The Way it was Then #2

 

January 28, 1983

(My father, Dr. Joseph V. Rubba, left his dentist’s tools and departed this earth in June of 1984. Happily, he’d lived to read this column and, of course, offer his comments on it.)

Now this won’t hurt a bit …

 My father is a (and I say this word with all due respect and awe) dentist.

That should entitle me to some large measure of sympathy.

After all, not many of my fellow daughters can boast abut trying to tell Grandpop about the kids’ latest escapades while gagging on pieces of cotton.

Ever notice how dentists ask questions when you no way can answer?

Father dentists are no exception. My father has made this common trait an art form. In fact, since one of the only times we get to visit for any length of time, my father and I, is when I’m in the chair for my once-in-a-decade checkup, the questions and comments come fast and furious.

Although people say environment plays a big part in the way we turn out, I’d have to dispute that just on the basis of my dad and me.

You see, I didn’t grow up with my father. And so, I wasn’t exposed to his influence in any large measure as a kid … he was just the man who lived around the corner with his own family and with whom I spent a little time occasionally. It was only when I was grown and well into my college years that I got to know my dad. And the older I get, the more I find myself seeing his traits in my own personality. We are a lot alike.

One of the things I’ve always respected about Dad is his straightforwardness.That hasn’t always made him the most popular of people.

He has held public office, been on municipal boards, worked on church councils and boards of education. He is well-read, extremely intelligent and a gifted writer. He reads my column every week (a sure sign of his discriminatory literary taste) and often calls me to comment on something I said or failed to say to his liking.

Dad has never been short of an opinion on anything.

Neither, for what it’s worth, am I.

So imagine the tug-of-war when the two of us get together. It’s a battle for the word-in-edgewise. And on occasions like yesterday, it’s a battle in which Dad has a decided advantage.

First, he chats about ordinary, mundane things like my drive over to Vineland from Berlin, the weather, how the kids are doing in school, how the paper is faring. That’s as the napkin is going around my neck and I’m easing into the chair like a prisoner waiting for the current to be turn on.

Then, after the examination is over and the x-rays are checked, the novocaine needle goes in, the numbness starts, the cotton is packed around the tooth and the drilling begins.

That’s when Dad’s conversation gets really interesting!

That’s when he talks about his current political interests, his opinions on everything from profanity to gambling to television shows.

And I’m absolutely powerless to get my viewpoints in!

We’re talking frustration here, folks. Aside from the rolling of eyeballs, the occasional grunt of either assent or protest, I can’t get into this conversation!

Actually, it’s a monologue, conducted with the abandon of one who knows there will be no interruption. Except for the whine of the high-speed drill.

Really, though, it’s probably all for the better that he employs this little tactic. It’s hard to concentrate on raw fear when someone is talking about something interesting.

Dad has never had to resort to playing soothing music through headphones or dispensing analgesic gas of any kind. He incredibly gently slips the novocaine syringe into the mouth tissue, waits until there’s absolutely no feeling left in a large portion of the face and then does what he’s been doing for about fifty years now … old-fashioned, solid, reliable dentistry.

Yesterday, it took him about fifteen minutes to remove an old silver filling he’d put in for me decades ago. It was definitely in there to stay. The extra-added ingredient that makes his brand of dentistry so good is the conversation. He enjoys the discussion, even if it is one-sided.

Especially if it’s one-sided.

We didn’t quite get all my work done yesterday. After all, when it takes me ten years to screw up my courage for a stint in his chair, I’m bound to accumulate more than a few chores for him to do.

And there’s really no excuse for the fear. His style of dentistry is compassionate and gentle and there is a minimum of discomfort.

It’s the drill and the reverberation in the skull that I hate! And when it’s all over, I chide myself for being such a ninny and for putting it off for so long.

So, in two weeks, I’ll be back in the chair for more work.

And without a doubt, Dad will have questions and comments about earth-shattering events and deep concepts he will want to discuss.

Once the cotton is packed in and I’m out of the conversation, that is.

Thanks a lot, Dad.