The year was 1953 and I was seven years old. I was in a "transition" period in that I had lost most of my "baby" teeth but not all of them. The eight permanent teeth I did have that particular year were the ones directly in front, four up and four down. I'm sure there were others but these were the ones I remember. Very few kids wore braces in those days. There were lots of us that needed them but everyone couldn't afford them. I was lucky. My permanent teeth came in straight and neat, lined up in my mouth like soldiers at attention, all in a row. My mother used to brag on how nice they looked and how lucky I was to have such "pretty" teeth! That's why I remember them being in such good condition (Of course, in hindsight now, I realize she was "partial").
This particular June of 1954 was like most others, warm and muggy and a perfect day to spend a lazy afternoon at my favorite hangout...the City Pool. I spent pretty much every afternoon (and most evenings) there as did most of my boyhood friends. Guys with names like "Bucky" and "Simo" and "Joey" and "Toppy." I was seven years old but had enough experience at the pool that I could swim in the deep end with the older guys. This was before "buddy checks" and numbered tags. We were "foot loose and fancy free."
This particular day was a Sunday. "How in the world can you remember that detail after fifty-five years?," you ask. Well, here's how I know...in those days the old pool didn't have a filtering system and every other Saturday it was closed for cleaning and refilled overnight. The walls and floor were scrubbed by hand. When it re-opened for business on Sunday afternoon the water was crystal clear and as cold as could be. That was the condition of the water this particular Sunday in June of 1954.
A group of us were taking turns diving off of the high dive that afternoon. The pool had been open for about an hour so it was about 2:30 p.m. We were playing some kind of game to see who could run off the board and "hit the water" at the furtherest point from it's tip. The sides of the pool were marked about every ten feet beginning with nine feet at the deepest point, followed by eight feet, seven feet, six feet and five feet. It was four feet at the rope. You could not cross the rope into the "deep" water until you had "passed your test." This meant you had to be proficient enough at swimming to swim from the ladder by the lifeguard's stand (9') to the "rope," (4') and back to the ladder without stopping or touching the side wall. You were "flunked" if your little "pinky" finger even brushed the wall. Anyhow, I had passed my test about two or three weeks before this particular June day, earning the right to swim in the deep end and make use of both of the two diving boards (the "low" board and the "high" board).
I had climbed to the pinnacle of the high board and prepared to make my run. One of the other guys had succeeded in making it nearly to the 7' mark, a distance of about twenty-five feet. The thing I noticed my older (and as I soon found out - wiser) friends were doing was entering the water "feet first." I figured if I entered head first, I'd gain some extra footage and would still have time to start back up to the top without scraping my elbows along the concrete bottom. I was probably about 4' tall at this "gawky" age and was made up more of arms and legs than "torso." I leaned back on the rear support bar of the diving board, took in a deep breath and began my run. I didn't even slow down, much less take the time to stop and take a "spring" usually associated with diving. As I left the board I began to soar like an eagle (at least in my own seven-year old walnut-sized brain). I can still remember seeing the 7' marker on the side of the pool as I flew past it. I hit the water just short of the 6' mark. When I went under and raised my arms to begin to surface (still dreaming of a large crowd of spectators cheering when I came up), something went "amiss," and I quickly felt my elbows scraping the concrete, then my nose and finally I came to an abrupt "stop" hitting the concrete bottom with all the force my skinny 98 lb. body could amass.
When I came to the surface a crowd had gathered all right, not to cheer but to pity. I could tell by the look on their faces that I looked even worse than I felt and that was pretty bad. I managed to hobble to the rope (4' mark) and supported myself on it. That's when I saw the blood and that's when I first noticed the "gap" where my left middle front tooth had once been. I had had it for less than a year. Now it was gone. A couple of buddies helped me exit the pool and Mr. Gish administered first aid (which was a band-aid that wouldn't even stick) and he told me to go home and let my Mother see it. He said she'd know what to do. I lived just over the hill about two blocks from the pool so I headed for home. I had a towel pressed against my forehead and nose to catch the blood (which really wasn't that bad...it just looked bad to me). I kept sticking my tongue in the gap where the tooth used to be. There was still one sharp edge to it but 75% of it was gone. I wished I could have gone back and dived to the bottom and found it, as if it could be "re-planted" but I knew deep down that was impossible (both finding it and re-planting it).
I arrived home and Mom knew something was wrong because I never left the pool until it closed at 5 p.m. She saw the bloody towel and the scrapes on my forehead, nose and elbows but still hadn't seen the worst part. She got me inside and covered me with Methiolate (remember that stuff...it was bright orange and burned like hell).
She said that would kill any germs and stop any chance of infection. After she treated those wounds, I opened my mouth and showed her the missing tooth. She was beside herself. I thought she was going to cry. She asked me if it hurt and I can honestly say it didn't (at least not at that point). She did what most loving Moms do in situations like that, she made me an Ice Cream cone. I bit into it and thought the top of my head would explode as the cold ice cream hit the nerves of that tooth. Later that night, we took our weekly trip to Owensboro for some shopping and supper (dinner was still the noon time meal in those days), and I order fried shrimp. I bit into the hot, breaded little critter and again, I thought the top of my head was coming off. It was then I knew that a trip to the dentist was inevitable.
Our family dentist was Dr. Beverly Shaver (or "Bev" as my mom called him). His office was located on South First Street, sharing a building with Dr. Davis (also our family Doctor) and across the street from Sullivan's Barber Shop, which was behind Robinson's Drug Store. Dr. Shaver would best be described as a "Gentleman" of sorts and he was always a pleasant person to be around. He made me feel comfortable in his office and dental chair, even though I knew that making this totally "painless" was unavoidable. He was as gentle as he could be and even though his equipment was probably "state of the art" in 1954, it was a long way from the dental equipment we know of today. He gave me a shot with a needle that looked like one you would use on an elephant and it seemed to deaden my entire face. His drill sounded like it turned about 25 rpm and when he applied pressure with it, it slowed to nearly a stop. Still he "plugged" on, grinding away the roughness and making some kind of elliptical shape of the remainder of the tooth. He then went to the back room and came back with some white "goop" that looked like toothpaste and pressed it against the back of the damaged tooth and held it there for a couple of minutes. He removed it and went back to the back room again. When he returned he had a little fixture that was part gold and part ceramic. He placed it into my mouth, holding it against the back of my tooth and took his mirror and looked around until he seemed satisfied. He then removed it, placed a drop of what now looks like Elmer's glue on the back of the gold portion and literally glued it in place.
It took a few days of getting used to but it finally began to feel natural and at least I could resume eating cold and hot foods. From that point on, even to this day, I still have my signature gold tooth (although the white part has gotten more yellow through the years).
About five years later, I was in the Boy Scouts and we took a field trip to Mammoth Cave. We would arrive on a Friday night, tour the cave on Saturday, spend the night on Saturday night and return home after an worship service on Sunday. It was to be a weekend of non-stop fun. The Friday night was really enjoyable as we cooked hot dogs over a campfire and sing songs and told ghost stories before bedding down in our pup tents. My tent mate was Raleigh Thompson, a neighbor and swimming pool buddy from Park Street. We got up on Saturday morning, ate a gourmet breakfast of raw bacon and over-done eggs ate right out of the skillet. We were to have dinner (lunch wasn't invented yet) in the Snowball Room deep in Mammoth Cave. After we hiked about three miles in, we gathered around the tables in the underground restaurant and ate. Before we headed out for the second half of our tour, I decided a "Sugar Daddy" would be a nice treat. "Sugar Daddies" were hard caramel candy on a stick that you "sucked" on rather than chewed. They usually lasted for hours. There was a point, however, that you could bite through it and it would be soft enough to chew. This is usually how you "finished them off." A couple of hours later, just as we were descinding down the steps to view the Frozen Niagara, I felt it was time to "bite" into my Sugar Daddy and finish it off. I was a little premature, however, and soon realized as I bit harder and harder I just wasn't going to get through it, so I pulled back and tried to "unbite," if you know what I mean. I finally popped my teeth loose from the stubborn candy, except for one. Yep, there was my gold tooth stuck right in the middle of the Sugar Daddy. I removed my trusty Scout knife from it's sheath and carefully "dug" the tooth from it's snare and placed it in my pocket.
That night we once again gathered around the campfire and sang and told jokes, etc. and finally retreated to our tents and "dirt" floors. The next morning, when I awakened and got out of the tent, I placed my hand in my pocket and noticed the tooth was missing. I climbed into the tent, searched my sleeping bag to no avail and finally found it stuck in the dirt floor. I removed it and again placed it in my pocket.
When we got home, I forgot to tell Mom about it before she washed my scout pants (which were pretty dirty). When I told her, she dug them out of the washer (an old "wringer" type washer) and searched the pockets...again to no avail. Carefully she emptied the machine with a drinking glass, carefully inspecting each glassful for the tooth. Finally when she had exposed the bottom of the washing maching, she spotted it on the bottom of the tub. She wrapped it in a Kleenex and the next morning we set off for Dr. Shaver's office. Dr. Shaver put me in his chair and dipped the tooth in alcohol or something and once again re-applied the glue. Carefully he positioned it back in my mouth where it stayed for another forty plus years. I can vividly remember him "humming" some generic song as he worked (he always did this).
A few years ago, my current dentist, Dr. Tim Underwood was working on my teeth and for some reason, he removed the gold tooth and cleaned it (along with the portion of it that was still natural) and he glued it back. I asked him if he could remove it and replace it with a new modern white tooth that looked natural. He said he sure could but he wouldn't. He said it was a part of my character and he wouldn't be a part of removing that. I took it as a compliment.
Over the years, I've had several teeth pulled. In fact, I wear two partial plates, one on the top and one on the bottom. I suppose when I go to my grave, if I only have one remaining tooth, it will be the infamous gold tooth. Should I die in a fire where I'm burned beyond recognition they'll have no trouble in identifying me by my dental records...in fact they probably won't even need them. Just find one of my buddies and he'll recognize me by it.
Thanks Dr. Shaver for making this old tooth such an indelible part of me. It's much more personal than a "Tattoo!"
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