How wonderful to read of David Foster¹s account of Mary Eastbury¹s life. It
stirred up memories of the indelible influence she had on me while I was a
student at Sakeji School. Miss Eastbury was at Sakeji from the moment I
arrived in the first grade to the time I left in the ninth grade. I think
she knew me better than I care to know . . .

I loved Miss Eastbury. I remember her as a warm and lovely person; quietly
composed and seemingly unflappable. My brother still teasingly calls me Dodo
Dear. That was what Miss Eastbury called me: Dodo Dear – like it was my
proper name. Except when she said it in her sweet, quiet and almost
lisp-like way, it came out sounding more like ³Toto Tear². But then when
you¹re miles away from home for months at a time, any term of endearment
will do nicely. I loved being Toto Tear.

Those days at Sakeji, I thought Miss Eastbury was so beautiful. She had a
svelte figure with shapely sinewy arms and strong hands. But it was her eyes
that fascinated me most. Bright and piercing, they were a deep sapphire blue
with brown flecks in them. Her right eye had more brown flecks than the
other. I remember as a 5 or 6 year old that whenever she would talk to me,
even if she was chastising me about not having cleaned behind my ears at
bath time, she would look directly and earnestly into my eyes as was her
way. This was my opportunity to study the imbalance of brown flecks and
wonder how God could give a woman of such great beauty more flecks in the
right eye than her left. As I became an older student, she would drone on
and on about how I could have done a better job of cleaning the hall during
housework time and my mind would drift off and wonder why Miss Gorgeous with
the exquisite cheekbones never got married and raised a houseful of kids.
But as time went on I understood that this was because God had burdened her
with a schoolful of kids whom she mothered in her own wonderful way. This
did not stop the mischievous minded schoolful of kids from matchmaking her
up with every eligible bachelor that visited our remote school campus on
rare occasion.

The little ones in particular loved her. There was never a moment that she
sat in the Big Living Room in the Main House, whether watching movies on a
Saturday night or listening to records on a Wednesday evening that her lap
was not full of wrigglesome little girls and boys. And how they clung to her
skirts in terror as the fireworks went off on Zambian Independence Day and
Guy Fawkes night. Miss Eastbury provided a serene security that was
comforting and steadfast.

Her other great love was her black labrador Trixie. The love and loyalty
Trixie gave her mistress was unparalleled – she followed Miss Eastbury
everywhere. And Miss Eastbury was everywhere. Hers was the cool hand on a
hot forehead in sick bay as she stepped in for Miss Hoyte or Mrs. Foster;
she poured the cold milk into the cups at break time and made sure that each
child only took the three cookies allowed; she doled out the generous
portions for seconds at the top of the dining room; she was in the kitchen;
she was at the river, down at the gardens; up on the airstrip as she
supervised PE in the morning and Games in the afternoon. Miss Eastbury¹s was
the soft footfall in the darkened dormitory corridor checking to see that
all was well as tired school children fell asleep after a long day¹s work
and play. And of course she could be found at our favorite place – the tuck
shop. Not a day would go by when you wouldn¹t run into Miss Eastbury
somewhere around Sakeji.

Sunday suppers at Sakeji were always the same: scrambled eggs. The only way
I remember this fact is because despite the best efforts of the staff member
on Sunday supper duty, the scrambled eggs were either really, really good or
really, really bad. Miss Eastbury¹s eggs were always really good – soft and
creamy and never burned. One Sunday evening I complimented her on her
scrambled egg supper. Surprised, she blushed deeply and stammered her
thanks. I realized then that for all the myriad, wonderful,
behind-the-scenes things Mary Eastbury did for us, we didn¹t thank her
nearly enough.

I live a quiet life in San Marino, California with my husband Stephen and
our two little girls and I think of Miss Eastbury often. How can I not?
Thanks to her, my famous scrambled eggs are soft and creamy and never
burned. And those Dr Scholls exercise sandals she loved and always wore? I
admired them so – and now I have them in every color.

And so for all you did for me, I thank you Mary Eastbury. Thank you Mary
with the blue and brown eyes . . .

 ~ Dowa Ross