There was mild excitement at The Farm over a minor dental emergency. A large bite at an exquisite sandwich on a delightful crusty French loaf was the direct cause. The tiny sliver of something that crunched between jaws was the augur of trouble. Discussion around the Fire Circle veered from the need to hire 80,000 new IRS personnel to amateur home dentistry. It is always a popular topic for the Old Salts whose cumulative experience with the Navy’s total dental experience spans a couple ambiguous centuries.
There was the natural expectation that a few drams of Belmont Farm’s fine local distilled product would be of assistance in adapting to the new oral reality, which appeared minimal at inception and was temporarily relieved by topical anesthetic. On Thursday morning that relief was long past. The slim remaining part of crown to the right lower molar now continued to function as an admirable cutting tool, though now in the form of a tiny knife-sharp prominence slicing the captive backside of the tongue.
In keeping with tradition, several amateur attempts were made to provide relief, including the precise insertion of a glob of chewing gun crammed over the broken tooth. While successful in ameliorating temporary inconvenience, the group judged it not acceptable to get through the day, much less the weekend. And so, a consultative conversation ensured this morning with the first Dental office that would answer their phone. Loma ensured the call was identified with an “emergency,” albeit of a secondary nature unlikely to cause death or massive destruction. Accordingly, the Dental office allowed they would confer with the licensed staff to determine if there was the possibility of treatment. One was found.
We took the truck as a matter of Staff importance.
The possible appointment had been scheduled for approximately ten o’clock, and five of us marched in assistance, unsure if this was a vaccinated or masked emergency situation. We can report that there was no crowd. The isolation phenomenon that accompanied the pandemic’s swath may mean schedules are more flexible than in the Days of Yore.
One minute before the actual appointment, the victim brought himself back to the unexpectedly crowded waiting room. There was a tentative smile, and a brief announcement with a bit of a thrust in diction. “Doc took me right away, looked at it, got her drill and an abrasive bit and went in. Ground it down a couple times. Smooth as silk now.” He looked at his watch in disbelief. No one had ever seen a dental procedure applied so swiftly.
We loaded the truck carefully, since the breeze over the open bed was chilly under gray skies. The patient, now freed from minor discomfort, got the right hand seat in the cab. The ride home was routine, with the satellite radio cranked up pretty nicely to celebrate swift recovery. The turns through the intersection they want to develop were routine, and coming up to the farm lane turn from the Big Road equally so. Until Splash saw the State Trooper waiting to pull onto the big road we were about to depart. None of us knew why Splash slowed after the left turn, approaching the Patrol vehicle until they were window to window. As he maneuvered, those in the truck-bed attempted to look inconspicuous.
Splash leaned over and began to roll down the manually-motivated driver’s window. Just a few feet away, a young white man looked slightly quizzical as he flicked the power window down to see what sort of social issue would approach him. A last crank on the winder brought them face to face. Splash was relatively presentable, the Trooper crisp. He started to say something, but Splash went ahead to make whatever case was passing through his brain at that moment.
“Officer, please, just wanted to stop and thank-you for doing your duty. We need you, and we appreciate it.”
Most of us have been thanked for our service in that strange new ritual, but we had a sudden understanding. We respected what Splash said. What followed was not a coordinated salute, but as the right hands raised, there was a characteristic crispness to them, honed over time. The trooper smiled.
Splash did not crank the window back up. His salute rendered, he put both hands on the wheel and took his foot off the brake. The F150 then began to slowly and respectfully advance down the county lane toward The Farm.
The rest of the ride was OK.
Copyright 2021 Vic Socotra
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