LA ST WORDS
The Road to Perfect Teeth M
y mother had gorgeous teeth. I did not. Neither did three of my five brothers and sisters. That’s how I struck it rich on the corner of High and Congress. Fifty years ago the nearest orthodontist to us was in Portland. I thought that was reason enough not to endure the trauma of braces, and every month fought my mother against making the hour-and-a-half-long trip to Dr. Anton’s office in a stately Victorian at what is now 14 Deering Street. But Mom insisted that perfect teeth were the ticket to future success, just as she insisted that we clearly pronounce our Rs for the same reason. Every month she packed all six of us—even the two oldest blessed with roomy bridges—into the VW Bug, and from our home in the fishing village of Round Pond, we made our way down Route 1, across the rickety Wiscasset bridge, onto Route 9, and out to Woodfords Corner. It was a long trip to Deering Street, and by the time we got there, Dr. Anton’s grumbling stomach reminded us that lunchtime was near as he tightened our braces and reduced the size of our elastic bands. Sometimes we brought a picnic lunch of peanut butter sandwiches slathered with Mom’s homemade plum jam to eat on the granite steps of Dr. Anton’s office. Other times, to bribe us into a non-complaining silence, Mom promised us a walk down to Monument Square, where we’d burst through the doors of Angelone’s shouting, “We’re Syd Russell’s grandchildren!” Thanks to our grandfather’s friendship with Jack Angelone, we were always treated to a slice of his delicious pizza—an exotic lunch for a bunch of hick Round Pond kids. To get back to our car, we had to pass through what’s now referred to as the “1970s Red Light District” in Portland, which included the area around Dunkin’ 96 P O R T L A N D MAGAZINE
Donuts at the corner of High and Congress and down to the entrance side of the Eastland Hotel. “Stand up straight, Amanda!” I was tall for my age and often slouched in self-consciousness, eyes down to the ground, whenever I was in crowds. There were lots of people hanging out in front of Dunkin’ Donuts—downright scary characters to a shy country kid like me—so I ignored Mom and kept my eyes fastened on the sidewalk. Hannah, skipping ahead in her new braces with the rest of the family, tripped on something but didn’t think much of it and continued on. Lagging behind, hunched over in my adolescent awkwardness, I spotted the culprit and snatched it up, immediately recognizing it for what it was. But I waited till we hit Deering, away from all those shady characters we’d just
passed, to announce my find. “Mom? Mom! Look what I found!” Gathered around me in a circle, my family watched as I unraveled the thick wad of money rolled up in a rubber band. The six of us counted the bills in unison, all fives and tens…$250! When we arrived at the police station to turn in the money, the policeman behind the counter muttered “Prostitute money” under his breath and told me that if no one claimed it in six months, the money was mine. On the way home, Mom dodged our questions as to exactly what a prostitute was, and six months later I banked $250. I have appreciated my perfect teeth these fifty years since, and eventually accepted my mother’s advice about standing up straight, shoulders back and eyes ahead. But I’ve always wondered what I might now be missing on the ground in front of me. n
PHOTO BY BETHANY PALMER, IMAGING BY MEAGHAN MAURICE BAILEY
B Y A M A N DA R USSE L L
