belong to East Rochester—a small mill town that felt big to a child on a bike. I spent my early years pedaling down its streets, ducking in and out of the Main Street shops, and playing games on the lawns of the two churches that sat directly across from each other like old, watchful neighbors. Back then, life was as local as it gets. I knew every sidewalk crack and shortcut path, every neighbor’s barky dog, and every familiar bell above a shop door.
But as our family grew—eight children in all—my father couldn’t support us on a town lot alone. So we moved across the Salmon Falls River to Acton, Maine, where land was cheap and farms were many. That’s the place I truly think of as my childhood home, the place that shaped my bones and burned the soles of my feet on sun-warmed soil. We became farmers—not fancy, not well-equipped, but scrappy and determined. My father named our plot “Berry Acres.” The name fit.
The irony, of course, is that I was allergic to berries—especially strawberries. While I loved them, they didn’t love me back. That made me the obvious choice for strawberry-picking duty, since I was the only one who wouldn’t sneak them straight off the stem. I spent hours crouched among those rows, red juice dripping from the fruit, not my lips. We grew vegetables of every kind, and the harvest filled wooden crates that we sold from a makeshift stand by the roadside. Sometimes my father would haul the produce into town to sell to local stores, when he wasn’t working his other job as a shoe cutter in Dover, New Hampshire.
Our little farm sat on 80 acres of hard, rocky soil—classic for York County. My uncle’s land, just down the road, stretched 240 acres. There were no stores in Acton, no gas stations, no post office, and certainly no hospital. If we needed groceries, we walked three miles up and down hilly backroads to get to New Hampshire. In summer, when school was out, we didn’t mind the walk. It beat weeding. The town was wide but quiet—Acton is one of the largest towns in Maine by land, but one of the smallest by population. When my youngest sister was born, she became the 501st resident in a town spread over 40 square miles.
On our land stood a small cemetery, the final resting place of the Prescott family, long-gone owners of our farm. We never knew them, but we felt a quiet duty to care for their graves. Each fall, we raked the leaves that blew into their plot, not because anyone told us to, but because it seemed right. In Acton, you respected the land, and you respected those who came before you—living or not.
My siblings and I—what my brother fondly called “the 8-pack”—were close in a way that large families often are, bonded by shared chores, shared space, and shared mischief. We drove tractors and planted rows, learned to fix what broke and make do with what we had. We didn’t own much, but we owned the work. The sun browned our skin, the wind toughened our hands, and the loon calls across nearby lakes became the lullabies of our summer nights.
Acton itself has a story worth telling. Nestled along the Salmon Falls River, surrounded by lakes and hills, the town was first settled in 1776 and incorporated in 1830. Named after Acton, England, it once ran on the energy of water-powered mills—gristmills, sawmills, even a hemp mill. There was even a brief silver mining boom in the 1880s near Goding Creek, though it didn’t last long. Apples grew well here, and the ridges, while rocky, yielded just enough to keep the farmers hopeful. The Acton Fair, born in 1866, still draws crowds every August—a stubborn little tradition that outlasted the mills.
But none of that mattered to me as a child. I didn’t care about dates or founding stories. I cared about what was in front of me: the blackberries that scratched your arms but were worth it; the dusty lane where the dog liked to nap; the feel of wet laundry on the line and the soft hum of wind in the trees. I cared about the loons—their eerie, beautiful cries echoing across Wilson Lake or Great East, reminding us that we were small, but part of something whole.
Acton didn’t have streetlights or sidewalks. It didn’t have anything shiny. But it had roots, and it gave me mine. It taught me that hard work doesn’t ask if you’re tired. That distance is something you walk, not something you measure. And that you don’t have to know someone to show them respect.
From the vantage point of decades and continents later, I see now how Acton trained me for a life I didn’t yet imagine. One lived by answering when help was needed. One where roots mattered, even when your boots were always moving. Acton was the start—but it never felt like an ending.
It felt like a place you carry.
Book Description:
From the barefoot freedom of rural Maine to the diplomatic halls of Central Asia, from rescuing a dying child in Siberia to training astronauts in Houston and Star City, In with the East Wind traces an extraordinary life lived in service, not strategy.
Unlike those who chase opportunity, the author responded to it—boarding planes, crossing borders, and stepping into urgent roles she never sought but never declined. Over 75 years and 26 countries, she worked as a teacher, soldier, linguist, professor, diplomat, and cultural ambassador. Whether guiding Turkmen diplomats, mentoring Russian scholars, or founding academic programs in unlikely places, her journey unfolded through a steady stream of voices asking: Can you come help us?
Told through an alphabetical journey across places that shaped her—from Acton, Maine to Uzbekistan—this memoir is rich with insight, adventure, and deep humanity. At its heart lies the quiet power of answering the call to serve, wherever it may lead.
Like Mary Poppins, she drifted in with the East Wind—bringing what was needed, staying just long enough, and leaving behind transformation. Then she returned home, until the next wind called.
From the forthcoming book:
In with the East Wind...A Mary Poppins Kind of Life
Volume 1: ABC Lands
by Dr. Betty Lou Leaver
For most posts about this book, click HERE.
for more posts by and about Betty Lou Leaver, click HERE.
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