In a world of danger, we use what we can.

When I was little, I thought that if I held my tongue up over my front teeth, nothing could happen to them.

So, for example, if I fell down the stairs at school (not at home, silly; only rich people had two story houses), and got my tongue up there in time, even if I hit my mouth on the cement stairs, nothing would happen to my teeth. It didn’t occur to me until much later that likely my tongue would have been severed in that maneuver.

I also believed that if I swooshed milk around in my mouth, it would make my teeth look whiter. I can only imagine the elementary school teachers on duty in the lunch room watching my elaborate endeavor for pearly whites, freckled cheeks puffed out, moving my mouth from side to side, a faint sloshing sound emanating from closed lips. “Patti Digh,” Mrs. Goins usually said, “food is not a game.” So I tried to hide it from her when I used white bread smooshed against my upper front teeth to make braces.

The world seemed placid enough. It wasn’t like I was in immediate danger of tumbling down the steps, but I wanted to be prepared, just as I put my hand on the crank to lower the car window any time we approached a bridge.

As an adult now, I can see that I learned my catastrophizing from my mother who, if she didn’t hear from us the moment we should arrive home, not only imagined me and John thrown from the car that had tumbled down an embankment and into a watery ditch, but the children in the back seat, upside down, screaming for us as the water got higher. It was never as simple as forgetting to call or stopping for a bite to eat.

I had enough of my father in me to never let my elaborate plans for saving my teeth get in the way of adventure; no, I flung myself into the world, and have never yet lost a tooth to danger.