Room 3, Mrs. Dixon

Mrs. Dixon had a pointy nose and chin-length straight grey hair. Her lipstick veered above the line of her top lip, a fact that puzzled me in light of the rest of her meticulousness. She wore soft and draping clothes over her short and round body, shoes we called “orthopedic.” She was ancient and precise and harsh and very clear about what she knew, and what she would impose on us— assignments turned in promptly on this day, free reading of an approved book on that day, no talking in the lunch line . . . Anyone not following the rules would stay in at lunch or recess (or both), and clean erasers and chalkboards. I could feel her disapproving eyes from the moment my perkiness entered Room 3.

It was a split 3rd and 4th grade class, an experiment of the sixties. Having been “teacher’s pet” of those before her, Mrs. Dixon’s instant recoil felt especially cruel. I went from top of the heap in 2nd grade to bottom of barrel in 3rd. It didn’t help that I was voted class president during the first week and had to run the daily meetings, sitting in a chair next to Mrs. Dixon at the front of class. Me with my tooled leather purse, clothes fashioned from Mom's Singer, coifed blond curls, and the gavel in my hand. She watched my every move and listened to my every word, quick to call out my missteps, sometimes in front of the class.

Mrs. Dixon was a nutrition fanatic. She loved telling us horror stories about junk food, and running experiments. One experiment was 3 test tubes sitting in a wooden holder at the front of the class, each containing a single tooth—one sitting in tap water, one in boric acid and one in Coke. The tooth sitting in water sat glistening and clean, a symbol of the sanctity of water. In a matter of a couple of days the acid ate through the second tooth and spit out the filling. There it lay at the bottom of the test tube, a by-product of bad food preservative. The most disturbing tooth, however, was the one that sat in Coke. It turned brown and bubbly, being eaten away day after day. She made her point.

Mrs. Dixon was an Audubon member—and while I can picture her in a vest and birding hat, binoculars hanging from her neck, I’m almost sure I never saw her that way. We had to study and name all the birds of the Northwest—compile a field book that contained all of our observations, drawings, writing and research on a bird of our choice. I wanted to research the pileated woodpecker. Mrs. Dixon told me I’d be doing my report on the sparrow instead.

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Decades later I find myself sitting at my dining room table overlooking busy hummingbird and songbird feeders on the back deck. There’s a nesting ball being pulled apart tug by tug nearby. I am eating my healthy handmade granola filled with nuts and dried fruits, and today my favorite coconut, when something catches my eye out of the dining room window

“Oh my god, it’s a pileated woodpecker!” I quietly yell upstairs. “If anyone wants to see it.” If you aren't a bird lover, you might not know about this biggest of woodpeckers, this builder of perfect round-shaped tree-nest openings. This magnificent and elusive bird. If you are a bird lover I don't need to explain the thrill.

I grab my camera, and knowing how shy they are, try to shoot from inside the house, which of course, doesn’t work. I take a deep breath and quietly open the front door, creep onto the deck in stocking feet about 12 feet from the foraging bird. He’s unfazed. I turn away to take a quick shot to make sure there's enough light, and then turn back, focus and rapid fire 4 shots before he catches me, and escapes to the black walnut on the next property. This version was in focus. Mrs. Dixon would likely be smug about her role in my success.