MSI Press Blog

  Precerpt (excerpt prior to publication from the forthcoming memoir,  In with the East: A Mary Poppins Kind of Life  by Dr. Betty Lou Leaver Town Meeting              No description of Acton would be complete without a regalement of the annual town meeting. In Acton, governance wasn’t just a matter of policy—it’s a living tradition. While many towns across America have adopted city councils, charters, and professional administrators. Acton has held fast to a form of government that dates back to colonial New England: the Town Meeting–Selectmen model.              This isn’t just a quaint relic. It’s a deliberate choice rooted in scale, history, and civic philosophy.          Acton was incorporated in 1830, carved from the western portion of Shapleigh. From the beginning, it embraced the town meeting format—a syste...

  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 Fair               Every summer, the Acton Fair transformed our quiet Maine town into something electric. For a few days, the dusty roads led to carnival lights, livestock ribbons, and the unmistakable scent of fried dough. It was the social event of the year—part agricultural showcase, part family reunion, and part theater of the absurd.              The fairgrounds buzzed with energy. Farmers displayed their prized heifers, kids clutched cotton candy like currency, and all over the grounds unknown people appeared; those would be the folks from all over Maine who made the trek to Acton each year for its famous fair. The fair was pure Acton: 4-H, farmers, livestock, produce, homemade articles; local, proud, a...

Precerpt (excerpt prior to publication from the forthcoming memoir,  In with the East: A Mary Poppins Kind of Life  by Dr. Betty Lou Leaver Blueberry Hill Farm Blueberry Hill Farm sat just up the hill from our family farm in Acton—walking distance, if you were local, maybe half a mile or so. The entrance was a long dirt road that wound its way along the hilltop, eventually opening onto wide, sun-drenched fields of domestic blueberry bushes, their rows neat and generous. It was a commercial farm back then, owned by the Robinson family, a kind and upright clan whose patriarch had done more good in his lifetime than most people ever hear about. I liked working for him. He encouraged me. And he especially liked my sister—she was a natural, one of the best blueberry pickers around. As kids, we started with pea picking, the domain of the younger crowd, ages five to fourteen. But once we hit our teens, we graduated to blueberries, which required more finesse. You had to know how ...