My mother, however, had worn full dentures for nine years when she died at the age of fifty-five.

~ ~ ~

“We’re going to visit the dentist, today, Dennis,” Mom told me one July morning when I was six years old, “Doc Goodsheller is a nice man.”

We got into our pale green 1949 Pontiac coupe. We drove from our farmstead to an unpaved country road for the ten-mile drive into Marion, Kansas. Twenty minutes later, Mom angled the car into a parking space in front of a limestone building on Main Street.

A grocery store occupied the left side of the first floor, a clothing store the right. Large doors stood between the stores’ plate glass windows.

Mom took my hand. She pulled the handle of the right-hand door; we stepped inside. A single, long flight of dark wooden stairs climbed to the level above the high ceilings of the stores. I began to cry on the sixth step.

No cavities. As we returned to the street, Mom commented, “Doc Goodsheller has a new electric drill. I hear they’re better than the old foot-powered drills.”

I experienced Doc Goodsheller’s new drill in subsequent visits.

As I reached adulthood, I carried a dozen fillings. My bride-to-be underwent a root canal two days before our wedding. We moved to Boston so I could study theology.

Once I earned the degree, we qualified for a pioneering health maintenance organization because our income was very low. The plan included dental services. Plan members could select their dentists.

“Hmmm ... this is interesting ... here’s a dentist who also has a PhD,” said my wife.

I selected the dentist and scheduled an appointment.

“What’s your degree in?” I asked as we got acquainted.

“Philosophy.”

The philosopher-dentist was intrigued to learn that I had studied theology. We began a spirited dialogue, but Socratic discussion ended as I held my mouth open.

“Your lower right first molar is in bad shape,” he announced during the third year of our one-sided discussions, “You need a root canal.”

He referred me to an endodontist, who worked for three hours before pronouncing the tooth unsalvageable and sending me back to the philosopher.

“We’ll extract the tooth and install a bridge.”

The rotted tooth came out easily.

The process of turning the teeth on both sides of the gap into supports and building the bridge occupied four weeks.

My dentist dedicated the structure with a ribbon of unwaxed dental floss. “You must floss under the new bridge every day,” he said solemnly, “Here’s a threader.” He held up a thin blue plastic wire two inches long. A large loop appeared at one end of the object. He drew sixteen inches of floss, cut it, then inserted one end into the eye of the threader. He pushed the threader under the bridge and drew the floss through, then demonstrated how to clean every surface.

I expanded my daily routine to floss under the bridge.

~ ~ ~

Three years passed. We moved from Boston to central New Jersey. I said goodbye to the philosopher-dentist. As he had advised, I flossed and brushed my teeth regularly. And I delayed finding a new dentist.

The toothache began on a Friday afternoon. In the morning, I searched the telephone listings for a dentist who could work me in on a Saturday.

Z. Davidowsky, DMD greeted me at 11:45.

“My Lord, you have six major cavities!”

Doctor Davidowsky, a substantial young woman with long black hair, worked on my teeth for three hours. As she labored on a left molar, she steadied my head against her bosom. I closed my eyes.

Doc Z administered more novocaine after ninety minutes.

“We saved them all!” Z. Davidovsky announced at 2:45.

“Are you taking new patients?” I asked.

“Sorry, I just work Saturdays. You’ll have to find another dentist.”

~ ~ ~

I searched the Yellow Pages for a dentist with a PhD in philosophy. A friend recommended a dentist belonging to a group practice.

“Nice bridge. How long have you had it?”

“Six years. How long should it last?”

“Maybe ten years ... we’ll watch it closely. Be sure to schedule an appointment with the hygienist before you leave.”

I scheduled the appointment.

“Do you floss, Mr. Hett?”

“Every day, especially the bridge.”

“Flossing is very important ... I take care of it while I drive to work every morning. I steer the car with my knees while I floss.”

In Central New Jersey? Had any accidents lately? “Thanks for the advice.” I’ll floss at home, thank you.

Ten years, six fillings, two jobs and two porcelain crowns later, I secured a job in New Hampshire. I found a new dentist.

“Nice bridge ... how long have you had it?”

“Nineteen years. How’s it doing?”

“It’s worn in places, but it’s still anchored firmly. Do you floss under it?”

“Every day.”

A lower bicuspid failed within three years. The dentist installed a gold crown. “They’re cheaper and more durable than porcelain.”

The year following, the dentist announced that my gums needed a deep cleaning.

“Rinse with Listerine mouthwash every day to keep them healthy,” he advised as he finished the ninety-minute procedure.

I expanded my daily routine to include a thirty-second mouthwash rinse.

~ ~ ~

I have now lived beyond my mother’s span of years.

But for a missing molar and my wisdom teeth, I have a full complement of teeth. (My wisdom teeth grew at crazy angles – an oral surgeon removed them while I slept under a general anesthetic. I awoke so befuddled that I asked my anxious wife to identify herself.)

The bridge still holds after twenty-six years.