Who knew a filling could fall from a tooth while you were eating oatmeal? Well, they can and mine did. The event occasioned a visit to my dentist’s office.
As with so many of my health professionals, my dentist retired. He sold his office to two young dentists, one of whom graduated from high school with my grandson. There is nothing like a visit to the dentist to stir memories of earlier dental visits.
Dr. Farrah was my first dentist. He already seemed old at the time, but when you are seven, the entire world looks old. He lived across the field to the west of my grandparents. As most did at the time, he walked home each day for lunch.
In 1944, Stigler had concrete sidewalks. Concrete curbs defined our gravel streets. I would sit on the curb under the shade of a very large ash tree near the mound of sand my grandfather had dumped each summer on the last day of school. I would toss carefully selected pieces of gravel into the air and using an ash stick, would hit line drives towards the far curb. The curb was the outfield fence of my imaginary ball park, Sportsman’s Park, home of the Cardinals.
My heroes played. Stan the Man, Slats Marion, Pepper Martin with Harry the Cat on the mound.
Dr. Farrah, I recall him in a light-color suit, seersucker perhaps. He would pause on the south side of the street. I would explain the game and he would nod his understanding.
Then, there came a day that my mother explained the “tongue toy” I was playing with in my jaw was a cavity and I was going to the dentist.
I’m uncertain whether I knew my friend was a dentist. Then, I saw him in his professional attire. Looking back, I can only say that, to a 7-year-old boy, dentistry in 1944 rural Oklahoma seemed primitive. I remember low speed drills. I remember tiny paper cups of water, being told to rinse and spit out the bloody residue. I believe Dr. Farrah’s drill was powered by foot treadle. Anyway, I suspect I must have gazed into Dr. Farrah’s eyes with sheer terror.
I know that, come the appointment’s end, I wasn’t happy with my friend.
A few days later, Dr. Farrah strolled up my side of the street. He said something, I must have muttered something. He reached behind him and extended a peace offering. A wooden paint stirrer with one word on it: Bat. He was my friend again.
I believe I wore that bat out. And I learned a lesson.
Today I watch, I wonder how kids will learn to behave well with so many adults refusing to provide an example.
I tell the kids, somebody’s gotta win, somebody’s gotta lose. Just don’t fight about it. Just try to get better. – Yogi Berra
