root canal

My mouth hurts.

Turns out the molar was a wisdom tooth that had drifted. Drifted. Drifting teeth. I didn't know they could, but leave it to mine to be the ones to slip and slide. But apparently the roots were nearly horizontal, so the drilling just went on and on, and the numbing wasn't enough.

But enough about that.

A saturday morning, just the other side of yard sale season. It was foggy early, but is bright and blue and crisp now, the kind of day that brings to mind plaid pleated skirts and sharp new yellow pencils. One new outfit each for my sister and I. The leaves are turning all the great colors they are known for. I love the Raywood ash that turns olive and burgundy from bottom to top. I remember the flaming red maple on the corner of 4th and Rose Court in Medford. We used to drive up that crappy street in the midst of Medford's barrio just to see it.

And now it is Sunday. I am headed up into my garret to sort photographs. I am making a scrapbook for my son for Christmas. I had the idea about two weeks before Christmas last year, and thought I'd just throw one together, but the things you can get now to make really good, archive-able documents is remarkable. I think I'll pass on all the stickers, but the papers and page covers will make a nice gift.

It is one of the strange things about a late, if happy, marriage. I guess we'll have to wait to make a scrapbook. And as reluctant as I am to have my picture taken, it is likely to be a slim volume.

My tooth still hurts, two days later. I go back in Thursday for additional torture and expense. I have always resented the unavailability of dental work for poor folk. And now that I am well-insured, my opinion of the industry hasn't changed much. I do like our dentist, but he hurts me. The fact that I have "a" dentist, and that he remembers me and us and knows our lives, is odd. It was just always this place I went in an emergency and came out of with a handful of narcotics. Always the incentive NOT to brush.