Headmaster. Pidgeon. El Grande Pajaro.

Just knowing he's gone, I really miss him. I hadn't seen my former headmaster from Kiski School, John Anderson Pidgeon, in many years, though I had spoken with him on the phone over the years.

Each time he'd invited me to visit: "Get your ass up here sometime," he'd say. Now he is gone, at 83, and I missed my chance.

I had mixed feelings about Kiski and Jack, which isn't the worst thing because I also had mixed feelings about my late father, and Jack Pidgeon was one of the greatest father figures America has seen. This ambivalence about my old headmaster and prep school in Saltsburg explains why I've been back to the school only a few times since I left it 23 years ago.

I sometimes thought fondly of the place and of Mr. Pidgeon, grateful for what they taught me. When he'd drilled us on Emerson in his honors English class, we students learned why Kiski gave two grades for English: It was the most important subject in the tradition he had inherited. In English, we were graded on both grammar and content because Mr. Pidgeon made us write, and he made us read, and he expected us to accept his challenge to better ourselves.

After Mr. Pidgeon retired years ago, there seemed no real reason to go back to Kiski, since the man who was the heart of the school was no longer there. It would be a different place -- the whole tenor of the school would have changed, I reasoned, so I stayed away.

For a while after graduating, I wouldn't consider stepping back on the old campus. And being so much of Kiski, Mr. Pidgeon played a part in my alienation from the school.

My ambivalence toward him was largely due to the fact that he was so tough on us. My dad had 12 kids to keep in line, a great task to be sure, but Jack Pidgeon had to keep in line a few hundred boys at once.

Tall, broad-shouldered, with an aquiline nose and confident bearing that made him seem patrician, Mr. Pidgeon was far from it. His mother was a cleaning lady at Phillips Andover, he would remind us, with the admonition that we should treat everyone with respect.

"Those snotty kids would spit on the floor, and my mother had to clean it up," he said more than once. "If I hear about anyone spitting on the floor ... "

Jack Pidgeon was the commandant of Kiski. He would ride his golf cart to the dining hall for dinner, one foot hanging jauntily out to the side. Then he'd saunter into the building, and everyone would stand nearly at attention. In springtime, if the student body had been well behaved, Mr. Pidgeon would reward us. He'd gather the students and teachers in the basement of the dining hall, which was a serious place, as we had our SATs and dances there.

You could hear a pin drop before the headmaster would render his verdict. When he'd announce that we were getting spring schedule, the place would break into applause. Students and teachers alike were all smiles, because spring schedule meant the usual class schedule would be shortened, with classes from 8 a.m. to 1 p.m.

Those of us who were part of his honors English class saw a different side of Mr. Pidgeon -- a man impassioned by the written word. He made us consider who we were. We learned that "Whoso would be a man must be a nonconformist," and that "A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds."

He so thoroughly drummed into our heads the last passage of "The Great Gatsby," that I still remember much of it:

Most of the big shore places were closed now, and there were hardly any lights except for the shadowy, moving glow of a ferryboat across the sound. And as the moon rose higher, the inessential houses began to melt away ...

He made us memorize the passage to teach us the need for beauty, imagery, rhythm and song in language. It is fitting that he would pick a fellow Irish-American writer to teach us. The Irish, as every scribe knows, are among the best writers.

I once told him that I am about one-quarter Irish. "Not enough," he responded.

"Gatsby believed in the green light ... " and Mr. Pidgeon believed in it, too. His job was to educate us and make sure that we could pursue the future he knew we could have if we worked hard. He taught us about the American dream.

When I was at Kiski planning on college, I applied to Carnegie Mellon University and was worried that I wouldn't get in. So I went to talk with Mr. Pidgeon about my grades and his recommendation, which I knew could put me over the top and ensure my admittance.

I went into his office and sat, hemming and hawing about my worries, but I really wanted to see the recommendation. He got tired of my pussyfooting.

"You want to see your recommendation?" he said, obviously irritated, pulling open a desk drawer, yanking a piece of paper from it and setting it on the desk in front of him. "There it is."

Then he proceeded to read it, and by the end, I was embarrassed. It was the nicest thing anyone had ever written about me, absolutely full of praise.

I thanked him, shamefaced, and walked out of his office, humbled and grateful.