MSI Press Blog

  Kabul differed tremendously from Camp Julien . After all, Camp Julien was an Army post, a small one, in the desert. Kabul was a capital with all the accouterments of a big city, in spite of an on-going ravaging war.  In Kabul, I left the Quonset hut of Camp Julien behind, and was assigned to a barracks with about 40 bunk beds. All the beds were filled when I arrived, except for one top bunk. All four-foot-eleven inches of me shimmied up over the tall femalel soldier sleeping below -- always seems to work out that way, the mismatch. It was comfortable enough, though. After all, I can sleep anywhere; I really can.  I also left behind the near-nightly mortar attacks, but Kabul was not without evidence of struggles. The barracks had an unexploded round half-buried into one wall. It was a dud. I could sleep soundly -- and would have, anyway. One of the advantages of being assigned to Kabul was actual time off after the work day was done. The major and I were lucky. We had ar...

  Precerpt (excerpt prior to publication from the forthcoming memoir,  In with the East: A Mary Poppins Kind of Life  by Dr. Betty Lou Leaver Animals of Acton: Sanctuary, Scavengers, and Sentiment Acton had its share of animals—some wild, some domesticated, all woven into the rhythm of our lives. The deer were the most majestic, but in a humbler way than the moose. During hunting season, they’d gather in our swale, grand creatures with 8-point racks among them. Somehow, they knew our land was safe. It was posted  No Hunting , and so was my uncle’s. But that didn’t stop the out-of-town fools from skulking in the woods and firing into the fields. One year, one of them shot my uncle’s prize Guernsey cow—brown, unmistakably not a deer. My uncle caught the man trying to make off with the carcass, certain that he had just bagged a deer, and grabbed him by the ear. And then the captive had to listen to a tongue-lashing! We paid a price for being a deer sanctuary. The deer...

  Precerpt (excerpt prior to publication from the forthcoming memoir,  In with the East: A Mary Poppins Kind of Life  by Dr. Betty Lou Leaver Acton: The Biting Season Acton summers weren’t blistering, but they were sticky—humid enough that your shirt clung to your back before breakfast. The air felt close, like it was pressing in, and the flies thrived in it. Black flies and deer flies didn’t just bite—they hunted. Our cows and steer wore them like living blankets, and we, the kids, were next in line. Milking and yoking became tactical maneuvers: one hand on the task, the other swatting at whatever had just landed behind your ear. The flies didn’t discriminate. They flew from cowhide to kid skin, drawn by sweat and movement. We learned to move fast and swat energetically. Still, they found the soft spots—wrists, necks, ankles. By midday, we were welted and itchy, pin-cushioned by persistence. Evenings brought a different ritual. The kitchen ceiling became a fly hostel, sp...

  The fish man came to the door like clockwork every Thursday. He parked his refrigerated truck in our driveway, walked past Duke, who had come to know him, and asked Ma to come out and see what she might like that week: haddock, clams, oysters, mussels, scallops, lobster, and more. Most often, Ma would load up on haddock, scallop, and clams, leaving the lobster for our supermarket trip in the city after church on Sundays. Ma made a wicked haddock meal. She would bread a big fish with corn meal, put a little bit of milk into a fish-shaped white corning-type bowl, and bake it. Those were the days. I hanker after haddock a lot. It is almost impossible to find outside of New England, and no one makes it like Ma did. Every Sunday after church, we’d stop at the supermarket and pick up eight live lobsters. Some folks called them sea spiders (not because they did not like them but because, well, they do look like spiders, especially when they are alive). Lobster was our Sunday meal ...