Dad’s Pocket Knife and the Infamous Impromptu Dental Work

Baby teeth come and go. And usually both processes are physically painful. Add in a little public humiliation, or the questionable application of a pocket knife, and it becomes the stuff of legend.

Impromptu Dental Work Part I:
It started as a regular evening at Rax, a short-lived roast beef fast food restaurant that featured a large talking alligator as its mascot. My little brother, Tom, my dad, and I had stood in the tethered line and ordered our dinners: a couple of roast beef sandwiches with spicy curly fries for Dad and a set of Uncle Alligator Kids’ Meals for Tom and me. Kids’ Meal Bonus: Jello in a plastic cup and a chocolate chip cookie on the side. Ohh yeah.

As excited as he was at the prospect of devouring his curly fries, two bites in, little Tom just couldn’t take it any more. That loose baby tooth kept jabbing his tender gums and had to come out.

“Go on, Tom, just pull it out,” says Dad.

But this was his first loose tooth. This was uncharted waters. He didn’t know if his tooth was really ready to come out or even how hard to pull. Was it going to hurt even more when it came out? Try as he might, he just couldn’t get a good grip. Even though he used a napkin embossed with the red Rax logo to absorb the slippery drool, his tiny wedge-shaped tooth eluded him. Luckily for him, Dad was armed with his pocket knife.

“Come here son, let me take a look at that. Just tip your head back a little…”

And with the quick flick of the knife, Tom’s tiny tooth popped out onto the floor. Once he located it amidst the crumbs and various other mystery bits, people clapped. At last, Tom now held his once troublesome tooth in his hand. This would certainly get him at least a quarter from the Tooth Fairy that night.

Impromptu Dental Work Part II:
As the blue 1985 minivan sped along I-95 in the annual voyage to the Outer Banks of North Carolina, something went wrong.

“Ray, pull over. Now.”

And that was that. The command had come from the navigator, our mother, to bring our journey to a halt at the closest rest stop. Mom had been to the dentist the day before where she received a temporary filling. That filling was supposed to last until her custom crown was ready for installation. Needless to say, it did not.

Here we were, more than 1/2 way to our seaside destination, a mere 3 hours left in our drive, and pressure had built up under the filling, so much so that it had to come out. Now.

Naturally, the prospect of putting anything near one’s mouth after leaving a rest stop conjures fantasies about massive, breeding germ colonies and the horrors that go with them. And now this? These rest stop germs, the very worst kind of germ, could potentially go directly into her mouth–into her aching, freshly-drilled tooth. There was only one solution.

Dad marched into the Men’s Room, Tom quick stepping behind him. It was Tom’s job to do the touching. He touched doors, faucets, paper towel dispensers, and more doors. Yes, he was touching the germs, but his hand could be sacrificed for the greater good. He knew his role and did it well.

Much to the amusement of my sister and me (and to the pained impatience of our mother), we watched as they returned from the restroom. Tom walking in front, Dad following with this bare hands held up in a surgeon’s post-scrub position, as to not contaminate them during transport. Tom opened the passenger door of the minivan and stepped aside. His job was done.

“Come here dear, let me take a look at that. Just tip your head back a little…”

And with a quick flick of the knife, Mom’s temporary filling popped out. People clapped. And Mom breathed a sign of instant relief. This would certainly deem prudent a long-distance call to the dentist later that night.

Nearly two decades later, as I recollect these childhood moments I ask myself what lessons I have learned from these experiences. Simply put: a steady hand and a ready pocket knife can solve most crises.

Of course this does not stand without the corollary: if your tooth hurts, don’t say a peep around my father or you run the risk of being involved in your own harrowing tale of impromptu dentistry.

Missing Shoes, Missing Fingers, and a Big Shot in the Ass

I was playing with shoes on the basement steps one afternoon while Dad whizzed, chopped, and drilled away on some project in his workshop. The usual sounds of muffled George Straight complete with Dad’s sweet swoopy whistling accompaniment poked through the seams in the stairs.

As my pink moccasins chatted away with a pair of galoshes about the doings of mom’s hiking boots, there came a SCHWING from the blade of the radial arm saw in the workshop followed by a very firm, very calm, and very loud “PRISCILLA!” from my father. I hopped down the stairs to investigate, and was instructed calmly to go get Mom. It was important. Important enough to interrupt my mom from folding laundry to her favorite Billy Joel album? Yeah.

There was hustling and bustling. Mom wrapped Dad’s arm in her red raincoat because his hand was bleeding. I thought that was pretty smart. Not only was it waterproof, it was red like blood. That Mom’s a pretty clever gal. We piled into the station wagon. How exciting! Not because we were going to the hospital or because Dad bore through the tissue and bone in his pinky finger with a saw, but because I was in the backseat wearing my slippers! Now this was just crazy! Ask Mom and I’m sure she’ll tell you it was more “annoying” or “ironic” at best, considering I had been playing with my shoes all afternoon and they were nowhere to be found when they needed to be on my feet.

So off we went to the hospital—the place where people fix people when they cut their fingers off.

Soon enough things were settled, fingers were being reattached, and nerves were calmer.  I had been seated in a waiting room with my very own coloring book. It had line drawings of kids seeing doctors for broken legs and arms. Kids in wheelchairs. Who could possibly be that happy to have their head wrapped in gauze and arm in a sling? And there was one drawing of a poor poor kid who was bending over to receive a big shot with a big needle right in the ass! Now THAT is scary! That’s like a booster shot in the leg, only way worse.

Afterwards, Mom and Dad spoke carefully to me about what had happened to my dad’s hand. They didn’t want to traumatize me. But I really wasn’t bothered by the ordeal. In a couple of days, after handing Dad a broken Ken doll to fix, he told me, “I can’t fix it. My hand is in a cast.” I rebutted instantly with “well use your other hand.” Really, what’s the problem here? I knew his hand was broken and that it was in the process of being fixed, so what’s the big deal?

But whenever people asked me the scariest part of the trip to the hospital, and I’ll still attest to it today, hands down, it was the coloring book drawing of kid the getting that shot in the ass.

I’m totally traumatized.

Bees in the Garbage Can. Grrrrrr!

When Margaret and I were about 6 and 4 years old (respectively), we’d spend all day running around the Cavalier Motel complex In Nags Head, NC with cousin Jeremy. Margaret was usually sporting a red and white striped tank bathing suit (that left her inversely sun burnt in white and red stripes when she took it off), and I was donning a blue ruffled bikini full of sand in every compartment. The Cavalier was a beach-side, 1-story, white, U-shaped building with about 20 units, a pool, and was full of various members of our extended family. It was also adorned with several trashcans where beach-goers dropped food waste, old sunscreen bottles, and beer cans. Though it was an unpleasant concoction of smells for us, it proved an unstoppable seductress for bees.

Being the imaginative little tikes we were, we’d run around the complex pretending to be various characters from TV shows and movies we’d watched. Sometimes it was Ponch and John from ChiPs, other times Spiderman, but with cousin Jeremy, it was always the Incredible Hulk.

On this particular day, our roles were assigned as follows: Jeremy, Mr. Hulk; Margaret, Mrs. Hulk; and Me, Baby Hulk. We ran around looking for reasons to turn ourselves from the mild-mannered Bixby family into the bulging, green, angry, clothes-tattered Hulk family. A transformation, in reality, only we would be able to perceive. A sea gull landing in our path or the twinge of stepping on a tiny seashell was usually enough to do the trick. But once Jeremy held open the metal lid to the trashcan and the bees shot out like bottle rockets, there was no turning back.

Grrrrrrr! Instant Hulkification.

For hours and days after that, we had a ready reason to turn into the Hulk family, whenever our concocted plot needed one. Of course, my ego grew tired of being Baby Hulk and eventually it was decided that a promotion to Grandma Hulk would work just fine.

And one last note, I think the final Hulkification was actually delivered by mini brother 1-year-old Tom when he toddled up to Jeremy (who was buried in the sand up to his neck) and kicked sand in his eyes. I’m not sure Jeremy ever dehulkified.

The Night Zucchini Man Scared Grandma Too

One year, and I’m guessing it was about 1986 here, Margaret and I got to drive down to the beach early with Grandma & Grandpa. Though Mom and Dad would join us in a couple of days, this somehow seemed like a crazy what-happens-in-Nags-Head-stays-in-Nags-Head kind of windfall.

After playing in the sun all day, I woke up soaking wet and freezing cold in the middle of the night absolutely positive the disembodied head of the evil Zucchini Man was floating above my bed. Grandma came running to my screams and comforted me in the light of the kitchen where all was safe and soft like Grandma. As she struggled to understand my jumbled explanation of this monster (which looked a bit like a Sesame Street character with a fat green oval head) I turned to her, pointed to the ceiling, and calmly said, “well look Grandma, he’s right there.” At which point, Grandma was quite certain the heat radiating from my body was more fever than sunburn.

The official family diagnosis became “sun sickness” from getting too much sun the day before, but it was probably from the peyote we had for dinner. Like I said, what happens in Nags Head, stays in Nags Head.

i think my neighbor’s squirrels are gay

i was sitting on my front stoop with my cat when i noticed them frolicking. they were two small squirrels of about the same size playing silently, each taking turns mounting the other, then fighting a little, then wrestling, then mounting. i wondered why squirrels would be mating this late in the summer and then why they were switch hitting with the mounting.

it was then that i first thought they might be gay.

this hypothesis quickly started to gain momentum as one of the squirrels ran off and came back with his collared shirt flipped up and his bangs gelled into place. the other squirrel pulled on a tight t-shirt from abercrombie & fitch and presented the first squirrel with a choker-size wooden-bead necklace.

all of this seemed to be circumstantial, until a third squirrel pulled up in a geo metro with electronica thumping and a rainbow flag equals sign bumper sticker and squeaked something about meeting so-and-so at Cheesman Park before they head over to the Wrangler for chaps night. the t-shirt squirrel leaped down and hopped in the front seat, but the necklace squirrel crossed his furry little arms and stomped his hind leg with his little nose pointed up and over his shoulder. obviously, he wasn’t please about this situation.

much to my surprise, however, the t-shirt squirrel got back out of the car, kissed the necklace squirrel’s back paws and hopped into the back seat of the geo metro. the necklace squirrel got in the front seat and they screeched off down the street.

watching all of this, i realized that my entire hypothesis was based on circumstantial evidence and that none of this actually meant that my neighbor’s squirrels were gay. it’s wrong to stereotype, and it makes no difference to me if these squirrels are gay anyway. so i picked up my then-empty bowl of granola, slid my birkenstocks back on, and the cat and i shuffled back in the house to watch ellen reruns before rosie came on.

shuffle board is not the only competitive non-sport at which i will kick your ass

many many years ago i beat doox at ONE STINKING GAME of connect four. so you understand, he had beat me at every game we’ve ever played before that and continued to beat me at every game after that. oh yes, he was the reigning champion. until recently.

after i delivered an ass-whooping at shuffle board on the extra long board at sue’s mill (i’ll leave out the part where he crushed me in the next match), we decided to saunter home. oh my poor citified eyes just weren’t used to the complete darkness that tree-canopied pennsylvania dirt roads provide. but seeing well to walk home is just a minor detail. the darkness conveniently makes plenty-a-ditch-and/or-shrub available for an oh-so-needed pee.

so when i announced that peeing was imminent, we both took to ditches on opposite sides of the road and the contest was on. what a complete and total blow out. here he thought i wouldn’t even do it (really? was this some sort of momentary lapse of any conscious thought?), and i was already zipped back up and continuing on my dark walk back home.

booyeah. who’s back in the champion seat now? i thought so.

unfortunately for doox, this was not the end of my righteous reign. my winning steak carried through the weekend with a “pass the pigs” victory and “apples to apples” mastery. which, of course, afforded me bragging rights. w00t.

however, my winning streak became questionable on my trip back to pittsburgh international airport. in the end, surely i won by getting home earlier than anticipated, but the freaking drama between the gates, ay the drama.

actually, 2-hour drive down was plagued with torrents of rain, causing traffic to creep at 30-40mph. there were 2 inches on water on the road and the construction cones and tight lanes were a bit unnerving. we took a wrong exit and had to double back. all of this was not boding well for an expedient trip.

since i wasn’t near any wi-fi or printer, i couldn’t check in ahead of time, which became very painful the moment i saw the united check-in line. man, i wasn’t even checking bags and i had to stand in that line. by the time i got to the front, 40 minutes later, my original flight had changed and my second flight had been delayed 30 minutes (good for me!) but was boarding in 5 minutes. the ticket agent said “ooh, i don’t even see your flight on the screen any more. they might be done boarding. honey you have to run. no, i mean RUN. ohh, i’ll take you through security.” and she did. we both ran through the airport, around people, over people, through people, and she plopped me in the front of the security line. the tsa guys was making small talk. what? now?! shut up and give me back my boarding pass!

i ran barefoot to the tram, put my shoes on during the ride and sprinted up 2 flights of escalators lugging 15 pounds of baggage as people cried “run forest, run!”–thank you for that, people, that was really kind of you.

i got to the gate and the gate agent was gone. i ran down the hallway to the plane and people started walking toward me with their luggage and sleepy expressions. what the hell? my plane had JUST ARRIVED and was just beginning to deboard.

so i walked back to the waiting area feeling the stares of people who had been sitting and waiting there for their delayed flight. oh yeah, i’m the asshole now.

but in the end, i got a direct flight to denver instead of a connection in DC and got home 4 hours earlier despite it all. so, as i see it, i win.

A Reel Life Fairy Tale About Tanya Schoonover

(It’s all True, I Swear)
Written by Anne Richardson
Illustrated by Phil Boettcher the Betta

Dedication

This book is dedicated to Tanya and Phil, without whom I’d have no story to write, or illustrations for the story if I wrote one anyway.

The Story…

Once upon a time, in a land far far away (known to some as Wyoming and to others as Montana), a princess was born. Princess Tanya was no ordinary princess. Though she often acquired pink fluffy boas and flowers and shiny things, she always felt at home in her camo under-britches and fly-fishing vest. In fact, she was 11 years old before her mother the Queen could get her to brush her hair (the results of which are still questionable).

Growing up, Tanya had heard of other princesses from other far away places who had issues with sleeping because of peas in the mattress or pricking a wussy finger on a spinning wheel and passing out or cramming a foot into a glass slipper to escape a life of chimney sweeping, and Tanya thought these stupid hoes needed to get a grip. All these stories of swooning and waiting for princely rescue were a bit nauseating to say the least.

However, since Tanya was indeed a princess, she did have some obligations to the world: a) wishing she weren’t a princess b) not wanting to marry some dumb prince who her dad liked c) going on some crazy journey to lands far far from home in search of something noble and intangible. So, despite her distaste for the cliché, but still shirking her royal roots, she packed her fishing vest full of bait, hooks, lures, line, a knife, cinnamon bears, a digital camera, extra batteries & memory cards, waders, a tent, a sleeping bag, some firewood, waterproof matches, and a few frozen mocha lattes from Starbucks, and fled to Arizona, a land even farther away than Wyoming, and hotter, and drier, and free of the burdens of Daylight Savings Time.

Meanwhile, having been given specific orders from King Schoonover the Mighty to “retrieve my Precious at any cost,” a tall and strapping Cowboy Knight, charged down the river trail on his trusty steed, “Prancer.”

On her long and lonely journey, Tanya met lots of people. But they weren’t exactly the people with whom she wanted to make this journey. They were mostly the hobbling hunchback yeeeesssmaaaassssster kind or the starched-floral-shirt-wearing-gay-cowboy kind or the orange chest-haired sleep-with-your-puppy-then-eat-it kind. Weary from these sometimes frightening but mostly irritating experiences, she decided that she’d have to give up popping into Home Depots to look at paint swatches on this journey and just stick to the river trail.

One evening, while she tied flies for the morning’s fishing routine, she heard a SPLASH! in the river and went to investigate. When she got to the riverbed, she saw that one of the thigh-high waders she brought was missing—suspenders and all—and just one tall crumpled wader remained on the shore.

“$#*@! Mother &*$%#@*! You %$# stinking %$#@$#!” she said, as she had a bit of a foul mouth.

Tanya leapt into the river, thrashing after the lone wader that was now just a boot tip bobbing through the current. “@%$#%$#!” she cried as the tip went under. “What the %$&#@ am I supposed to do now?!” she posed out loud rather harshly.

Surprisingly, an answer came, “um, just swim over to that little pool, duck under, and pull it back out.”

“Who’s there?” she grilled.

“Uh, me.” said the voice.

“Well, who’s ‘me’?” she pressed.

“Well I don’t know who you are, and the proper way to phrase that question is ‘who am I,’ not this ‘who’s me’ nonsense.” replied the voice.

“Alright smartass, to whom do I owe this glorious grammar lesson?” Tanya asked with false sweetness. She just wanted to get the damn wader back already.

“To me, Phil Boettcher the Betta, at your service.” Tanya looked down into the water by her waist and saw a fish as glorious as his grammar lesson (which does make sense, after all, that it should be as glorious as he). Shocked, but somehow pleased by this new development, Tanya said, “why thank you Phil Boettcher the Betta. I certainly appreciate your helping me locate my wayward wader and polishing my grammar. Now if you’d please excuse me, I’ve got to make my way over to that pool you pointed out.”

“No worries, mind if I join you?” Phil replied.

“Sure,” Tanya allowed, “why not?”

Together they retrieved the wader and swam back to shore. Within 10 minutes they were carrying on like old friends. “Gee Phil, you’re really swell.” (he’d given her a lesson on cussing as well) “I’m going to miss you when I pack up camp tomorrow. For I am Princess Tanya and I am on a journey to the land of Arizona,” she confessed.

“Well shit girl,” (her foul mouth had rubbed off a bit on him) “why didn’t you say so? I’m headed to Arizona myself. Let’s go together.”

“Really?!” she exclaimed, “what a fantastic idea!”

And with that, their eyes locked for an instant and Tanya turned away blushing. “I’ll see you in the morning, Phil.”

Alone in her tent, Tanya imagined traveling with her new friend—talking, skipping through the meadows, playing silly little splashy games in the river, cooking baked beans over a fire—until she drifted off into a land of aquamarine dreams.

At dawn, Tanya and Phil packed up camp. Just as they were putting out the last of the breakfast fire’s embers, the Cowboy Knight burst into the scene.

“Ah ha!” he exclaimed, pointing one arm to the sky in revelation. “There you are! I knew you couldn’t go far!” The Cowboy Knight dismounted Prancer, leapt to Tanya’s fly fishing vest and yanked out the waders. “The King will be glad to have you back!” he spoke snidely to the waders. Tanya and Phil stood frozen, mouths gaping. “And you’re all wet too! He’ll be having words with you later—somebody’s going to be in big trouble…” With waders in hand, the Cowboy Knight hopped back onto Prancer who reared in snooty success and galloped away.

“What the hell was that all about?” Phil asked.

“I have no &#%@$ clue” Tanya responded. “let’s get moving.”

They traveled several fortnight until the river became to small and dry for Phil to continue. He hopped into Tanya’s spare Nalgene bottle for ease of travel. On the morning of the fifth fortnight, Tanya turned to Phil’s bottle unscrewed the lid, and told him, “Phil, I don’t know how I’ll go on. You are the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me—and now that I’ve arrived in Arizona, we must go our separate ways. For you are a fish and I am a girl and the people of Arizona don’t look kindly on these sorts of relationships. In fact, I’ve heard of this place called Arizona State University where the guys join these groups called fraternities and they swallow betta whole just to impress girls. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not impressed by boys who do that, but I just don’t think it will be safe for you here.”

“You’re right,” said Phil, “I only said I was on my way to Arizona just so I could spend more time with you. I must confess, from the moment I first saw your ankles in the river, I knew I was in love. This journey has only magnified that love for you. Princess Tanya Schoonover, I love you with all of my fishy gills, fins, and heart.”

“Oh Phil, what should we do? We’ve come all this way?” Tanya sobbed like a little wussy princess from other lands far far away.

“Well, first stop your bitchass from sobbing like a little wussy princess from other lands far far away, are you or are you not wearing camo under-britches?”

“I am,” she sniffed, then peeked down her pants just to check, “yep, I am.”

“Okay good. Now let’s hit the road to Colorado so we can live happily ever after,” Phil pronounced.

“Oh Phil, I love you!” Tanya proclaimed as she tipped the Nalgene bottle up and smooched Phil wetly on the head. Immediately, Phil shot out of the bottle and into the air, bazillions of little fairy tale stars and golden dust sprinkles circled his levitating body as he transformed into one freaking hot ass cowboy fly fisherman.

When his feet gently touched down, Phil professed, “I am but a cowboy fly fisherman prince waiting to be kissed by a princess from Wyoming (or Montana) so that we can move to Colorado and live happily ever after!” his voice was rich with the undertones of a dual-e diesel truck. So they journeyed to Colorado and lived happily ever after, which was really kind of twisted considering how much Tanya loved to eat sushi.

The End

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Critics are raving about A Reel Life Fairy Tale About Tanya Schoonover

The Gillette Gazette
This is a mesmerizing tale of love and fish and fishing.
—Frankie Twostep McGee

Publishers Clearing House
We don’t really publish books, so I don’t know why I should be commenting on it. Yeah I read it, but I didn’t get it.
—Ed McMahon

Some Guy Named Bob
This book is pretty good. They told me to say that. I haven’t really read it.
—Bob

The Betta Bubbler
This is a good story. I like the part about smooching on the Betta fish. You know, Bettas need love too. It’s nice to see the Betta population represented in such an openminded and loving way. Richardson has a gift for understanding the true undercurrents of Betta’s lives.
—Phil Boettcher the Betta

The backpacking extravaganza

The Cast:

Norm (my friend from PSU)
Susie (Norm’s sister)
Sean (Susie’s boyfriend)
Anne (a.k.a. me)

The day before…

On Sunday Norm flew in from State College to a rainy Denver. In the spirit of the weather, we headed to Chedd’s Grilled Cheese for lunch then later splashed around the neighborhood just to see what we could see. As is turns out, we mostly saw rainy streets and sidewalks and trees and a swollen Cherry Creek. At the same time, Susie and Sean were struggling with a malfunctioning car window—which, unrepaired, would prevent us from leaving it at a trail head. So far our plans to head for the mountains Sunday afternoon had been dampened and foiled, simultaneously.

No worries though. Once the window was fixed, we all gathered at my house in Denver to do a quick overview of the trip and of course, no evening is complete without Angelo’s pizza and a round of drinks and shuffleboard at Don’s. (In case you ever plan such a trip, please note that it is best to prepare one’s body for 3 days of strenuous hiking with pizza and beer.)

Day 1

In the morning, we all stumbled into our hiking clothes, crammed stuff in bags, and headed for the mountains. Our planned route: the Gore Trail system from roughly Frisco to Vail.

After some dropping of cars at various trailheads, we laced up our boots, tightened our pack straps, and marched up up up onto the trail and into the woods. I use the term “we” lightly as it only applies to Norm, Susie, and Sean. I of course, laced my boots and tightened my pack straps, but the “marching” per se that I was doing was really more of a stagger… or a heaving clomp clomp… and this begins my 3-day hike in the mountains.

Day 2

Good morning, oatmeal breakfast! A brilliant observation by Sean, in the words of Ferris Bueler, “You know Cameron, if we played by the rules, we’d be in gym class now.”

Day 3

Good morning, oatmeal breakfast!

What is it—there—in the distance—my car? parked at the trailhead? just where we left it? hallelujah I just might actually make it 19 miles over the mountains afterall!