Strange Produce and Mystery Notes

Reflections on my grandfather for Giving Tuesday.

Dwight B. “Whitey” Hord, DDS—my grandfather on my mother’s side—never retired. For years, he was pretty much the only dentist in Upper Cleveland County, N.C. A lot of people depended on him. But when he turned forty, his joints started giving him problems due to a severe case of rheumatoid arthritis.

His fingers were so gnarled he couldn’t straighten them. But it never disabled him. He scaled back his practice when he got into his late 70s, but he knew if he ever stopped working, he would wither. So he never stopped, and he never withered. Eventually, he succumbed to complications of pneumonia, but he practiced dentistry right up until he died. Even as his hands became utterly crippled, he would position his dental instruments between the knobby joints so he could work.

And work he did.

Whitey was one of the Greatest Generation. I used to wonder about that term. I understood that living through the Depression and World War II would qualify someone for a nice designation. But it’s only as I’ve gotten older that I’ve begun to appreciate the contrasts between his generation and my own: the way they thought, the way they acted, what they built. We’ve inherited the country and some of the riches but as that generation passes, they take their greatness with them.

Let’s hope it’s not irretrievable.

Whitey was no different. After WWII he returned from the Pacific to create a life for himself in his hometown of Lawndale, N.C. When the local high school failed to renew his teaching contract because he taught evolution, he returned to Chapel Hill to study in UNC’s first dental class. He might have gotten richer setting up a dental practice in an area with more people, but he set up near his parents who had taken in ironing and worked longer hours at the mill—all so he could study dentistry.

Not too long after starting up his practice, Whitey became a man of means. By today’s standards, we might not think as much of his home atop the pine-covered hill in sleepy Lawndale, but to the people of the time, it must have seemed like Monticello.

Whitey was a county patriarch, a community pillar, and a deacon of the church. In Upper Cleveland County, he was among the “one percent.” Doing well for oneself in small-town America is not always about becoming wealthy. There are tacit exchanges and deep responsibilities that go beyond money. 

Private Charity

Soon after Whitey got his practice going, he started coming home with strange things. At first, it would be corn or just a bag of apples. Another day, it might be a giant head of cabbage, a jar of chow chow, or a block of liver mush. The kids never thought much of it—that is, until years later when even stranger things started showing up.

“A year or so before he died,” my Aunt Jean recalled,

[H]e showed me a letter he received in the mail from someone who sent him a $10 bill in an envelope. The unsigned note included that this was for services from many years before that the person couldn't afford to pay at the time. Daddy didn't know who sent it. The truth is, it could have been countless people and that was the beauty of it.

Whitey was known for being private about financial matters. 

“I recall him being surprised once when someone asked how much he paid for a car,” my Uncle Ed said. “He gave a vague response that politely drew a line. I suspect he extended that courtesy to his patients and their affairs.” 

What Whitey did for the people in his community was really nobody’s business, and yet in some way, everybody knew about it. How else would he have ended up with so much strange produce and mysterious letters? And how are his children still hearing things, decades after his death, about what he did for people?

Within the family, stories of Whitey’s frugality tend to outnumber stories of his generosity. My Uncle Ed admits these tales are “well documented in family lore.” That’s pretty typical of families. We don’t take the time to familiarize ourselves with good things about our loved ones when they’re alive. Likewise, because we enjoyed all the advantages of being the children and grandchildren of a successful dentist, we occupied ourselves with Whitey’s parsimony. It turns out his children and grandchildren were well taken care of, and he was wise not to spoil us.

We’re all better for it.

No Charge

The first amazing thing about Whitey as a dentist is that he never charged a penny if he didn’t have to do any work. No cavities meant no charge. While an exam cost him another opportunity or some free time, perhaps Whitey felt a good checkup deserved a reward.

Can you imagine a dentist not charging for a visit today?

Most summers, Whitey would spend Thursdays doing dental work for low-income kids. For many of those children, it would mean multiple visits to fill multiple cavities. They all left with a new toothbrush, a tube of toothpaste, and whiter smiles—for which Whitey never received a dime.

My mother, the second of Whitey’s four children, told me she once tried to shame her father about having once had a segregated waiting room. She grilled him when the national mood had finally turned away from Jim Crow. My mother’s youthful indignation was peaking. Whitey patiently explained that some dentists in rural North Carolina wouldn’t see black patients at all in those days. My mother realized her father was the only source of dental care for anyone in the area—blacks included. When it dawned on her that he rarely ever charged his poorest patients (many of whom were black), she also saw that Whitey might have provided no service to anyone had he tried to buck the system.

Things are rarely so black and white.

Soon enough Dwight B. Hord’s waiting room desegregated, as did the little town of Lawndale. Folks of all colors thought highly of my grandfather through it all.

Overdue Notice

He also used to pack his tools and do a “house call" every year to a young woman with cerebral palsy. My Aunt Jean, the youngest, used to assist him.

“I remember being with him as he tried to clean her teeth and do repair work while she twisted and jerked involuntarily,” Aunt Jean said.

And, of course, there are those bills that should have been coming due. In a small town, they’re probably people you know. My Aunt Ellen (third-born sibling) helped in the dental office many times over the years. 

“When I was helping Daddy with his office affairs,” Aunt Ellen recalled, “he wouldn’t let me send second notices to patients. He told me that they knew they owed him, and they must not have the money to pay. He didn't want to embarrass them by sending additional notices.”

Embarrass them?

That seems like such a distant consideration in an era of entitlement mentalities and collection agencies. Yet in a genuinely bottom-up community, looking out for the dignity of every member is essential to its cohesion. It’s a universe that once burned lovingly with compassion that now seems like a few dying embers as more and more people “give” through the Internal Revenue Service.

Was Dr. Dwight B. Hord’s generation the greatest? I cannot say. But I can say that it still has lessons to teach that most of us haven’t learned.