The Day Peter Chipped His Tooth

March 7, 2002

Dearest Mother,

I just had a conversation with a cyclist friend of mine. The topic of speed came up and I explained that the last time I went fast on a bike was when I was about 11 years old. I tell this story to anyone who will listen, so in case you don’t remember, here goes:

We had just finished one of my favorite activities – tackle football without equipment against guys bigger and better than we were. We all took a beating but we put up a surprisingly good fight.

Now it was time to ride back down the big hill from Monte Carlo . I had an urgent date with an ice cream pop and a deck of cards. You’ve never seen anyone in such a hurry to play pinochle. It was getting dark. The air was crisp and cool. I still had an abundance of energy or an overflow of adrenaline. I raced down that hill as if I was being chased by a demon. At that point there was no demon. To the contrary, I had no fear. I chided Borgie (Tommy Borghesan) because I knew he could never keep up with me on that truck bike he had. It must have weighed 200 pounds. I even joked as I passed Tommy Checchia. Usually, I could never keep up with him on his “Schwin” racer. But Tommy always had more sense than I did, as was obvious by his decision not to race me down that steep, winding road in the dark. I flew by him that night.

There I was, blissfully racing against the wind. Then, I committed a mental error which almost led to disaster. It was just a slight, momentary lapse of confidence. “I’m going too fast! I’m going to crash!” Sure enough, this became a self-fulfilling prophecy. I became my own worst enemy. I should have taken this as an omen so as not to repeat this type of mishap later in life.

I became overwhelmed by fear in that instant of mental chaos. I jammed on the brakes. My front wheel locked and I went flying over the handlebars. I was bruised and bloodied and scraped and scarred, but nothing was broken. Nothing, except a small piece of my front tooth.

When we got back to Cromwell Hill Road we ran into Borgie’s mother, your old friend, Fifi. She took one look at me and my chipped tooth and said, “Your mother is going to kill you!” She had that sinister grin on her face – as if she enjoyed the idea that I was going to catch a beating.

Because of that encounter I figured I would fare better at home if I cleaned myself up. So we stopped by Tommy C’s house so I could wash the blood away. Guess what Irene Checchia said when she saw my chipped tooth. That’s right, she said precisely the same words Fifi said, “Your mother is going to kill you!” The only difference was that Irene said it with a little more intensity. Now I was really scared.

I didn’t know what to do. Should I try to hide the truth from Mommy? Should I make up some kind of story or excuse? My legal reasoning abilities were not fully developed in my pre-teen years. However, something innate led me to the conclusion that the best course of action would be to cop a plea. I would come clean and tell the whole truth so as not to exacerbate my sentence.

This proved to be the correct decision. Still, Mommy did not react in the way I had expected. She was nothing like the other mothers. Instead of a scolding or a beating she gave me a big hug and exclaimed, “MY POOR BABY!” Then she gave me a sip of cognac to ease the pain.

But the pain was already gone. And the fear was gone as well. Unlike the mental lapse on the bike, this was a lesson that I carried with me throughout my life. It was at that moment that I grasped a thorough understanding of unconditional love. I learned a lot about compassion and kindness as well. I thank you, Mommy, for these lessons that have become an integral part of everything I am to this day.

With my love,
Peter

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Peter G. Masullo, CPA
Attorney at Law
Income Tax Preparation & Tax Problems
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