Kate Flora: This past Thursday, my brother John and I went to Waldoboro to formalize the sale of a hundred acres of woodland to the Georges River Land Trust. No Christopher Robin. No Winnie the Pooh. But yes, a hundred acres. That sale, and the creation of the Sennebec Hill Preserve, means that the woods and fields we rambled through when we were growing up will now be preserved as open land forever.

Saying farewell to the land that mattered so much to our parents was a truly bittersweet occasion. Yes, with buy-in from all the beneficiaries of the family trust, that below market sale protects that land for future generations and recognizes how much our parents loved that piece of land. But it meant letting go of so many of the places that were an integral part of our childhood.

The field across the road from the house is where it flooded in the winter and we had a small skating pond. Where in the spring we collected frog’s eggs and watched them hatch into pollywogs. That same field was where our mother had an enormous rhubarb patch. She sold much of the rhubarb and used the rest for experimenting with recipes for her magazine articles and newspaper columns. And

The world famous Orange Mailbox on East Sennebec Road.

of course for rhubarb desserts. Some of her research shows up in her columns, collected into a book titled From the Orange Mailbox: Notes from a Few Country Acres. At the edge of that field is where we had a pasture for Raisins the calf, and where Asabanana, the chicken, used to ride around on his back. Where I had a stable under the barn for my sheep, Louisa Maine Apricot.

The three of us, John, Kate, and Sara (nice crisp names for our future successful selves), grew up connected to the land. With both parents passionate gardeners and close observers of the world around us, we couldn’t help it. There weren’t playgrounds and parks and organized activities on a farm in small town Maine. There was the world around us.

Kate begins to learn about marketing beside the orange mailbox

Behind the open field, a steep, wooded hill rose up with a path that ran beside an oak with a hollow big enough to stand in. Along the sides of that hill (or cliff) were mossy terraces where we had our pretend houses and castles. Each year, when the weather and blackflies allowed, our mother would create three distinct trails through the woods—the red trail, the blue trail, and the white trail, designated by painted blazes on the trees. All the Sunday School students from the Methodist Church would come to the farm. They would be divided into groups assigned to one of the three trails. Each group would be given clues and go on a treasure hunt. Once found, the hidden treasure, usually candy and peanuts, would be divided among the group. Then there would be a picnic down by the lake.

Both our parents were eager and willing to show us the details of our world. There was lovely clay on the banks of the stream that ran along the back of the orchard. We could collect it and make little pots. Of course, without a kiln, they would eventually crumble, but the creation was the fun. Turning over logs to see what lay beneath, like sow bugs. Scratching our names in the fungi that grew like slates from the trees. Spotting the many types of mushrooms that burst from rotten logs. Finding bones or animal skulls or the distinct tracks of different animals.

In the winter, we would collect balsam branches and sew small balsam pillows for our city-dwelling friends and relatives. Our father would collect small woodland plants and make terrariums in round glass bowls.

Dad was an hunter, and he and John would head into the woods each fall, hoping for a deer to help with grocery bills and fill the freezer with meat for the year. There were also pheasants and partridges. And our mother, being a good sport, would also cook some of the other things John shot, such as a porcupine (unless it was a woodchuck).

Of course, we can still visit the land. And we have our memories and mom’s writing to help us remember. But it’s always hard to let go of something so precious.