CANDY
I wasn’t allowed to have candy when I was younger. I suppose this was my Dad’s misguided attempt to save me from the evils of sugar. I can’t imagine holidays without candy. But apparently I got through it. I was too young to know the difference.
My friend, Carol, introduced to the wonders of candy at age eleven. While she wasn’t entirely responsible for my fall from grace, Carol had a big hand in it. She always made me try new things.
One time, she rolled a large, empty spool of cable down a hill and convinced me to try stopping it (totally un-cool). In high school, she got me out of the library to go to parties (totally cool). As seniors, Carol took me out one evening for my first alcoholic adventure. My parent’s witnessed the after-effects when I got home (really, totally un-cool).
Carol suggested we ride our bicycles over to Solomon’s store and check it out. This grocery store was only open during the summer months for the City Folk. The store was part of Solomon’s Retreat. It consisted of a number of shacks and a pool full of algae. The City Folk would stay in leaky bungalows and swim in the crummy pool. They thought it was grand.
I thought I’d died and gone to heaven the first time I walked into Solomon’s store. Dazzled by bins of crystalline, rock candy, I didn’t know where to look. I was mesmerized by the shelves loaded with chocolate and marzipan confections.
My desire was only limited by my largely empty pockets. But Carol spotted me the ten cents or so I needed that first time. It was enough to buy a small paper-bag of candy-coated chocolates. How do I describe the first taste of hard-candy coating as it hit my tongue and dissolved into creamy molecules of chocolaty sweetness?
From then on, I hoarded all the spare cash that came my way. Once, I emptied my entire piggy bank’s worth of savings (three dollars) onto Solomon’s counter. I bought enough candy to see me through until Halloween.
I hid the candy I didn’t consume immediately — I knew I wasn’t supposed to have it. I buried it down deep in my sock drawer. But alas, my secret did not remain a secret for long. All it took was a trip to the dentist.
I was scheduled for a regular check-up. I hadn’t thought much about it. I’d been to the dentist before and liked Dr. Jaffee well enough, though not his wall décor. Dr. Jaffee was an avid fisherman. He had grisly trophies stuffed and mounted, displayed in his office.
I usually exited my visits with him with a toothbrush in one hand and a lollipop in the other. I expected this time to be no different. But it was. Dr. Jaffee spent a long time looking into my mouth. He spent a long time gazing at my X-rays and shaking his head. Then he gave me and my parents the bad news. I had my first set of cavities, and a record number at that. Ten!
So what started out as a wonderful adventure to candy-land ended up as a horrific foray into the agonies of drilling and drooling, in that order.
I suppose I should thank Dr. Jaffee for helping me forever associate candy with pain and trophy fish. It saved me from unwanted calories and fishing.
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One afternoon back in my undergrad days I decided to chow down at a fast food joint. Of course, as a student I tried cramming as much into every minute I could. So, I took my calculus book with me for some light reading on Riemann sums.
I attacked my flame broiled burger with the book propped open. I was doing good keeping my ketchup smeared fingers off the pages while reading and devouring my lunch.
Then, it started.
At a nearby table, people were laughing.
“What unmitigated gall,” I thought, “How dare those people laugh while I’m trying to study!”
I shot them the evil eye, but to no avail. They were too wrapped up in their animated laugh-fest to pay me any attention.
I concentrated really hard. I tried drowning out their laughter using sheer willpower. It was no good. Their laughter still pierced my concentration. I silently mouthed a curse word or two — maybe not too silently.
I couldn’t believe those people carried on like that while I was trying to study. What was wrong with them? Couldn’t they see I was busy doing something important to me . . .
Then it hit me.
What was wrong with me? I was working myself up into a snit over other people enjoying themselves.
What was wrong with me? I was so self-absorbed that I allowed my pettiness to overrule the right of these people to engage in honest enjoyment.
What was wrong with me?
Maybe in the time of Galileo people believed the universe revolved around the earth and it was God’s design that people be the rulers over everything. Hence, by extension the universe revolves around “me.” Though I wish it did, it does not.
This was a public place. The desire of those people to enjoy each other’s company was just as legitimate as my desire to study during lunch — perhaps even more so since meals traditionally are times of gathering and sharing. Besides, there do exist places specifically designed for people to study. They’re called libraries.
I felt ashamed of my selfishness. Moments of pure joy occur too few and far between for me to pass judgment on other people expressing joy. I vowed to never again let my personal needs usurp true expressions of joy.
That was a tall order. One of those “it’s easier to say than to do.” It’s like if you have kids. You know it’s difficult to keep your cool when they’re bouncing around all over the place in youthful ecstasy. But, if you think about it for a moment, you realize how beautiful their unbridled zeal is. It’s truly a gift to be savored. It’s easy to squash their excitement, but unless it’s Aunt Tilly’s funeral service why should we?
Life is difficult enough and fraught with mountains of sorrow. Shouldn’t we revel in joy whenever we can? Even if it’s just riding the coattails of someone else’s?
So, if you’re out whooping it up, don’t worry about me trying to mow you down with my evil eye. I’m a part of the universe, not the center of it.
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