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There's nothing like sweets to bring back the sweet memories of childhood. Candy-coated
memories bite backOur wire editor Mark Coleman caused a buzz around the office this week when he brought in a box of goodies his sister had sent him called Groovy Candies -- hard to find treats from the '60s (http://www.groovycandies.com).
Those of us who grew up in the '60s salivated like puppies as we beheld Jujubes, Chuckles, Nik-L-Nips, Sugar Daddies, Necco Wafers, Boston Baked Beans, Fizzies, Lik-M-Aid, candy cigarettes, bubble gum cigars, wax lips, Slo Pokes, Mary Janes, B-B-Bats, Zotz and Zagnuts. I may have even seen the remnants of a Charleston Chew that someone had beaten me to.
I quickly grabbed the Atomic Fire Balls. Through most of my school years, a box of Fire Balls was my constant companion in the shirt pocket now occupied by my PalmPilot. The little jawbreakers with Red Hot bite kept my big mouth well-enough occupied to at least moderate the number of stupid things I said in class. The PalmPilot doesn't do nearly as good a job.
It's remarkable how many childhood memories are tied to those candies. In grade school, I remember my little third-grade body lying on the sidewalk outside a tiny candy store near the campus as a blubbery sixth-grader sat on my chest pounding my face in an effort to hijack my goodies.
I can still see his blondish flat-top held up by Butch Wax and the punches flying at me from his southpaw side. I went home with a bloody nose, but still in possession of my Sugar Babies.
The next year, the same kid was on the mound in a Little League game throwing fast balls at me with that same left arm that had delivered the punches. I broke an 0-for-Ever slump and got three hits off of him.
An intermediate school teacher once punished my impish playfulness by making me sit alone at a table at the front of the class. That was embarrassing enough, but it got worse when I bent forward and the Atomic Fire Balls fell out of my pocket and bounced loudly to all corners of the room. Hello, Mr. Vice Principal.
In high school, we spent the last day of each year walking from class to class so our teachers could add their marks to our report cards. We were expected to sit quietly while the teachers worked.
I managed to get a "B" in English one year and was proud of it. But as I sat there that last day quietly sucking on my Atomic Fire Ball while the teacher filled out our report cards, I noticed her shooting me unfriendly glances.
"Just look at the ceiling," I told myself. "Whatever you do, don't make eye contact with her."
But it was hopeless. I was soon staring her down. "What are you doing over there?" she snapped.
"Minding my own business," I said.
"Well, find something to do," she snarled.
"Like what?" I said. "Would you like me to sit here and pick my nose?"
With great ceremony, she retrieved my report card from the pile, crossed out my hard-earned "B" and replaced it with a "D." I muttered a "B" word of my own. Hello, Mr. Vice Principal.
Now that I think about it, maybe childhood wasn't all that sweet. But it sure beat getting up every day and going to work.
David Shapiro is managing editor of the Star-Bulletin.
He can be reached by e-mail at editor@starbulletin.com.
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