Dentistry in the Dark Ages

What’s on my mind? Dentists. 

Perhaps you remember the horrors of the dentist’s chair in the early 1950s - the excruciating delivery of anesthetic with a blunt-tipped knitting needle plunged into a nerve; the grinding, burrowing drill with the RRRRR-WHA-WHA-RRRRR-WHA-WHA-RRRRR-WHA-WHA! vibration of a slow-w-w jackhammer.  

My mother took me and my younger sister by bus to visit “Dr. Allison.” Dr. Allison looked like late-1950s/early 1960s TV talk-show host Jack Paar - but with dandruff. I knew Dr. Allison had dandruff because he used to lean over my open mouth as the flakes floated down. 

Dr. Allison smoked. The tips of his fingers stank and were stained deep yellow. Dr. Allison was always considerate enough to hold his lit cigaret away from my mouth as he examined my teeth with his free hand. My sister and I never said a word of this to our mother, who sat in the waiting room, puffing on her own cigaret.

I remember Dr. Allison’s assistant, Betty, for the wall of bangs curled over her forehead like a hairy kielbasa. In her day, circa-1940s, Betty probably danced a mean jitterbug. I knew little else about her, except that when Dr. Allison needed both hands to check my teeth, Betty would extract the cigaret from his yellow fingers to lay it on top of the steam cabinet where she sterilized his instruments. 

I used to wonder how long Dr. Allison’s cigarette ash would grow until it finally fell to the floor. I never actually knew, because my eyes were usually screwed shut in terror shortly after Dr. Allison began attacking my teeth. 

Betty had a speech impediment. While she was with Dr. Allison in the torture chamber of his dental office, she often called: “Doctaw Wallison! Doctaw Wallison!” She usually said it twice. I don’t think the cigaret and Betty’s dual utterances signaled any hanky-panky (Betty may have been a jitterbugger, but that was probably as far as her wild streak went). 

Betty probably just wanted to lay Doctaw Wallison’s cigarette on the steam cabinet where its ash would triple in size. 

Thanks to a steady diet of jawbreakers, my teeth were riddled with cavities. This left Doctaw Wallison no choice but to drill (RRRRR-WHA-WHA-RRRRR-WHA-WHA-RRRRR-WHA-WHA!), fill, and bill. 

The drill’s vibrations always triggered a fresh cascade of dandruff. When the torture finally ended (this is the part you won’t believe, but it honestly happened), Doctaw Wallison always said he had a “little surprise” for me. After the fifth or sixth time he did this, I stopped being surprised. 

The surprise was that Doctaw Wallison would reach into a cupboard to pull out a box of chocolates. Lifting the lid with a flourish, he asked: “And which chocolate would yo-o-u-u-u like?” 

Naturally, I liked them all, but politely picked just one, which I popped into my mouth. This - momentarily - was the best and only thing I liked about visiting Doctaw Wallison.

The first CHOMP! told me I’d been fooled. The second told me I was a moron. The “chocolate” was rubber.

“Haw, haw, haw!” Doctaw Wallison laughed.

“Ble-e-a-ah!” I said, spitting the phony chocolate into my hand. 

I remember - who could forget? - how the then-jovial Doctaw Wallison wiped the wet candy on his dental smock and replaced it in the box. Even at five years old, I wondered how many kids had chewed that same piece of rubber. 

Doctaw Wallison succeeded with that stunt as often as he did because I always believed one of those “chocolates” had to be real. It never was.

Years later, quite by chance, I came across Doctaw Wallison’s obituary. Judging by the photo that accompanied it, he still looked like Jack Paar.

© Nicole Parton

Perhaps a Nooner?

What’s on my mind? If you liked Naughty Li’l Hagar (posted Feb. 23), you’ll probably enjoy this silly little story that made me laugh as I wrote it. I’ve deliberately over-written and over-dramatized this.  

(As you may guess, I’m trying to avoid the more difficult work of tinkering with a recent book before sending it to an agent. Should it be accepted, you betcha I’ll tell you more about it, then!) So here’s a bit of fun to kick off this Winter Tuesday:

It had been months ... Too long, she thought. She wanted to - no! She couldn’t allow herself to think that way! Others took pleasure in “the act”; she did not. 

She felt ashamed - ashamed of her secret desire to stare, sneer, and walk away! Ashamed that she yearned to fulfil her desires without participating!  

How long since she’d had a shag? So long ago, she couldn’t remember. 

Her mind and body considered the options. As much as she wanted a long, slow session, she wasn’t sure she had the stamina - or the interest. Would it ultimately satisfy her? She wasn’t sure. 

Perhaps a nooner? Quick and easy. She’d promise to return soon, even though she knew she’d delay it as long as possible. 

She cared once, but she’d strayed. Life had changed. Her interests had changed. The words “down and dirty” no longer excited her. 

She had an obligation. A duty. He’d been doing it alone far too long. It was time. She sighed, knowing she couldn’t avoid it any longer. 

“Darling …” she said, “you’re a good man, but it’s my turn to vacuum.”

© Nicole Parton, 2019 

Fed Up!

What’s on my mind? If you’ve ever wanted a job as a restaurant host or server, here’s what you need to know:

• Hosts: When leading diners to their table, it is mandatory to turn your head ever so slightly to ask: “How’s your day been, so far?” This will make the restaurant’s patrons feel like you really care (which, of course, you don’t). 10 points.

• Servers: As you approach the table to take your diners’ orders, it is mandatory that you interrupt their prattle without apologizing. This will put you “in command,” ultimately turning the table over faster and allowing the restaurant to squeeze in an extra seating. 5 points per diner. 

• Should you slip into the Standard Server’s Script of 20 years ago and say: “My name is Brittany and I’ll be your server tonight,” deduct 5 points per diner. Instead, it is the Host’s job to say: “Brittany will be your server, today. She’ll be right with you.” Which, of course, you won’t be. Take your time so your new table of diners can work up a thirst. 15 points for each diner who orders an alcoholic drink.

As the diners make their selections, it is mandatory to say of each: “Excellent choice!” or “Purr-fect!” Knowing they’ve chosen menu items that meet with your approval will boost their self-esteem. 10 points per diner. 

• If someone asks: “What would you recommend?” stifle the urge to tell her Escoffier is dead. Just name the second-most expensive thing on the menu, even if you’ve never actually tried it. 50 bonus points if she orders it.

Midway through the meal, it is mandatory to stop by the diners’ table to ask: “How’s everything tasting, so far?” Rehearse those exact words. Deviations from the Standard Server’s Script will result in demerit points. Once again, the diners in your charge will be impressed by your interest and attention, as if you really cared. 15 points per diner.

• Should a diner make a little moué that suggests a concern about - for example - the steak (i.e., the usual bitches about doneness, tenderness, seasoning, sauce, or temperature ... What do these people expect for 25 bucks?), it is mandatory that you display a moment’s hesitation to allow fleeting bewilderment and pain to flicker over your face. Smile wanly. Say: “If you wa-a-ant, I can take it ba-a-ack …” Zero points if the complainant agrees; 15 points if s/he shrugs and says: “It’s okay!”

• And now, the equivalent of what photographers term “the money shot.” This is the moment when the final coffees have been poured and you present the bill and pretend you are your diners’ BFF - that magic, mellow moment when someone at the table volunteers to pick up the tab. Who will it be? Not that idiot in the worn-out sneakers, you hope. He looks like he doesn’t have a pot to … Aha! It’s the woman wearing the bling! You pegged her as a serious tipper the minute she sat down, so (after your empty but mandatory gesture to the other diners of “Who’ll do the honors?”) you showed her the wine label and offered her the first sip. Besides, she wants (needs!) to feel the admiration (jealousy!) of her friends when you later glance at her tip and smile: “Thank yo-o-ou!” 

The standard technique in achieving a sizeable tip is to feign disinterest as the moron’s pen hovers over the tally. If the wait feels too long, engage her dining companions (and yes, this is mandatory) with the scripted line: “What are your plans for the rest of the day?” This will give the other diners a warm, fuzzy feeling of “bonding” with you as they mumble their answers - thus erasing any memory of the coffees you “forgot” to refill when the stupid cows took too long to eat their lunch. 

If the billpayer’s pen continues to hover, unstop her catatonia through distraction: “Ooooooh, nice wallet! Where did you get it?” Three little neurons will then fire in her head - snap, crackle, pop. She will consider you her buddy, calculate the tip, sign the tab, and confide that she bought the wallet in Las Vegas/New York/Montreal or some other place you’ve never been and about which you don’t give a flying fig. 

The important thing is, you’ve got your tip: 50 bonus points for 15%, 75 bonus points for 20%, 100 bonus points for 25% and above. If she pays cash and leaves too much on the table, it is unfortunately mandatory to ask: “Would you like some change?” But use your “church” voice and hope she doesn’t hear. Swoop down on the dough quickly, so she can’t change her mind in front of her friends.

Then add a breezy: “No rush! Stay as long as you like!” They won’t, of course, because from this moment, no beverages will be refilled and their table will become invisible. Your body language will make it plain that you want them to get outta Dodge.

No sooner has a server-in-training cleared the table than you see another herd of diners trotting after the host, who - without breaking stride - briefly turns to ask: “How’s your day been so far?” 

© Nicole Parton, 2019

Petits Fours with the Queen

What’s on my mind? The day Queen Elizabeth and I had a cocktail and a tête-a-tête.

 was one of the most memorable of my life. Don’t get me wrong. The Queen didn’t ring me up to say: “Nicole? Liz. Wanna schmooze?” It didn’t happen like that. It happened because the Queen was giving a reception on the October, 1987 Thanksgiving weekend and my friend Moira couldn’t go. 

The Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh were arriving in Vancouver, Canada, to meet the Commonwealth heads of government. With another commitment on her calendar, Moira asked if I’d mind stepping in to take her place.

Mind??? Would I mind??? I’d juggle naked (don’t ask with what) to meet the Queen, let alone have a cocktail and a chat with her.

Moira Farrow, London-born reporter extraordinaire, was on the guest list. But Moira had met the Queen several times, and had other plans for the weekend. 

Which was why I, Nicole Parton, a simple-minded columnist with a turkey in my future, told my spouse to stuff it before I ran off to meet royalty, close-up and poi-son-nal.

When the phone rang Sunday morning, a male voice asked: “Mrs. Parsons? I’m hmmmfff-hmmmfff (no recollection, but definitely not the Queen) of the Royal Tour office. Would you care to attend a reception with Her Majesty tomorrow?” 

Rather than splutter something stupid and jump up and down because my name is and was not Mrs. Parsons, I reminded myself this kind of telephone call does not come everyday.

It took all of 30 seconds for panic to set in. A hat! I don’t have a hat! The  Queen won’t notice, said my spouse. Gloves! I can’t eat sandwiches wearing gloves! Take them off, he said. 

Clothes! I’d worn my only decent jacket a hundred times before. The Queen has never seen it, he said.

Monday, on the morning of the reception, I collected my invitation: I still have it. With its gold-embossed royal insignia, it’s the size of a cedar shake and almost as heavy.

The events calendar in the lobby of the hotel recorded a fictitious meeting in the room intended for the royal reception. 

The day I met the Queen, Lady-in-Waiting Susan Hussey taught me how to curtsy - something I immediately forgot to do as I staggered, probably drooling, toward Her Majesty. Not that I really noticed, but the Queen wore a large uncut sapphire encircled by diamonds and tipped with an inch-long tear-shaped pearl. And clothes. I have no idea what, but she definitely did wear clothes.

Protocol allows me to report that the Queen sipped red Dubonnet with a slice of lemon; that her diamond-dotted pearl earrings were the size of marbles; that her then-brown hair (mostly hidden under a hat with an upturned brim) was graying at the temples; that her eyes were deep azure and truly lovely; that her teeth were perfectly white and even; that her skin was creamy and devoid of any makeup save a touch of rouge and powder; and that I saw her eat nothing - not even the mocha petits fours to which I formed a strong attachment.

Protocol does not allow me to repeat our two-minute conversation. Pity. Those behind me in the queue were already rehearsing their curtsies; it was time I shuffled off.

Meeting the Queen was like encountering Santa, the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy all at once - magical.

And Philip? He was okay, I guess. 

© Nicole Parton, 2019

Future, Tense

What’s on my mind? Progress.

“And then I go ’n’ spoil it all by sayin’ somethin’ stupid like I love you …” Catchy song! Frank Sinatra. Release date, 1967. Fifty-two years ago. 

Somethin’ Stupid has been re-recorded many times, by many artists. As far as I know, the original Sinatra version is the only one the radio station in our village plays.

I’m stretching the truth. Our “village” designated itself a town 41 years after its village incorporation. Even some town councillors still call it a “village.” One of the highway signposts to this place says the same thing. It’s been estimated that 50 years from now, our population could hit 12,000. Now that’s progress! 

Yesterday is tucked away in our museum. So will today be, tomorrow.

Despite the new townhouses and the large new retirement home under construction, I’ll always consider this place a village. The streets have no parking meters. There’s just one traffic light uptown. There’s another, I think, three blocks away, at the far end of town. I’ve never seen a reason for that second light. Maybe it was installed to assuage the fears of jittery tourists unaccustomed to quiet streets.

I don’t like that big machines with big teeth have started chewing up the forest and displacing the wildlife that makes this place special, but I don’t like many “progressive” things - something that qualifies me as a full-fledged fuddy-duddy. The very use of the word cements the label. Guilty as charged.

Progress! Where does anyone start? Hooped skirts? Home computers? Microwave ovens in home kitchens? Or, depending on your age, GMO foods? AI? AGW? 

At what point did “progress” become a dirty word? Combine harvesting? Robotic assembly lines? Self-serve checkouts? Why are “progressive” Democrats demonized? Isn’t the thrust and parry of different views what democracy’s all about? Isn’t polite but otherwise unfettered discussion a healthy thing?

Progress is generally good - but here’s the point. It’s my impression that societies have become less “civil” over time. In fact, they’re deeply fractured. The equality of “creeds” now includes spreading openly dangerous beliefs by mass emails, texts, bots, trolls, tweets, fake news, social media, and “dog whistles” that say one thing and mean another.

I love our little village. Almost everyone is friendly. Almost everyone looks out for everyone else. The town is shuttered by 8 o’clock, when the very old and the very young snuggle into their beds. 

Is the future always better than the past? I don’t think so. It’s not a good thing when a troubled present considers the past disposable. 

When that happens, Holocaust deniers proliferate; kids die and anti-vaxxers prevail; civil societies stand on the brink of civil war; the intensity of dog whistles increases; and unstable Presidents swagger onto the world stage. Dangerous times. 

© Nicole Parton, 2019

The Big O

What’s on my mind? The word “Original,” cap O. Sometimes, the entire word is capitalized, as though it were doubly true. Listen up! The statement is often false. 

I’m talking prepackaged foods, where this bit of “puffery” seems to be common and accepted. A lie is a lie is a lie. Frequent repetition doesn’t make a lie true.

Like Kraft Dinner, which really should be called “Crafty Dinner.” It takes a lot of chutzpah to label this stuff  “Original.” The package design isn’t original. And nor is the taste.  

There were no microwave ovens when Kraft Dinner really was “original.” Using smaller macaroni than Kraft did years ago means quicker cooking, blah-blah-blah. I don’t care how fast it cooks. It shouldn’t be called “original” unless it really is. Nor are the trendy (but wise) directions to add non-hydrogenated margarine and skim milk “original.”

It’s the flavor that bothers me most. Trust me, I remember how the “original” of 40 years ago tasted, and this ain’t it. There may well have been an earlier “original” of this “original.” If so, I wasn’t around in those horse-and-buggy days.

While I’m shadow-boxing with Kraft (today, called Kraft-Heinz, with sales of something like $26 billion) allow me to touch on the company’s individually wrapped cheese slices. It wasn’t too long ago that consumers who bought this product had a choice of thick or thin slices. 

I must admit, the thicker slices tasted like cardboard. They also didn’t melt well in a grilled cheese sandwich, or on a barbecued burger - which may be why Kraft later produced one thickness, somewhere in the middle between thick and thin. 

If my recollection is correct, Kraft soon made those slices thinner, and over time, thinner still. Himself recently made me a grilled cheese sandwich; he had to use three slices. If things keep going this way, consumers may end up with an  empty package of plastic permeated with the “original” scent of cheese.

And Wagon Wheels! Having read the description on the box that these were “original,” fond memories kicked in. You remember Wagon Wheels - surely you do! Everyone does. Foolishly succumbing to the promise that these were “original,” I bought a package. 

The box also read: “Made Better.” Better than what? The Wagon Wheels I bought 30 years ago were sensational! I don’t mean to whine about the “good old days” - that’s tedious and boring. But trust me, if you’re younger than 40, you don’t know what you’re missing. What you’re consuming today is dreck.

What a disappointment ... The “Made Better”reference must have been to the box - certainly not to its contents - because these Wagon Wheels weren’t even close to the “original.” The  taste has changed for the worse. Half the size of the “original” Wagon Wheels, there isn’t even the familiar blob of red jelly at the centre. Cost-cutting, I suppose.

The marshmallow filling used to be delicious. No longer. The  decadent chocolate coating has been replaced by a “chocolatey coating.” Want to know what’s in today’s Wagon Wheels? Let’s start with that “chocolatey coating”:

Sugar, hydrogenated modified palm kernel oil; oil, cocoa, salt, sorbitan tristearate, soya lecithin, artificial flavor. And the rest of it? Wheat flour, glucose-fructose, sugar, modified palm oil, canola oil, whey powder, corn starch, fancy molasses, salt, gelatine, glycerine, baking soda, natural and artificial flavour, ammonium bicarbonate, potassium sorbate, soya lecithin, mono-calcium phosphate.

As everyone knows, food additives serve a useful purpose,  extending a product’s life, preventing spoilage, and maintaining a food’s texture and color. All of that reduces the manufacturer’s costs and (in theory) saves consumers money.  

The best-before date on the Wagon Wheels I bought extended more than six months into the future. The trade-off? A longer shelf life = more additives = inferior taste. As in over-sweetened “chocolatey” (not chocolate, but “chocolatey”) hockey pucks. 

The Big O is the Big Lie among food manufacturers. The term “original” is now so widespread that I suspect its use produces a known uptick in sales.

While many prepackaged foods are convenient, tasty, and nutritious, I’m sad to say many others are over-priced crappola. Manufacturers boldly dodge truth-in-advertising and get away with it. Perhaps the rationale is that each of us is also an “original” - even though we look nothing like we did when we were five years old. 

© Nicole Parton, 2019

Naughty Li’l Hagar

What’s on my mind? Stories. Silly, made-up stories scribbled down for fun as I wrestle with the difficult and necessary job of penning the synopsis for a book completed two months ago. 

A synopsis summarizes the what, when, where, who, and how that make a book better - or worse. A synopsis forces a writer to add, chuck, or change words previously added, chucked, or changed in edit #143.

As much as I dislike writing synopses, they’re a valuable tool, showing where a writer’s gone wrong with the ordering or size of chapters; showing where a book drags, showing where the timing of events might be illogical, and showing where characters’ voices don’t ring true. Better for a writer to find those mistakes than for a literary agent to find them! But enough of that.

I’ve been playing in the sandbox, avoiding that long synopsis by noodling away, having fun. Bad Nicole! Bad, bad, bad! 

Can you envision an ending for this silly little piece? I can’t, but it’s still been fun to write: 

“There was a lotta ’citement roun’ here las’ month. When me ’n’ the guys rode the bus ta work t’other night, we saw ol’ Hagar inside the town limits, chewin’ on a steak. I toll’ ya ’bout Hagar before … The grizzly what lives near th’ A55 loggin’ road 10 minnits outsida town? Ya prolly remember the time he chewed off haffa Bill Dunderhofer’s scalp.

“Sally-Mae usta sneak Hagar the bacon fat left on Bill’s breakfast plate … She shoud-da known gooder. Bein’ the thrifty type, Bill usta rub a little bacon fat what was left in th’ skillet on ’is hair. Gave it kinda nice sheen, ya know? Hagar musta got confused because one mornin’ he came af-ta Bill like a house-a fire. Thet’s what the cor’ner said, anyways.

“Sally-Mae was real sorry, but th’ damage was dun ’n’ there wasn’ nuthin’ goan bring Bill back. ’s a good thin’ she took up with thet Charlie fella down-aways by th’ junction, ’cause nobuddy else would talk t’er, after she done gone fed Hagar like ’e was-er pet.

“Ever-buddy says we gots keep Hagar down by th’ A55, but grizzlies don’ read no signs or nuthin’ so there’s prolly no keepin’ ’im there.

“When me ’n’ the guys was on thet bus, we wonnered what the heck Hagar was doin’ in town this time, ’n’ where in blazes ’e wudda gots a steak? It was purdy dark, so we din’ notice ri-da-way thet the steak was wearin’ a blue plaid sleeve. Dave Morris din’t come ta work, thet night, or any night since. Ya know how he usta wear thet ol’ blue plaid shirt? Say no more, say no more …

“I jes’ hafta wonner what thet li’l rascal Hagar will do nexx, specially now thet Sally-Mae ain’ feedin’ ’im no more …” 

© Nicole Parton, 2019

That Day We Rode the Bus

What’s on my mind? 

I knew something was wrong with Mutti, my Austrian grandmother, when my mother took six-year-old me on the bus to Mutti’s apartment. My mother did that so she could evaluate how Mutti was doing, all things considered. Mutti had always been there when we came to visit, but not that day, which felt strange.

Nor was Papa there, but I already knew I would never see him again. I was too young to understand the depths of grief, and how swiftly grief can turn to anger and self-destruction.

Before that day we rode the bus, I remember how my mother answered the phone, listening for a few seconds before falling to her knees screaming “No-o-o-o-o-o-o!” 

This I observed almost clinically, having never seen such a thing before. 

My mother later told me my grandfather was dead. His heart, she said. To me, he’d simply vanished - Papa, who each time I saw him wore a pale silk tie with a pearl stick pin. Papa, who each time also wore a finely tailored suit the milky color of moths. Papa, who played the violin with such exquisite, sweet sadness that Massenet’s Meditation would forever be stamped on my soul. Papa, in the lakes of whose eyes memories swam and overflowed. 

I will never forget Papa, or how, that day we rode the bus, my mother raged as she tore through Mutti’s kitchen of rusted spice tins and moldy bread. 

Mutti moved - more precisely, was moved - to a small apartment near the ocean, where she could walk in the sun and calm herself. My uncles hired a woman named Mrs. Balzar to live with her. How long this arrangement lasted, I’m not sure, but Mrs. Balzar departed in a storm of shouting after Mutti’s mood did not lift, to put it mildly. 

From there, Mutti took her place in a retirement home, the days of sequinned dresses long forgotten.

  

That day we rode the bus, the day six-year-old me visited Mutti’s apartment when Mutti wasn’t there, I remember opening forbidden closets as my mother’s fury grew in the kitchen. It must have been hard for her - remembering what was then, seeing what was now.

Mutti had been an opera singer in Vienna; Papa was a classical violinist. But Papa had also built a thriving import business in Eastern Europe, under his surname. The family moved from Vienna to Budapest to Prague. I knew only that; nothing more. 

After the family escaped Hitler’s Europe, Papa built another successful import business, but under an anglicized version of his name. I didn’t know anything about the War in those days; no one in my family ever mentioned it.

Mutti and Papa’s apartment was a place of wonderment. Mutti’s closet was the perfumed repository of many fine furs and many fine clothes I had never seen before. A blue-sequinned evening dress hung in that closet - perhaps a reminder of her former life in Europe. The blue-sequinned dress winked at me. I winked back.

I wanted that dress for my very own - at least, a piece of it. From Mutti’s sewing basket, I took the large, sharp shears with which she cut fabric pinned to paper patterns. I sliced a wide swath of fabric from the bottom of that dress.  

I remember my moment of terror as rows of electric blue sequins spilled from the dress like rivers of tears. And then I quietly closed the closet door and returned the shears to the basket. Understanding plausible deniability from an early age, I planned to blame my mother for cutting the dress, if anyone asked.  

I’ve never forgotten the over-brimming lakes of Papa’s watery eyes, or the day my mother fell to her knees, or that day we rode the bus to Mutti’s apartment, or the rusted tins of spices, or the trickle of sequins to the floor.

Some 20 years ago, I was deeply moved to visit the former Nazi concentration camp of Dachau, which is now a museum. In recent years, I’ve visited Prague, where I was somehow compelled to find the old Jewish cemetery. As I read the long list of Prague citizens who died in the Holocaust, I came across Papa’s surname - a name not uncommon, but also not widely known. 

Working backward to that time, I realized with sudden shock the man with Papa’s name may well have been a nephew or another close family member. I remember crying and crying for a man I didn’t know and had never heard of. 

And that is why, whenever I hear Meditation, my tears trickle down like the sequins of an evening dress, that day we rode the bus.

© Nicole Parton 2019