When I was a baby, my two front teeth were knocked out. My Uncle John was throwing me in the air and missed completely catching me. I’m lucky there wasn’t brain damage or utter death.
All of my teeth shifted wildly. You get the idea from this picture.
By the age of 10, my parents were talking about braces and by 12, I had a mouth full. It went on for four years. We celebrated the day they came off. No more cracks about my affecting radio waves.
I was always happy, but my sense of confidence grew after my teeth were fixed. I was bright, happy, full of sass, and energetic, full of hopes and dreams and intentions.
I was already proud to be a hippie. That backfired on me when my attempted road trip to Woodstock at the age of 16 failed miserably just outside of Monmouth, Illinois. I had to call Daddy to come and get me. I didn’t think I’d ever live that down.
But I did. Daddy forgave me. We didn’t have to explain to Mom or the town. I grew up, sort of, and after I graduated university, I made my first attempt at marriage and had three children. After all that went belly up (my fault, I’m sure) I did what I thought was best, helping others 24/7 overseas and here.
Overseas, my longest duration was in Leposavic City, Kosovo, during the late 1980s. The conflict was a shock. At one time a member of the KLA threatened me by shoving a pistol in my mouth. I felt some of my teeth crack.
It wasn’t pretty. Daddy would have cringed, but I survived and came home. I found home in a homeless shelter where I stayed as manager for several years. It took many strokes, another attempt at marriage, and finally meeting the man of my dreams to call an end to all this and be happily retired and build a home with him and our 4 babycats.
Done and done.