The Legacy of "Good for You"
Remembering Edith Robb Dixon
BAR HARBOR/WINTER HARBOR—Not many people went to my wedding, but one of those people was Edith Dixon. She was tall and patrician and had a great love of dogs. One night, at Le Domaine, a restaurant in Hancock, Maine, she explained to me about all things dogs, giving me sage advice about grooming and temperament.
“You have to love them, but be stern,” she said. “Love can be stern.”
Before I met Edie and her husband, Fitz, I was told how to behave. They expected a certain level of propriety, I learned. I should not be my enthusiastic self, I was told. They were of the 1 percent, philanthropists, big-time donors of the local hospital that my then-husband was the then-CEO of.
I was not any of that. I’d grown up pretty poor for my community. As an adult, I slept a few nights in my car, and then in an apartment in Ellsworth, Maine, where pieces of the ceiling kept coming down.
A man once told me that he was blue blood, and I, obviously with my single mom roots and living in a car for a bit, wasn’t.
I’m sure Edie knew who I was. But I’m also sure she was okay with it, too. At the time, I was the youngest female city councilor Ellsworth had ever had, and she’d said to me, in such a solid way, with so much eye contact, “good for you.” I’ll never forget the sound and resonance of that sentence.
Good for you.
It felt like a gift.
Edith Robb Dixon, of Winter Harbor, died May 18. Her illness, by all reports, was short and brief. She was 91 and left behind a legacy of impact throughout Hancock County and also Pennsylvania.
“Edith was a true philanthropist, and her generosity expressed a love for family, friends, and the thoughtfully chosen organizations she served across healthcare, education, the arts, and environmental preservation,” her obituary said.
That is all very true, but it doesn’t quite get close to the essence of Edith Robb Dixon.
The Ellsworth American’s Rebecca Alley quotes Schoodic Arts for All’s Mary Laury as she recalled Edith giving a speech.
“‘She came to the podium as a person who was humble, and she said something that was profound,’ Laury recalled. ‘She said, “This wealth is not mine to keep but mine to give away.”’”
That wealth wasn’t the only thing that Edith gave away. She also gave away her wisdom, her kindness, and her encouragement.
At my wedding, there were only about 12 people there, gathered in the Blue Hill Congregational Church, which was undergoing construction at the time. Half the rectory had caution tape across it.
Perhaps, she indicated, this was a sign. It was. Still, she and Fitz and their two Winter Harbor friends clambered in and out of their fancy car to be there. Some of them were giggling. There was definite mischief happening in that car, mischief that I was happy to witness even if I didn’t participate in it.
And that’s what I remember about her—a twinkling in her eye, this intelligence that took everything in and processed it quickly, making connections. When she said something, people listened. It might be dog advice or a sudden compliment that seemed like an edict that you have to believe. One day, she said, as I was explaining the ridiculous details of some Ellsworth City Council decision, “You are a brilliant person. You must believe that more.”
And I looked at her, possibly gawping.
And she said quietly without changing her posture or leaning forward or breaking her surveying of the crowd at a hospital event, “Much smarter than most of the people here and much more than they will give you credit for.”
She said that and I held it close to my heart, even if I didn’t believe it. What I actually believe is that those confidence-lifting words that she gave to younger me were actually words of truth about her, Edith Dixon. She was a philanthropist, a mother, smart, enthusiastic, dedicated to her cause, but she also was a brilliant person, much smarter and wiser than many of (if not all) the people around her, smarter and wiser than the word could ever possibly give her credit for.
Smart does not always equal kind just as wealthy (or poor) does not always equal good. It is our choices that do that.
Edith made a lot of good choices that were kind and good. She was on boards of things locally, things like the Schoodic Institute and Northern Lights Hospital. She received an award from the Maine Sea Coast Mission for her contributions to help communities.
The Schoodic Institute wrote about her, “Edith was the sort of leader and supporter most non-profits dream about. She thought deeply and spoke plainly. She was dedicated to Schoodic Institute and continually emphasized the need to focus on its education and science mission within Acadia National Park and beyond. She would fund the core operations–things that few others were drawn to. If a critical repair was needed, she would step up to help. When historic Rockefeller Hall needed to be restored, Edith came to the rescue. She was clear-eyed about the challenges facing a young institution and excited about the opportunities. Her laugh was infectious and her instincts unfailing. In the rare cases where her advice went unheeded, she remained loyal and positive.
“Superintendent Kevin Schneider called Edith ‘one of the park’s truly best friends and so generous.’ Board Chair David Ellwood put it this way, ‘Edith had more wisdom and sense than the rest of us put together. She was our rock, our North Star, and she leaves an extraordinary legacy. We will miss her terribly. We cannot possibly replace her, but we shall always embrace the values and ideals she championed.’”
All of that is certainly true.
But Edie didn’t just champion values and ideals, she embodied them. And, just as importantly, she focused on championing people not tearing them down.
And dogs. Always dogs.
In a world and a community where people throw out words like “greedy” and “scourge” or “Satanic” and “evil,” so easily; where people create dichotomies like “business” and “community” and don’t realize that they are entwined (in both good and bad ways sometimes); where people think if you don’t think exactly the same way as they do, then you deserve to be vilified and attacked; people like Edie matter.
People like Edith Robb Dixon matter because they are secure enough to be generous and kind enough to see people despite demographics and differences. People like Edith Robb Dixon matter because they are about lifting other humans up, and sometimes, lifting up entire communities or hospitals .
Edie was ridiculously wealthy, but she was not evil. She was ridiculously smart, but she did not dumb people down. She did not seek enemies. She sought connections, even with people like me, over-enthusiastic reporters who were sleeping in a car, and then in an apartment with a ceiling falling down, and then—finally a home, and then another.
I was afraid to see Edith after I divorced because I connected her so much with my ex-husband, but I did see her eventually, and she leaned down and said quietly in my ear, “Good for you.”
I’m not sure what she was talking about. It didn’t matter.
Good for you.
Those words are maybe something we could tell each other more, not just in Edie’s honor, but each other’s.
Good for you for being kind today.
Good for you for not sending that email.
Good for you for getting out of bed.
Good for you for letting someone lean on you.
Good for you for listening to someone else.
Good for you for even just reading this.
Good for you.
Note: Many of you know that I have a hard time writing memorials on here because I fail to keep that journalistic distance and often, I cry. The closer I am to the person (like Islander reporter Dick Broom), the harder it is to write; the more I worry about the person’s family, the harder it is to write and then to hit publish. And then, I worry and wonder about who to write them for. So many seem to be for men. So many seem to be for the wealthy. Just that choice seems fraught. If I could, even though it would be exceptionally hard, I would write about everyone in Hancock County, and especially Mount Desert Island. Thank you all for reading what I wrote about Edie.
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Oh how beautiful! Thank you for writing this!