From Spanish Harlem to Guggenheim Fridays

Recently I recalled a childhood incident that occurred at the start of an elementary school year at PS 72 on 104th street in Spanish Harlem, N.Y. A few of my classmates and I wished for and discussed how to get a “load” of cavities even after a summer of hard candy crunching. This must have happened in grades three to five because the fifth grade was my last year at PS 72.

Why did we hope for more cavities? More cavities meant more weekly Friday bus trips to the Guggenheim Dental Clinic on 72nd street on the east side of Manhattan. And as we had heard, because the bus would return late on Fridays it also meant one fewer day of school on those weeks.

As much as I try, I can’t remember those in my class who hoped for more cavities. My only recollection of classmates at that school is from a firstgrade group photo. I can still name eight or nine of them in that picture. But not the one whose face I scratched out an eternity ago.

I have no idea who he was or why I defaced him. He must have been a nemesis of sorts. Sometimes we block out past unpleasant moments.

There are images lumped up in my mind from our “cavity quest,” including the bus trips and the clinic itself. One way to get more cavities was by eating candy frequently. My favorite sweet was unquestionably the Bonono Vanilla Taffy bar.

Hard as a rock with a deep flavorful tang the Bonomo taffy taste lingered in my mouth forever after biting into it. To my surprise, it’s still being sold today. I have ordered a packet online and anticipate my dental implants will help me survive gnashing into those vanilla bars.

As to the bus trips, I remember two thoughts from those rides. One notion was that my parents had told us we were poor. But I had no way of determining to what extent we differed from rich people.

But taking the bus from PS 72 and being driven downtown on Park Avenue gave me a new insight. I marveled at the height of the tall buildings. They were strange looking, not at all like the fourstory tenement we called home.

Furthermore, at these buildings’ entrances, green overhead covers extended to the street. Later I learned they were canopies. There were men in uniforms helping people get out of taxis. I had not seen that before. Perhaps this was one more difference between the poor and the rich.

My second thought on those trips was wondering if rich people ever died. In Spanish Harlem when people passed away their families would often hang wreath of flowers, up to 3 feet in length, on the side of stoop entrances to the tenements. It was a way of honoring those no longer with us. I never saw a wreath on one of those tall buildings on Park Avenue.

In researching the Guggenheim, which closed its doors in 1967, I found a New York Times article saying that its patients were mostly children who never had been to a dentist. That was certainly true for many in my class. Including me.

In other online entries I read of individuals from my time criticizing the clinic for its practices. I don’t recall any of that. What I do remember is an enjoyable peppermint scent in its lobby.

I also recall one episode in that lobby. Rumors had it that teeth were extracted on the fifth floor. One day a boy’s name was called out over the PA system to go to that floor. He fainted. As it turned out the announcement was meant for another child with the same name.

Early childhood events can affect us later in life. Sometimes we never know how. Other times we can guess how these experiences impacted us.

For example, for the longest time I have been captivated by the pristine look in actors’ teeth in movies. Their teeth always seem perfect. Even when there is very little likelihood the characters they portray have ever been to a dentist.

I now wonder if somehow my “Guggenheim Fridays” has played a role with my onscreen unusual teeth fascination. I also wonder if my appreciation for Bonomo candy will continue once my order of taffy bars arrives.

Contributed photo /