He had the kindest, bluest eyes. As a child in the 60's, going to the dentist was a minefield. The best tooth protection we had was fluoridated water and Crest. I remember one time having five cavities. It would've been awful, except for Dr. Dale, my next-best-thing-to-having-your-dad-be-your-dentist, dentist. It somehow wasn't quite so bad with his sparkling, friendly, winter blue sky eyes there showing his care for my dental health, and somehow for my general happiness.
Dr. Dale was my dentist from the time I had teeth until he retired in 2005. I don't know how many people have the same dentist for 40 plus years, but I learned that with Dr. Dale, it wasn't that uncommon. It was a unique relationship, mine and my dentist's - someone who knew me almost my whole life, who I saw only once a year, and who caught up with me on the whole last 12 months in the time it took to examine my mouth. He always asked about mom and dad and my brother, and when I started to travel, he always asked where I'd gone that year. As a lover of travel himself, he had his own stories to tell during the time my mouth was gaped open as the exam was going on.
Yesterday I went to Dr. Dale's funeral. I sat in the pew and cried. The large church was almost full. There were a lot of healthy white teeth, artfully created bridges and crowns, and amalgam fillings: all the work of one of the nicest dentists in the whole wide world.
