BY AMANDA RUSSELL

My mother had gorgeous teeth. I did not. Neither did three of my five brothers and sisters. That’s how I struck it rich on the corner of High and Congress.

Fifty years ago the nearest orthodontist to us was in Portland. I thought that was reason enough not to endure the trauma of braces, and every month fought my moth- er against making the hour-and-a-half-long trip to Dr. Anton’s office in a stately Vic- torian at what is now 14 Deering Street.
But Mom insisted that perfect teeth were the ticket to future success, just as she in- sisted that we clearly pronounce our Rs for the same reason. Every month she packed all six of us—even the two oldest blessed with roomy bridges—into the VW Bug, and from our home in the fishing village of Round Pond, we made our way down Route 1, across the rickety Wiscasset bridge, onto Route 9, and out to Woodfords Corner.

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