I’m not very good keeping up with the times. My list of likes (horribly old-fashioned) and dislikes (pet peeves) are long. I’m somewhat distrustful, don’t use debit cards, won’t utilize online banking, (yes I’m the freak in line still writing an actual check for my groceries at Meijer). I’ve gotten to the point with my cell phone I’ve blocked more telephone numbers than the total number of people I have known in my entire life.

Mom reading the Dubuque newspaper in New Vienna, Iowa, 1975…

I’m a novel reader. I have enough reality in my life so I’m not drawn to non-fiction. I prefer books for escapism. (Calgon, take me away). Exciting suspense, psychological thrillers, cops after serial killers, lawyers and courtroom genre. Get this, I still like holding an actual book while I read it. Quaint but Neanderthal right? There’s something so invitingly personal about having a real book nearby. I’m much more likely to flip my book open and read a few pages waiting for my clothes to dry for 10 minutes before hanging everything up than I am about opening one of my iBooks. Not gonna lug my iPad downstairs. Why is that? Same reading material. My iPad gets updates all the time. Am I so old school that I just refuse to ever update me? Afraid so on many fronts.

Summer in Davenport Iowa, 1985. I read outside, not weed…

I have some serious doubts about the longevity of newspapers. Pretty sure they will be obsolete in another decade-or less. Realistically I understand. All the news is at least hours, if not days old by the time the ink dries. Big stories, true or false are on the Internet instantly. Why would anyone still subscribe to a newspaper in this day and age? Me-me. Notice, I raised my hand. Yup, I still get one, though it’s changed so much during the last few years, I don’t even know why I bother. Biggest reason are the store ads. How can Meijer’s biggest and most ardent fan make one of my famous lists without pouring over their weekly bargains? Oh sure, Meijer offers the weekly ad right inside their door, but I need more time to peruse than that. These shopping trips cannot be rushed all helter-skelter.

Now our paper is about a third the size it was not many years ago. It’s unheard of to have any local feature writers. Used to look forward to a couple of writers on the west side of the Michigan. Tracy Lorenz is a sarcastic, genius humorist. And there was a gal about my age who wrote once a week about motherhood, marriage, being a grandma etc. Loved her column, but cannot for the life of me remember her name. She had 2 sons, one lived in Viet Nam, one in Maryland. Huh, that’s just frustrating as hell.

Guess I’m stuck on newspapers because Mom was an avid reader. (And like a book, I love the feel and rustling sound of a literal newspaper in my hands). For quite a few years, Mom got daily papers from The Des Moines Register, The Sioux City Journal, and The Sioux Falls Argus Leader. Plus weekly editions from The Doon Press (don’t ask) and of course our hometown paper, The Rock Valley Bee. Mom loved keeping up with the best sports writers and editorial pundits. Me, I’m in it for the comics and obituaries. No shame, no guilt.

Dad in the mid-60’s…

About 5 years ago, my then daily paper, The Muskegon Chronicle published a full page ad, listing all the reasons for the changes that were imminent. This next step in newspaper publishing actually included 7 large newspapers in Michigan. Regular subscribers would be offered some options. Receiving ‘real’ papers on T-Th-S, Th & S or just Sunday every week. The rest of the days the news would be available online, or you could buy hard copies on newsstands, grocery stores or big gas stations. Since newspaper popularity has dropped seriously and subscriptions were at an all time low, this was accepted by most everyone under 50. At the time I was Parish Visitor for our congregation whose average age topped well over 80. Gospel truth. Guess what? Many of them had no internet service or desire to read the newspaper on a phone as big as the palm of their hand. Most still used landline phones. (No, we stopped that madness 8 or 10years ago. See, I can be hip).

My idea of reading the business section is Dave Ramsey’s Sunday column which features practical answers to questions about managing money, budgets and becoming (and staying) debt free. Why a business article at least 8 or 10 years ago (and not Ramsey’s) has stuck with me since is still worthy of head scratching. The article was on how big box stores track customers and our buying habits. Well, I’m a shopper, maybe that’s why I started reading. The big box store example they targeted was Target.

A 16 year old girl, alone and scared out of her mind was shopping at a Minneapolis Target. She bought a couple items, zoomed through the checkout and left. A couple weeks later, her 40 something dad is going through the mail and noticed an envelope from Target. Opens it to find a letter and some coupons. The letter was upbeat and congratulatory. Something like, “at Target we know how excited you are about your upcoming bundle of joy! We want to help! Here’s some coupons for 20% off to start your layette. Congratulations from all of us at Target!” Awkward. Miss-16-year-old-daughter had not yet found the right words to tell her parents about her pregnancy.

I don’t know why I felt so bad for the girl and her dad. Bad timing. But it should not have been Target spilling the beans. I was surprised at my anger and disgust for all things Target after that. Oh, I know this happens at all the big box stores, but somehow this teen pregnancy, and the way her parents learned the news hit me hard. Wonder what happened to that pregnant teen? If she chose abortion, adoption or decided to keep the baby. But from that day forward I chose to no longer shop at Target. Petty I know. But petty I am.

And I’ve stuck to my guns all these years except twice. About 5 years ago, Shannon sent me a Christmas wish list for Peyton. (Landon was easy, expensive sports socks, no list needed). Peyton wanted this big Barbie head to do makeup and style Barbie’s hair. On sale that week, wait for it-at Target. Ugh. I breezed in, bought the Barbie head and checked out, leaving with my one item. Learned a couple months later, my credit card had been compromised. Where? Target. Oh, for the love of pete.

Another happy generation of readers. Jovi, 1…

Haven’t been back to Target until this week. For Christmas, one of our daycare moms gave each one of us a gift card, which was very thoughtful. The gift card was from Target. Hmmm. Now I could have given it to someone as a gift, but I didn’t. Decided recently since I was running errands, I’d stop in and find something to buy with that card. Walked aimlessly around until I found the book section. One of my favorite authors, John Sandford had a new Virgil Flowers novel out, finally in paperback. OK, there’s 9 bucks gone. I buy each baby at daycare a book for their first birthday. Usually a Dr. Seuss rhyme-sing-songy-thing that’s fun for their parents to read. Meijer sometimes have them on sale for about 5 bucks. Wouldn’t you freaking know. Target had a whole end-cap display, literally filled with thick-cardboard-coated-Dr.-Seuss-books. Priced $3.50 each. Really? You’re testing me here, right God? Needless to say, I bought my daycare birthday babies a year’s supply. No, wait it gets worse. I’ve been practicing with my 1 year old great granddaughter Jovi-where’s your nose? Where’s your ear? Bought her every appendage Dr. Seuss book they have. What can I say? Wretched Target store. Having an awesome sale. And one-weak-shopper-who-loves-books. In my defense, I spent cash so they can’t track me. And I was wearing my tinfoil cap…

Jovi’s own little library at our house. Thanks a lot Target…

Hard to believe I’ve been changing diapers for 2 years already. I mean besides my kids and grandkids. Changing diapers at work though make up such a small percentage of what I do, I’ve got to tell you, I was totally unprepared how I feel about this job. Not only the job I really enjoy, but more how I feel about the babies.

Can’t show any babies from work so here’s one of Shannon with my Dad in 1971..

Some of the first babies I took care of will be turning 3 soon. I had no idea the huge impact they would make on my life. Watching as they start holding up their heads during tummy time, cooing, smiling-drool included. Always. Rolling over, first baby foods, transferring toys from one hand to the other, sitting up, sippy cups, the list is endless. Then comes the scariest 2 months. Usually after they’ve mastered crawling. They start pulling themselves up on anything nearby, your moving leg, the gate to the kitchen, another-wobbly-almost-walker. Quickly changing from hanging on for dear life, to just letting go, whether it’s appropriate or not. Yikes. A few spills, bumps and bruises. This scary time is kind of hard to be around, but it’s a big part of their development, and we can’t impede it, but I sure set them down a lot. Only to have them get right back up. As it should be.

Joshua and Daddy in 1976…

I was surprised by the strong feelings these babies invoke in me. Part nurturer-protector-advocate. I’m all in where they’re concerned. Oh they can be frustrating at times, like any parent knows. Teething, runny nose, earache, maybe awake several times during the night so their day is prone to be more fussy-filled. We all have those days, but babies can only convey their displeasure, pain, frustration or lack of sleep one way. Crying. Loudly. To. Get. Your. Attention. Now.

The legs-the bottle-the rubber pants! Adam, 1980…

When I started in the infant room at the Daycare/Preschool/Montessori, we had 6 babies. It wouldn’t be long before we had our full quota of 12 babies (and a long waiting list. Yes, we’re that good) in the room most days. One of the first new babies after I started working was a little brown eyed boy I’ll just call ‘EM.’ I’m sorry I can’t show you how cute he is but you understand the importance of confidentiality. Trust me, he’s adorable. EM was in our room for about a year, so went through all the exciting, exhilarating, scary, cute “firsts” most babies experience.

EM was brought in everyday with an older sibling tagging along who would then jet down the hall to one of the preschool rooms. He was maybe 3-1/2 at the time. Our staff lunch room is right next to the double doors which lead outside to the playground. Each class is suppose to line up quietly by the door, waiting for a teacher or aid to open the floodgates, I mean door. One day I was on my break when EM’s brother was horsing around, eager to run off some pent up enegy. As he’s goofing off, his eye caught mine, sitting at the table. His eyes got big as saucers, a frown appeared and he said accusingly, “what are you doing here? Who’s taking care of my brother? You can’t be in this room. Go back to EM!” The protective older brother. I hastily explained EM was just fine, the other gals were taking good care of him.

The exquisite Ari, 1994…

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, as workers, we don’t have favorites. Some babies care not which one of us holds, feeds, diapers, cuddles, rocks, or plays with them. They soak up the attention from whomever is taking the time to fill their needs at the moment. But. There are other babies who gravitate more towards one worker. Don’t know why. Maybe we remind them of someone in their short lives already. All my co-workers have experienced this several times. EM was my first. He chose me. He liked everybody, but for some reason I was that special person to him.

The Handsome Hoopster, Landon and me in 2000…

The babies invented a quirky way to let you know “you’re IT,” for them. We have this plastic covered, foam turtle which is about 4 feet in diameter. One of the babies will seek help from a couple of their cohorts. All slyly get in the turtle whose side is about 6 inches high. One casually starts snapping their chubby fingers while they belt out that old Grease tune, “You’re the one that I want-woo-woo-woo, you’re the one that I want.” The babies have applied for patent rights, but the idea has been stolen and renamed flash mob. I’m here to tell you, it was our babies in the infant room where it all started. Truth.

My talented singer-dancer, Peyton 2004…

When I think of those extra special moments since I started working, one that stands out was with EM. He was 8 or 9 months old and I was giving him a bottle and rocking him to sleep. He was laying in my arms, drinking contentedly and getting very sleepy. I was quietly caterwauling one of my-off tune-songs when I felt EM’s little arm, which was behind him on my back-patting me. Pat-pat-pat went his little hand. Makes me cry to think about it. (Although reflecting back, EM very well might have been trying to cover my mouth, but it was out of his arm’s reach. Poor baby).

Darling towhead (like his daddy was) Graham in 2010…

And then there’s the head butts. EM was the first to give me one, but he hasn’t been the last. This is explained somewhat like butterflies who just know how to migrate 6,000 miles in the right direction. Weirdest thing. I’m always busy tending to the needs of another baby. EM would just crawl up to me while I’m in a rocker or standing and gently head butt my lower leg. I glance down, “I know you’re busy, but um, don’t forget about me,” he’d seem to say with a small smile. How is it that at least a half dozen babies since EM have done this to me daily after they’re about 9 months old? Some kind of kinky secret baby code?

But as time goes on, we notice the older babies are getting bored with our toys and room. They’re really ready to move on to the next room, The Wonderful Ones. Engaging toys, stairs to practice on, (yikes) tiny grocery carts to push around, more complicated gadgets for slimmed down fingers. We start slow, letting them go over for a couple hours at a time. We have an adjoining door with a small window, so we can see how they’re doing. We dare not go in because they usually start crying when they see one of us until they’ve been there a few weeks. Then suddenly it’s the other way around. They don’t want to be in our room anymore-boring. Circle of their young lives already.

Great granddaughter Jovi on her first birthday checkup…

I don’t venture out in the halls much. I’m in our room, when it’s time for my break, I walk to the employee lunchroom, heat up my food, eat, brush my teeth, use the restroom and it’s back to the baby room. Period. Once the babies have left our room, I don’t see them often. After they move, maybe a couple months later, I can walk into the One’s and nearly get knocked over by squealing toddlers, giving hugs. Which feels absolutely worth it’s weight in gold. This feeling lasts the entire day.

The Hubs, John in 1948…

EM has been gone from our room a year now. He recently turned 2 and graduated again to the Toddler room down the hall a bit further. I haven’t seen him in 3 or 4 months. I occasionally ask his teacher how he or one of the other toddlers who were my babies are doing? Last week I was heating up leftover spaghetti for my lunch. EM’s teacher walked in the kitchen to get something from the freezer. Glenda had 2 kids with her (not EM though), one who was in our room. He gives me a shy smile, nothing more. I offer to carry the snack back to her room while my food is still in the microwave. As we walk through the classroom door, she takes the food and I scan the room. There’s EM, valiantly trying to let someone squeeze into a 2 toddler seat when there’s 3 of them. He looks up and spots me. His face breaks into an ear to ear smile and he runs full force into my arms. Not a second of hesitation. (Oh, I know her, she loves me. And I still love her!) The best. Thee. Absolute. Best. After being gone from my care for over a year.

Mom, me 8 months, and Mona in 1951…

We got a new baby not long ago. A stunning baby girl. So tiny. Her mom comes to visit and was talking while she fed her baby. “What is that song you sing about Sixpence,” she asked? “I never heard of it before. I love the simple tune, it’s very comforting.” (She was very kind not to mention how horrible I sound since I can’t carry a tune, and I’m deaf). I explained about my antique toy, Sing a Song of Sixpence Pie and how the song was sung to me when I was little, then I sang it to my kids. Now I sing it to our babies. Mom then said, “Denise, I want you to know I hope you’ll sing these songs to my baby.” I assured her I will indeed sing all my songs. Another ‘aha’ moment. New mom will never realize the significance (to me) of her nonchalant request to sing to her precious baby. Doesn’t get any better than that (besides the back patting, head butting, or leaping into my arms-a year later)

My antique (1953) Sing a Song of Sixpence Pie…

The ‘crew’ in our room often talk about the importance of our job. Though the babies will not remember us after a while, we realize the impact they have on us while they’re in our care. I did not however, realize I might actually have a somewhat lasting impact on any of the babies. Over a year later. Adding another layer to the meaning of my life. Yes, that was huge. Thanks EM…

Mom was meticulous about most things. Everything from our spic & span house, her sharp matching outfits, her snow white work uniforms, which were always ironed with perfect creases, to the high polished sheen of our oak dining room floor. Washed the windows, inside and out-constantly. Dusted the floors on hands and knees daily after shaking out all the rugs.

Mom’s beautiful dining room. You could eat off her floor, it was that clean…

She kept an old ace bandage box, separated by tiny dividers with an envelope in every section. When she and Dad got paid and cashed their checks, much of the money went into one of the sections of that old-falling-apart-box. IPS, De Boer’s station for Mom’s gas, fuel oil, Ver Berg’s station for Dad’s car gas (don’t ask), tithing for First Reformed, grocery money, phone bill. She wrote some checks but the majority of their bills were paid in cash. And always early.

Mom and me in 1957…

Still, I was dumbfounded when I started cleaning out their house after she passed away in 2004. She was a bit of a hoarder, but obsessively neat. A terrific saver, stashing money in the strangest places. She once hid a couple hundred dollars in the clothes dryer, promptly forgetting about it. A few days later while doing laundry suddenly remembered the money. Raced to the dryer to find only damp clothes, then screamed at Dad to run outside. Sure enough, 20 dollar bills were flying all over our back yard. She often hid money in pockets of clothes, coats and in books, so we carefully screened everything before deciding what to do with something after we lost her. And yes, we found several hundred dollars.

A Christmas gift of my outlined hand, a potholder perhaps…

Mom was an avid reader, always eager to learn more and studied our set of World Book Encyclopedias religiously from cover to cover. Yes, every volume. Think: the first google, everything you needed to know-after your fingers did the walking. Soaking that knowledge up, when she usually had to force me to look something up for a school report.

Awww…

I did find many things that surprised me, but couldn’t find a couple things that surprised me even more. Mom loved to write. She wrote entire conversations she had with my kids when they were small. I can still picture some of them. When I’d go to Rock Valley to pick up whatever kid had been there for a couple days (she always wanted the grandkids to visit separately, so they could be the big cheese and have their grandparent’s undivided attention). She’d have a couple new hand written notebook sheets, (in her beautiful, cursive penmanship) titled, Conversations with Shannon (later Joshua or Adam).

Mother’s Day card made in school…

Starting when they were about 18 months and were rapidly expanding their vocabulary. My kids were very bright. Honest. I should have been doing the same, but never did. You know those hilarious things your little rugrats come up with. Then Hubs would come home from work, and I was busy making supper, doing dishes and laundry, packing lunches, baths, stories and bedtime. That once in a lifetime priceless conversation just disappears from your head. We should all be allowed a few do-overs for that kind of stuff.

Outside of the card…

I couldn’t find any of Mom’s and the kids conversations they had together. Still disappointed and wonder what happened to them, because SHE KEPT EVERYTHING. But I did find lots of things I shake my head about and wonder, why on earth would you save that all these years Mom?

The day my long hair became everlasting pigtails…

Let me give you a few examples. She kept an article from the Rock Valley Bee. There is no date but it has to be 1957 because I’m in first grade. She might have been tickled to see my name in the newspaper. Part of the charm of small town living I guess. As I grew up, she probably prayed every night that my name wouldn’t make the paper again.

Snippets of a young girl’s life in 1957…

Little hand written poems from elementary school which earned me a few ribbons. A sheet of black construction paper that I must have plopped a few drops of paint on helter-skelter, then folded in half and pressed together. Ta-da, a butterfly appeared which also got an award. Yeah, I worked hard for that design. Silly little art projects. Most of which she had Dad make frames and hung them all over the house.

Corny, but Char’s still very special…

Mother’s Day day cards with mimeographed poems for every kid in the class to take home. (I still draw my houses the exact same way). And often still spell my own name wrong. Dennse. Yes, many people think so. Ironic? Doubtful. Prophetic is more like it. A green piece of felt with the outline of a very small ‘Neese’ hand, trimmed with red ribbon for Christmas present to Mom.

There are no words, just check out my name…

Report cards and awards for perfect attendance seem like reasonable mementos to save from my youth. While Mom kept many souvenirs from vacations, the postcards from the Beumer’s vacation and my duplicate activity ticket seem rather odd. But there they were for me to find, which gave me pause several times during the couple weeks while going through every nook & cranny of their old house. Maybe that was her intention. She’s been gone almost 14 years and here I am. Writing about the odd items saved for decades after her innocent little girl had long since moved on.

The gang who lived across the street. The picture side is 2 poodles and it’s got a squeaker inside…

But I really appreciate her thoroughness in saving so many different things of mine (many are actually worthless, but conjure all kinds of emotions when I spot them sitting around my house now). I wish I could say the same thing about saving things for my kids when they were little. I had some good intentions.

A budding artist-not….

I had nice baby books for all three kids, and I wrote a goodly amount in each one. All the usual stuff, rolling over, scooting, cooing, first words, snippets of their first haircut, how incredibly bright and beautiful each one was. One year I bought 3 huge Tupperware containers. Started putting awards, little shoes, special outfits, sports memorabilia in the tub for each one of them.

See, I did love school…

Pales in comparison though to Mom’s willingness to-go-over-the-top. She had my hair cut pretty short before I started kindergarten. She saved both pigtails. Took one of my rather adorable baby pictures and plopped the pigtails inside the frame 60 years ago. Dad made the frame, which was falling apart, and Mom used rubber bands on the ends of each pigtail. Which literally disintegrated after half a century. So the klutzy one took it upon myself to ‘fix’ my pigtail picture. Got a new frame and decided ribbon tied into tiny bows would last longer. In the process, I lost about a third of my pigtail hair though. It seems after all these years and and stark realization of uselessness of most items, I too am hesitant to toss any of it. I will leave those decisions to my kids after I’m gone. I can picture them going through tubs in the basement, shaking their heads and wondering why on earth would mom ever keep this stuff all these years…

Mom’s idea, but I now think it’s pretty neat…

This story began in 1962 when I was 11. I woke up one morning with a fat lip and aching face. Since I wasn’t really ‘sick’ (fever/vomiting/sore throat) Mom made me comfortable for the day with instructions to walk to Doc Hegg’s office at 9 to find out what was going on. Then she headed for work.

Soon I would have my first false tooth…

Doc Hegg’s office was just a couple blocks away, but the walk seemed longer than when I turned left at Main Street to buy some candy or a Bismarck at the Bakery. Doc’s office was north on Main, close to churches and residential neighborhoods, almost out of the business district. I opened his office door to the 3 sided/u-shaped booth seating waiting room and found a spot. There were several folks in front of me which always made it worse. Waiting. Pretty much with the realization that a penicillin shot was the first order of business after Doc opened the door and said, “next.” If everyone looked at me, then they had come in after me. My turn. Gulp. Although I loved Doc Hegg, he was kind of gruff, plus I didn’t like shots. But I hated being sick worse.

Doc Hegg’s office. Home of the penicillin shot…

Doc (smoking. Yes, really) looked and felt around my mouth, (wearing no gloves), mumbled something incoherent, got out the dreaded syringe. Gave me the penicillin shot (I figured) and told me to go Doc Schroeder’s office (a couple doors south) right now. Doc Schroeder was Rock Valley’s dentist. I went to him at least once a year when our entire elementary marched 4 blocks from school to have him check everyone’s teeth. But I didn’t know him like I knew Doc Hegg because my tonsils kept me well acquainted with Hegg until they were taken out around the same time as this fat lip.

Doc Hegg around 1965…

Folks going to Doc Schroeder usually had an appointment whereas Doc Hegg was more like today’s urgent care office. Doc Schroeder heard me creak up his waiting room steps. After a couple minutes, his inner door opened and he stuck his head out, raising his eyebrows in question. “Doc Hegg told me to come over after he gave me a shot. My mouth hurts and is swollen, but it’s not my tonsils this time,” I stammered. “It’s going to be a little while,” he said as he closed the door. More waiting.

When Doc Schroeder finally had time to squeeze me in, he inspected my teeth and mouth thoroughly, wearing no gloves. He had the neatest dental cabinet he kept rifling through. Rows of tiny drawers, some only a couple inches in height. One of them obviously holding just the right tool needed to fix me up and send me on my way. I wanted to go home, lay down and watch soap operas. But Doc looked concerned and said finally, “Denise, I need to speak with your mother. Please tell her call me as soon as she can.”

Doc Schroeder, the good dentist…

After Doc talked to Mom, she told me I had an abscess on my tooth. I would have to have my tooth pulled and a false one put in its place. Gross. And it was gonna cost a lot of money and take time. First he drilled a hole in the back of my bothersome tooth to relieve the pressure. Didn’t hurt but tasted terrible. There was no lab to send out my impression, Doc did all the work himself. Bridged the false tooth to the tooth next to it. All surrounded by solid 10 carat gold. Wow. (Mom would make payments for several months to pay for all this gold in my mouth. And I’m not sure why a root canal was never discussed as far as I knew. Either Doc didn’t do them or Mom vetoed going to a specialist. Root canals were discovered/invented already by the early 60’s right?) Doc was honest with Mom, telling her this was just the beginning issues in my mouth. My teeth were not good and I would most likely have dentures at a very young age. From that moment I made a vow to myself that I would do whatever possible to keep my hopeless, soft, abscess prone teeth as long as I could. Half a century later, I’m still trying to make good on that promise.

For many years there just wasn’t enough money to spend on my teeth. Thus by the time I made an appointment because the pain was unbearable, it was too late to save that particular tooth. But eventually there were some root canals, and a couple of bridges. Enough to keep me chewing steak. But the problems continued. About 10 years ago I was eating a piece of pie (sounds innocent enough, right?) at my dear friend Pat’s house when one of my fragile teeth collided with a stray cherry pit, up close and personal. Immediately I felt a couple of strange somethings floating around my mouth. The pit and a tooth. Well shit. My heart sunk. By now I knew this was gonna cost me a couple grand. Sure enough, a root canal and a crown, $ 2200.

My dear, late friend Pat (pie baker) with her daughter Lisa…

Since Doc Schroeder, I’ve had my share of dentists as we moved around. Some were excellent, some hopeless. One guy from Spencer hummed as he worked (he thought he was cool too). I can remember him working on a troublesome root canal and humming Blue Bayou with Linda Ronstadt. (Why in heaven’s name do I remember that?) One of my favorite dentists, Doug Castleberry from Davenport was killed by his bat shit crazy wife about 5 years after our family of 5 became his patients. I wrote a blog about it called “Murder she Wrote” in October of 2015. We lived in North Muskegon for 22 years. I had 3 different dentists, and a couple of specialists. One of the 3 had his license taken away after we stopped going to him I think. Doing unnecessary work, maybe insurance fraud. Ugh, a neighbor had recommended him. The reason my front tooth has bugged me ever since. The filling he put in was about as far from a close match as ebony & ivory. The other 2 dentists were good but expensive.

Right before we moved to Jackson, the cherry pit root canal tooth broke off at my gum line, so it lasted about 8 years for my 2,200 bucks. I found a dentist in Jackson who wanted $4,600. to pull the remainder of the tooth and insert an implant. Over the years that would be 6 grand for one tooth. I just couldn’t. My sister-in-law Mary Jane came to my rescue and suggested I use her dentist. She winters in Yuma, Arizona and uses a dentist in Los Algodones, Mexico which is about 20 minutes from Yuma.

This is hard to describe. The parking lot before you cross over into Mexico is in California. As soon you head down the cement ramp (a block before the border) there’s almost a carnival type atmosphere. There are vendors everywhere hawking their wares. I’m not talking sombreros, t-shirts or trinkets. The majority are representing either prescription eyeglasses, pharmaceutical medications or DENTISTS. “Need a crown, root canal, implant? We’re 20 dollars cheaper.” Most of them are wearing casual, hospital type uniforms and handing out business cards. It’s just odd. Not marketing or advertising like we’re used to. They’re all very polite, but you just have to keep walking and saying, “no thank you.”

Mary Jane’s dentist is about 3 blocks further in town. To get there you must traverse the gauntlet through a plethora of vendors. No easy task, (think American Ninja Warriors tv program). Not quite in the middle of the street, but close to it. They’re everywhere. Jewelry, carved wooden animals, clothing, throws, watches, purses, leather goods, luggage, glassware, you name it. Someone’s trying to make a living by convincing me to buy something. And Les knows most of them by name and they all recognize him. He makes the best deals. But not this time. He and Jane know once I get in the office (without an appointment BTW) it’s gonna be awhile, so no shopping yet.

Dr. Ramos dental office. Marco works upstairs by the sign…

My dentist’s name is Marco. He’s in his early 40’s I think, speaks pretty good English, is very patient when trying to explain how he thinks we should proceed. I tell him about my hearing loss and that I had my broken tooth pulled a month earlier. He suggests a bridge and some crowns on my bottom teeth. I ask how much? Six crowns, 1 bridge, umm $1610. Yup, let’s do it. I end up in the chair over 3 hours. Temporaries are in place, permanent stuff will be back from the lab in a week. Numb, Hubs leads me outside where we all head to have some nachos and a margarita (which dribbles down my numb chin). No shopping for me, they’re all tired of waiting for me to get done. Thus, I hardly ever get to shop, cause they’re all shopped out while I’m being drilled to death.

When the permanent teeth are cemented in, Doc Marco takes some pictures. I assume it’s because he’s proud of his work and wants to use the pics as one of his success stories. But Marco starts clucking his tongue as he clicks. He doesn’t want to use these photos to toot his own horn. He shows me the pictures. Yikes! Yup, he just might be hawking his wares here too. He has the neatest way of saying, “Misss-sezz,” when he’s trying to make a point. (The “sezzz” is about an octave lower, almost condescending, but endearing). “Your bottom looks great, (he’s taking teeth here) but you have some decay under the bridges on top. See? You should come back next year. Think about it Misss-sezzz. Little bit more expensive.” Oh criminy.

Marco on the right…

From that day forward, I knew I’d be back to have my top redone (I’m talking teeth here). One little nagging problem. The new bridge he already put in. Probably should have had my tooth removed 2 months before I traveled to Yuma. My gum has receded some more where the tooth was, leaving a gap under the false tooth. My fault, and it bugs me.

This year I knew the work would be even more extensive and expensive so I called ahead and made an appointment. Marco smiled when he saw I came back, put his gloved hand on my forearm and said, “Misss-sezzz.” Took some x-rays, came back with his proposal (again-top teeth). Clean out the decay and replace 2 antiquated bridges, crowns on my two fronts (from the color ebony & ivory). He was ready to start drilling his way through the bridges when he noticed the gap on last years bottom bridge. “Umm, I don’t like-a-this. It’s not-a-your fault, it’s not-a-my fault. Does it bother you,” he asked? “It drives me insane! I can get half a steak caught under there,” I said. “Then I replace, no charge, ok,” he answered, matter of fact.

I spent a lot of time in this chair…

The work did not go as smoothly as last year. Old bridge work makes things difficult it seems. Instead of 2 trips to Mexico it took 4 before the permanents were acceptable for Marco and me. He said the biggest problem/challenge was the spot from my first false tooth all those years ago. When it was all said and done, Marco pointed out his little personal touches. “What you think of the color? See how well it matches your bottom teeth. You said you didn’t want everything perfect because your teeth weren’t real straight and you had a small gap between your front teeth. There’s a very slight twist on the edge of that tooth. So what you think Misss-sezzz?”…

The office girls. Show me the money…