Retirement has afforded me many opportunities to catch up on some of the things that I have ignored far too long. Cleaning out closets. Repairing leaky faucets. Reading good books.

And my favorite, a trip to the dentist.

My long-held position on dental care has been less than casual. I have operated on the if-it-ain’t-broke-don’t-fix-it theory. For decades, I have had no pain. I have been able to chew successfully. My teeth have served me well.

Call me dumb or call me lucky, but I have avoided the dentist’s chair completely for most of my adult life.

I don’t have a perfect set of teeth. I was never wired up as a kid, so there are a few irregularities in my bite. For example, I have never been able to cut a pepperoni slice in half. Watch me eat pizza and inevitably there will be red sauce on my chin.

I also have a small chip broken off at the tip of my right front incisor. This was the result of me, at 12, thinking I knew how to ride a skateboard. I did not grow up with a paved driveway. Skateboards do not work on gravel. So, when I had a chance to try out a skateboard on a concrete drive at Judy Ridgeway’s house on the corner of North Avenue and McDonough Road, I went for it.

The result was a full-on face plant. Lips do not offer much of a cushion. There was lots of blood and wailing. And I have lived the last 55 years with a reminder that I am not made for skateboards.

Other than that, I have been lucky.

About ten years ago, I broke one of my lower teeth on the left side. No skateboard was involved. I was just chewing. And, as I recall, it was nothing tough. Maybe creamed corn. Suddenly I felt something loose in my mouth that was hard. Like corn had a bone in it.

Bear with me on the details. I did what any middle-aged man would do. I stuck my index finger in my mouth and probed around to see what I could find. Out came a piece of my tooth.

I did not rush to the dentist. Fear of pain was part of my motivation. I have always heard horrible stories of what happens when one sits in a dentist’s chair. But lack of pain was the other motivating factor. All these years, that tooth has never hurt. Not once.

Yes, it was broken. But I wasn’t suffering. So, I changed my philosophy slightly. If-it-don’t-hurt-don’t-fix-it became my new stance on dental work.

Today, I decided to do something about my broken tooth.

I actually started going to the dentist about 18 months ago. To my surprise, Mike, my dentist, wasn’t concerned about my broken tooth.

“Tell me again how long it’s been since you last saw your dentist,” he asked.

“I don’t have a dentist,” I said. “You’re it.”

Since early 2023, he’s been fixing stuff.

“We’ll save the broken tooth for last.”

I’m laid back in the padded lounge with a bib around my neck. The assistant crams a swab in my mouth and tells me to bite down.

“This will numb you up before you get your shot.”

The taste of this elixir is somewhat akin to battery acid. I am not a fan. I asked Mike about the possibility of using something cherry flavored.

“This one is Pina colada. Most people like it. In fact, I had one patient compliment us on the taste.”

“You ever sucked gas out of a 65 Chevy with a garden hose?” I asked him.

He chuckled with the evil tone of a man about to use a drill on me.

The process of installing a crown begins with an array of small air powered tools. Mike spreads them out on the tray between us. Diamond tipped cutters. Abrasive grinders the size of a Matchbox car wheel.

“Let’s try one of these out and see if you’re numb,” he says.

I’m thinking, “Let’s be sure I’m numb first before you stick that DeWalt grinder in my mouth.”

This is routine for Barb and Mike. They have their hands inside of wide gaping mouths every day. I’m struggling to keep my lips out of their way. They are carrying on a conversation like we’re all sitting around a picnic table.

“I hear the shellcracker are biting on the lake back home,” he says.

“Really,” she says. “I grew up fishing with my dad. I love fishing.”

“I’ve got a small pond at home. Just put in about 500 shellcracker last week. Can’t wait until they get up to size.”

While I’m listening to this, I have the better part of seven fingers from two sets of hands inside my mouth. Water is splashing my face. I’m trying to keep my tongue away from the suction hose. He has a pointy tool on the end of his DeWalt. The chips are flying.

“You like to fish?” he says to me.

“Srrr ooh.” I respond. I sound like a dying cow.

They took a short break to change out the tools.

“Look,” I said. “If you want me to participate in this conversation, you’re gonna have to take your hands outta my mouth.”

I started to tell them about fishing on Lake Kissimmee. “That’s nice,” he said as he instructed Barb to pry open my left cheek. They dove in again before I could finish.

“I’ve heard Kissimmee has some good bass fishing. You catch any bass while you were down there?”

“E ud. Ee ah um oog issin ile e uz ow ere.”

“I bet you did,” he said.

No way he understood a word I said.

So, while I’m looking up past their nodding heads and their latex gloved hands, I reach for my phone in my hip pocket. I move slowly, so as not to make him miss his mark. I’m lying with my arms stretched upward, my phone above their heads. His head-mounted spotlight is shining in my eyes.

“There’s a lake down near Tallahassee where they tell me the Specs are biting really good.” I can tell he’s excited. “May is the month for Specs down there.”

I’m scrolling through my gallery looking for pics of my trip to Kissimmee.

“Ook er oc. Ere’s um uh a ish ee awt.”

Mike looks up at my phone. “Boy, that is a nice one.”

For the next 30 minutes we discussed near all there is to know about catching and cleaning fish. He prefers to scale and gut fish the way his daddy and uncle taught him. Barb likes to filet them.

“We use an electric knife,” she says.

I’m scrolling for pics of Marion showing off her knife skills.

When my time in the dentist chair came to an end, my broken tooth was whole again. For the first time in a lot of years, I could run my tongue across the left side of my mouth without being worried I’d slice myself on the sharp edge of shattered enamel.

“I really enjoy fishing,” Mike said.

“Ee ooh.” My lips were still numb.