For the Love of Candy

 

     Oh, how I loved candy back in the day! These days, sugar and I aren’t on speaking terms—my sweet tooth got yanked to keep the peace. But let me take you back to the 1970s, when Halloween was my Super Bowl! Trick-or-treating in my groovy Missouri neighborhood, I’d haul in a pillowcase bursting with treasures: Charms Blow Pops, Wax Bottles, Tootsie Rolls, Smarties, Snickers, Three Musketeers, Milky Way, M&M’s, SweetTarts, Spree, Jolly Ranchers, Bottle Caps, Bazooka Bubble Gum—shall I go on? For a solid decade, I’d lug home half a pillowcase of pure joy! Black licorice? Nope. Sugar-coated Chuckles? Pass. Coconut anything? Hard no. But everything else? Absolute gold!

     My heart skipped for anything chocolate-and-caramel—think Milk Duds and the king of candy bars, the Marathon! Those bad boys, only around for eight sweet years, were a fifteen-cent miracle. Picture this: a long, chewy ribbon of caramel drenched in chocolate, melting in my hands and mouth, sticky and glorious all at once. One bite, and I was in candy heaven!

     Then there were Wacky Wafers—those oversized, Sweet Tart-like candies that popped with fruity artificial flavors! Some kids chomped them like savages; others let them dissolve slow and steady. Me? I went wild for watermelon, savoring that sugary zing, but banana? Not so much.

     School birthdays were a candy bonanza! When classmates passed out treats, I was all in. One year, for my own birthday, I handed out Marathon bars at school—talk about being the coolest kid in class! Those chocolatey slabs made me a legend for a day.

     Those candy-crammed Halloweens were all about racing through my neighborhood with friends, our breath puffing in the chilly Missouri night, swapping stories and treats under streetlights. Just one thought of a Marathon bar or watermelon Wacky Wafer whisks me back to those magical, sugar-fueled adventures. Want more 70s nostalgia? Swing by my blog, Nay Nay’s Nostalgia Nook, and share your own candy faves!

Memories Woven on a Missouri Porch

      Deep in the boot heel of Missouri stood a sun-warmed porch I’ll never forget. This was the heart of my beloved grandma’s home, where she lived alone throughout my childhood. Whenever we arrived from Kansas City, her front door stood wide open, and she’d be just steps away, ready to envelop us in the warmest hugs a human could give. I can still see myself as a child, perched on those weathered steps in a swelteringly unbearable summer, bruised knees glistening and sweat-soaked hair clinging to my face, savoring the icy sweetness of her homemade popsicles, their strawberry juice dripping down my chin.

     In those lazy summer days as a pre-teen, when I’d stay with her for weeks, Grandma and I would sit in her squeaky porch chairs, snapping pounds of crisp green beans from her backyard garden, their earthy scent filling the air. 

     From that porch, I would watch teenagers in town “cruise” by several times a night, their car radios humming faintly. When I was fifteen, a bold guy in a gleaming muscle car roared past repeatedly one Saturday night, waving at me with every loop. Grandma caught him mid-wave once, stormed out, and hollered for him to leave me alone. Later, she warned me he was “no good” and not to give him “one ounce of attention!” She knew everyone in town—especially the kids—because she was the cherished cook at the school across the street.

     We’d take Polaroid snapshots on that porch, capturing goofy grins and summer sunsets. I had friends who were her neighbors, and we’d sprawl out there, playing games, dressing up Barbies, or swaying to music from a transistor radio.

     At the end of each visit, Grandma’s goodbye hugs on that porch felt like they could last forever, her soft arms squeezing me tight. She’d stand there, clutching her worn handkerchief, waving until our car vanished from sight, a speck on the horizon.

     Sadly, after illness forced Grandma to leave her home, the house was sold and later caught fire. Yet the porch lives on in my heart, cradling every tender memory we made there.

Family Affair

      Family Affair first aired in September 1966 and ran until 1971. I wasn’t even three years old when it started, so I didn’t begin watching it until much later. At the beginning of this year, I binge-watched every season. That’s when I realized I had never seen the earlier years. So precious! Buffy and Jody were so little and cute!

      I played with these paper dolls so much, and I look forward to introducing my little granddaughter(s) to them someday soon. What a great, wholesome show with good life lessons in every episode!

     At my young age back then, I secretly wanted to live in a high-rise apartment building and play in Central Park every day. It was such a different world than mine. Cissy was so pretty—someone to be admired by a little girl my age. Uncle Bill, bless his heart, could be a little rough around the edges, but he had been thrust into the role of a father with no experience whatsoever. He had a big heart and always softened at just the right time.

     I loved Mr. French, too. He was a no-nonsense boundary setter, but he loved and cared for the children like no other. He even took care of Mrs. Beasley, Buffy’s doll. I always wanted a Mrs. Beasley doll and guess what?  I got one, finally, for my 59th birthday.  She's in perfect condition and still talks!

     For those of you who will, answer these questions: What was your favorite childhood book or movie? What toys or special moments do you hold close that are precious and deeply ingrained in your forever memory?

Don't Fence Me In!

   
     

My childhood neighborhood was magical. I practically lived outdoors—running barefoot, catching lightning bugs, and climbing the tallest sycamore tree in the neighborhood, all the way to the top where I could see for miles.

The neighbors to the west of us had a pug named Fawn. To the east were two poodles, Nikki and Sheree. The only time I ever saw Fawn outside her fenced yard was the day she bit me—right in my little eight-year-old stomach. To be fair, I had been trying to throw a blanket over her eleven-year-old owner. Fawn did not appreciate horseplay.

Two doors down lived Schatze, a schnauzer who, like the others, was a house dog. I had some sort of relationship with all of these dogs, but the one I was closest to was Penny.

Penny was a beagle–cocker spaniel mix—black and white, twenty-five pounds of pure mischief. She wasn’t a house dog, but she had a fenced yard that she rarely stayed in. It wasn’t that her owners were careless. They fed her, gave her water, and kept the gates shut. Penny simply refused to be contained. She was a free spirit with a taste for adventure.

Her trick? She climbed the chain-link fence. She’d stand on her hind legs, hook her paws into the metal diamonds, scramble up to the top, and leap over. I saw her do it more than once, even when the honeysuckle that twined through the fence tangled her way. One afternoon, I heard frantic yelping and rushed outside to find Penny in our yard, licking her paw. She had torn out a toenail—all for the sake of freedom.

You never knew where Penny would go, but you always knew where she had been. The dog doo I slipped through on summer days was almost always hers. Most of the neighbors tolerated her roaming, but Mrs. Thompson was not among them. She was the neighbor all of us kids dreaded—the one with the immaculate yard no one dared step foot in. Riding past her house on my bike, I always felt a chill in the air. She had seen me with Penny, and Penny had no respect for property lines when it came to leaving her messes. I sometimes wonder if Mrs. Thompson was the very reason people were eventually required to pick up after their dogs.

In all her wanderings, Penny only managed to get pregnant twice, each time with six or seven puppies. They never looked like they shared the same father. Naughty Penny.

As she grew older, she developed some kind of allergy—not itchy skin or ears like most dogs, but sneezing fits. She would sneeze several times in a row, spraying streams of yellowish snot in every direction. If we kids were nearby when it started, we scattered in a hurry to avoid the fallout.

One summer, her owners had to put Penny down. I was away visiting my grandmother, and when I returned, she was gone. My parents must have thought it best that way; they knew how hard I would take it.

You see, that mess named Penny was my mess.