18 Aug 98 
 
What a difference a day makes -- got drenched because I deliberately 
forgot to bring an umbrella with me.  Walking down the same street as 
yesterday, I notice that it has been paved this morning.  It's interesting 
how one passes construction sites and see progress from day to day.  I've 
been watching the conversion of some run-down space into a bar&grill (I 
think) daily on my way to the office, and I watch the renovation of some 
basketball courts on my way to my guitar lessons weekly.  Makes quite a 
difference from when we lived in Atlanta and progress seemed to be on the 
glacial scale when it came to public construction projects. 
 
But that is not to the point.  But I'm rather round in general.  My latest 
bits of point have been externally applied, painfully to the bottom of my 
feet.  It's tough to see glass on the floor. 
 
Apropos of nothing, here's a little story, the truth of which can be 
vouched for by others.  It's still in a state of renovation. 
 
 
 
Tooth and Truth 
 
Munching on bits of gouda and swiss, I digested the problem before me.  
All had been more or less well until that morning. The previous night the 
family inhaled entire racks of ribs, sucked down crab, and popped shrimp 
until we all had a nice glossy coat of barbecue sauce and butter. My Aunt 
Pat was getting married come the dawn, and we celebrated the nuptials in 
the usual gustatory manner.  Those who had chosen the seafood route of 
engorgement suffered the consequences of food poisoning; I was told that 
my soon-to-be-Uncle Chuck had spent the morning puking.  He looked rather 
well by the end of the wedding mass, though, and most others just felt a 
little ill.  That was not the problem I pondered. 
 
During that evening's meal, my middle sister Amy had a baby tooth give way 
to the toughness of the dish she was eating.  In short, the tooth popped 
out, and I think she swallowed it.  It would've made sense if she had; her 
and my youngest sister Carey's teeth were both like little corn kernels. 
They even had the color of pale yellow corn, due to the lack of enamel on 
them.  Whether intact or in-stomach, the teeth were exchanged for money in 
the usual way overnight via the Tooth Fairy.  This was the origin of my 
complaint. 
 
Amy had gotten a quarter. 
 
I had always gotten dimes for my teeth. 
 
Something was not right. 
 
I didn't say anything that morning; we had to put on the flower girl 
dresses Ma had made, remember what we were supposed to do, pose for 
pictures, and think about the party to come.  I was still enjoying the 
presents Dad had brought as well as trying to decide if I liked his 
moustache.  Ma told us he had also grown a beard, but she got him to shave 
it off when she visited him in New York.  These matters absorbed me well 
into the reception.  Luckily, food was served in a catch-as-catch-can 
manner -- no kiddie table ghetto for me this time, no having to watch 
my older cousin Kelli reign over the younger cousins.  This novel 
arrangement didn't help me much escape the reality of Kelli's queendom, 
though.  There was a larger mix of adults here than I usually saw, talking 
about things and people I had never heard of before.  "Mary Pat" hung in 
the conversational atmosphere constantly, which I had had to concentrate 
to ignore -- you see, Aunt Pat and I share given names.  
 
Sharing was imposed on me from every quarter.  Once upon a time, I had 
been an only child, but I was too young then to realize the benefits of 
that situation.  Then came Amy.  I hardly noticed her for awhile, thinking 
her a mere benign addition to the family; upon return from my grandparents 
house, I walked past mother and child heading straight for Dad, "What did 
you get me?"  Amy was beneath my notice, no threat to me, I thought.  I 
taught Amy how to climb out of her crib, as I had done when I was a little 
older than she was then. Later Amy and I taught Carey the same, and she 
was out and about at a much earlier age. Little did I know at the time I 
was eroding my authority, privelege, and superior position as oldest child 
just so I could have a couple of playmates.  Early on, all concessions I 
won through hard-fought battles were almost immediately extended to Amy, 
and then Carey.  I convince Ma to let me go to bed at 8, a whole half-hour 
or "muppet" later than previously, Amy would have the same bedtime a month 
later.  I wheedle a raise in allowance for myself, Amy and Carey saw the 
benefits as well.  I find out where babies come from, but we all learn 
this at the same time.  I had to share my books, I had to share my toys, I 
had to share my parents!  And now the greatest indignity of all:  
 
Amy had gotten a quarter. 
 
I am two and a half years older than Amy, and at 8 years old, my 
tooth-losing days were, for the most part, behind me.  It seemed odd to me 
that in a short amount of time the market price of teeth had increased.  
It seemed unfair that I, the oldest child, who had the largest, whitest, 
most enameled-covered teeth got piddly for my dental offerings, and Amy 
got enough to put into the candy machines at the grocery store.  Amy had 
most of her teeth capped with metal crowns, but the one she lost had no 
metal on it.  If she got a quarter for this one, what would she get for 
one with _metal_?  Fifty cents?  Maybe she got more because she lost it on 
a special occasion -- would she get a dollar if she lost a tooth on her 
birthday during a solar eclipse (those being extra-magical teeth good for 
the fairying business)?  
  
Well, okay, I wasn't thinking in those terms, but my ideas weren't much 
different.  I was dimly aware that prices changed, that there was 
something called inflation that kept increasing how much Ma paid for milk 
and steak.  However, I wasn't sure that fairies should be swayed by such 
worldly things.  Perhaps I had some innate number sense that told me 
inflation would have to be over 50% to account for such a raise.  I doubt 
it.  The pounding thought just kept gonging like an alarm: Amy got a 
quarter, I got dimes.  
 
The party soon ended, and we retired to our rooms.  Now was the time, I 
thought, to get some sort of explanation.  Dad would be going back to New 
York for a little while longer, so this injustice had to be righted 
immediately.  Amy and Carey were napping in our hotel room, so I went next 
door to see my parents.  No reason to delay, I thought.  Besides, it might 
be better not to have extra witnesses, as I might find out again that my 
position as oldest child counted for naught. 
 
"Why did Amy get a quarter and I only ever got dimes?" I demanded 
querulously.   
 
Dad looked at Ma.  Ma looked at Dad.  They tried not to look at me.  I 
can't even remember the explanation they gave, it was so weak.  All I 
could see was their fidgeting and looking around the room.  They kept 
talking to fill the void, trying one attack after another.  Suddenly, I 
was no longer indignant over the injustice for a darker thought had 
bubbled up from the bottom of my mind: the Tooth Fairy isn't real. 
 
I had heard of this before -- from larger, older, cockier kids. Usually it 
was Santa Claus whose existence was denied.  However, I didn't listen to 
them; how could they deny the proof?  Didn't presents show up miraculously 
in our house during evening Mass and dinner?  Weren't baskets hidden with 
goodies galore in the house Easter morning?  Didn't my teeth disappear and 
coins take their place?  Couldn't only a supernatural being know I had 
lost a tooth, when I had swallowed it? Besides, I considered the source of 
these rumors.  These were the same kids who bloodied themselves popping 
wheelies, tried to fish out dead water moccasins from the creek, and in 
general undermined their authority in prevailing in matters profound.  
 
Still, Ma and Dad were acting kind of strangely, as if they had been 
carrying a 50-pound sack of sugar for miles and didn't want to carry it 
anymore.  Ma picking up the hotel stationary and putting it back down, Dad 
playing with his caterpillar-like moustache -- these were not the acts of 
parents at ease.  Something was up, and I had to know the truth now.   
 
"You're the Tooth Fairy, aren't y'all?" I asked simply, for I was no 
longer angry and I really didn't care one way or another.  I just wanted 
to know. 
 
They admitted they were. 
 
After a moment of considering this, I made the obvious deduction, "I guess 
that means there's no Santa Claus or Easter Bunny either." 
 
They agreed to that as well. 
 
I suppose I could have extended my newfound skepticism to ghosts, ESP, 
dinosaurs, Jesus, God, ancient history, foreign languages, atoms, the 
roundness of the earth -- things adults had told me about, perhaps even 
showed me pictures of, that I had never actually seen.  However, that 
holiday triumvirate shared one major aspect that all the other unobserved 
objects did not: they all gave presents.  Money, candy, and gifts damned 
them. 
 
I've heard that for some people, finding out that these childhood 
gift-givers didn't really exist was a loss of innocence, that the truth 
killed the realness of fantasies, imaginary friends, fairy tales.  
Holidays lose their sparkle because there's no pixie dust intervening 
between the store and opening of the presents.  Some people say that it 
made them lose faith in their parents.  Realizing that one's 
parents would lie to one can be harsh to some, starting a little tear that 
rips a huge rift through adolescence.  No such dagger blow was driven in 
my heart. 
 
I became smug.  I didn't tell Amy or Carey about my discovery, this 
information was _mine_.  If being oldest was going to count for anything, 
it had to stay mine.  So I boosted these little white lies of my parents 
more than I ever did when I naively believed them.  I was the first to say 
I heard the "hooves on the rooves", the first to exclaim on the fifty 
cents that Carey received for her teeth ("Isn't that great?  Did you feel 
the Fairy put it under there?"), the first to look for the bunny trail.  I 
wrapped my younger sisters in the warm fog of these stories, trying to 
keep them from the truth that only I shared with our parents. 
 
Despite all my efforts, they did find out eventually (it would be 
interesting to meet a 20-year-old who believed in Santa Claus), but the 
benefits have lasted long since then.  My support in their lie earned the 
trust of my parents, so I was endowed with other secrets -- secrets that I 
never had to share with my sisters. I would get to help pick out birthday 
presents because I wouldn't shout out "You're gonna love the pink 
nightgown we got you!"; I got special trips to get ice cream or fried 
chicken because I wouldn't parade it in front of my sisters.  Looking back 
on these perks, I wish only that I could've found out the truth earlier.