The young share-farmer was chatting to my father. In the old days, the depression years of the thirties. They had discussed the drought, the never-ending lack of rain; the rotten price they were getting for cream.
‘And did you notice I’ve got me new snappers?’ he asked Dad, who said yes, he had noticed a difference, and asked about the procedure that had been endured in order to finally be the owner of such pearly-white false teeth.
It was quite a grim tale, the extraction, being toothless for some time, the hideous ritual of cast-making. Worst of all was getting them to fit properly, and remain in place when he was eating. Without hurting. He was afraid to laugh for fear of them falling out…the top ones anyway. So all he could do was smile.
‘Do you regret getting the dentures?’ asked my father after listening to the sad story.
‘Well, they’re a lot of work, y’know. I didn’t realise how much time it would take to look after ‘em. After you eat anything, you have to rinse ‘em. And brush ‘em at night. Yairs, a lot of work. I suppose it’s worthwhile. Me own teeth were rotten y’know. I could hardly chew.’
He put his hand on my Dad’s shoulder in companionship. ‘But Mate,’ he conspired, ‘that’s the beauty of having your own teeth…you don’t have to clean ‘em!’