Precerpt from In with the East Wind: A Mary Poppins Kind of Life - Acton, Part 2: The Apple Orchard
Precerpt (excerpt prior to publication from the forthcoming memoir, In with the East: A Mary Poppins Kind of Life by Dr. Betty Lou Leaver
The apple orchard was our front
yard—if any place on a farm can rightly be called a "front yard." It
was the stretch of land across the dirt driveway from the farmhouse, bordering
the winding country road that separated our upper fields, corral-pasture,
clothesline, house, and orchard from the lower fields, the swale, and the pine
woods beyond. In one far corner of the orchard, under a stand of birch trees, alongside
the road, lay the tiny, timeworn Prescott family cemetery. May they rest in
peace, whoever they were. The birches partially screened the orchard from the
road, adding to its at-times quiet charm and at-other-times privacy for
boisterous play.
The apple orchard was the hub of
our lives. Besides giving us apples, pears, and even cherries—it was, in truth,
a mixed orchard though we always called it "the apple orchard"—it was
the scene of near-daily baseball games in the summertime. The trees were aligned
in a way that made perfect bases, and kids would hike over the hills, some for
miles, just to join the game. I was a good pitcher, a good batter, and a fast
runner. I loved those games. We played real baseball, with boys and girls mixed
together. At school, rigidly applied rules tried to keep us apart: girls were
herded off to play softball on the girls’ playground while the boys played
baseball on the adjacent boys’ playground. I found that unbearable. I'd sneak
onto the boys' playground to join their game, only to have some teacher grab me
by the collar and haul me back, saying, "You are a girl, Betty Lou."
No, I was not a girl—not in spirit.
I was a tomboy, and the orchard was my proving ground. When we weren’t playing
ball, I was climbing trees. There was nothing better than perching on the
fourth or fifth branch, surveying the landscape, or hanging upside down by my
knees, enjoying the rush of blood to the head, inhaling the pleasantly fresh
breeze created by swinging slowly, and, of course, getting a thrill out of scaring
Ma. I loved bending birches, just as Robert Frost described in his poem. Frost
himself lived only a few farms away from my uncle in Derry, New Hampshire. I've
been to his farm where so many of his poems live—the mending wall, the birches,
the west-running brook. Years later, I met a co-editor at that very farm, and
we signed our book contract for Georgetown University Press on the hood of her
rental car in the Frost Farm driveway.
The birches were magical. In
summer, I’d climb high almost to the top of an increasingly slender branch,
then enjoy the ride down as the branch gently bent under my weight and lowered
me back to the ground. In winter, the birches bent under the weight of ice,
their snowy arches stretching across the narrow road. When Dad drove us to
town, we’d marvel as the splendor as we passed under the crystalline canopy.
The orchard was also where Butch,
one of our two oxen, staged his small rebellions. Butch had my spirit—ornery,
smart, unwilling to bend. When yoked with Prince to plow, Butch would lie down
in stubborn protest. Eventually, he’d be harnessed, but not without a struggle.
When he was loose in the corral, he’d knock down the wooden gate and kick it
into the electric fence to short it out. Then he’d head straight for the pear
trees, which always made him drunk. I, as the oldest and the one who seemed to
understand him best, was sent to bring him back. He’d play his tricks—pinning
my bare foot gently with a hoof while he slurped down pears until he was
delightfully tipsy. Once he’d had his fill, he’d dance and wobble his way back
to the pasture, with me guiding him along. We understood each other, Butch and
I. He got his fix, and I got him home.
Our German Shepherd, Duke, also
made the orchard his domain. From there, he kept watch over the farm like a
sentinel. Duke had a sturdy, warm dog house, but I always felt sorry for him,
chained up in all seasons. When no one was looking, I’d unclip the heavy cow
chain (he snapped regular dog chains with ease) and set him free. He’d run for
hours through orchard, pasture, and forest. Ma would be furious, but Duke’s joy
made it worth the scolding. I longed for him to be allowed in the house, to
curl up with us by the fire, but Acton’s working dogs didn’t come indoors.
Still, Duke was family. People feared him—no one dared approach the house when
Duke was on watch. Even my husband, years later, was wary of Duke. He nearly
fainted when he saw me in the orchard playing with Duke while our infant
daughter, Echo, clung to his back, giggling as Duke gently carried her around
the trees. Duke knew she was his to protect.
The orchard had quiet moments, too.
Dad liked to sit in his old wooden lawn chair under a favorite apple tree and
read. I, in turn, would sit on the ground under my favorite climbing tree, reading
whatever book had of late fallen under my hand. (I was a promiscuous reader in
those days and still have a voracious appetite for a wide range of books.) As
the oldest and a tomboy, I imprinted on my father—the reader, the unpublished
writer. Ma’s domestic arts never took with me. I tried to bake a cake once. Dad
declared it "not fit for the pigs," and the pigs proved him right.
They refused to eat it. The cake sat in the pigpen (another part of life in the
orchard) and eventually just rotted away.
The apple orchard was more than land and trees and animals. It was the heart of my childhood: a place of action, rebellion, freedom, and love. A place where both the wildness and the stillness of life could unfold under the watchful eye of the birches and the endless New England sky and where my friends could come play a ballgame.
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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