The Empress of Penny Candy

We thought nothing special of her at the time, as is the way of little kids, who've not yet seen how few and far apart are the genuinely heartfelt kindnesses of the world. We boys would be playing in the park or catching lizards, frogs and snakes, chasing girls or getting into whichever of the many forms of mischief we could manage, when one of us would pause, jingle his pocket pennies and say "Let's go to Mary Myers'!"

Mary lived in a house just down the street on the opposite side from the flower lady. There were a lot of such ladies who lived alone after the war. Mary's was a regular house on the block, nothing special outside, no sign, nothing to hint of the cornucopia that awaited inside in the form of all the penny candy varieties that could be yours if you just walked down the empty concrete driveway and opened the wooden door on the side of the house at the back, went in and climbed the 2 or 3 steps to the inner door that was always open and waiting. That was the door to Mary Myers' pantry, a kids' version of heaven in the neighborhood.

Mary was the very image of her role in presiding over the sweet delights of all the neighborhood kids. A pleasant woman with granny glasses and graying hair, she was the greatest exemplar of patience I've ever seen: she was our Empress of Penny Candy. As befit that title, Mary was up to date on all the latest in sweet treats and tricks from around the civilized world, from bubble gum cigars and red wax lips (and mustaches) to jaw breakers with a coriander seed at the center that you'd reach after a few pleasantly exhausting hours.

We'd stand there for long times, eager eyes roving over the many dozens of tasty items laid out for display in that tiny room, on shelves that rose to a heaven only Mary could reach. We took our time, jingling our pennies in anticipation, pondering the meaning of our growing universe as expressed in the form of (all honorifics must be capitalized) Candy Buttons (on paper strips), BB Bats, Kits, Mary Janes, Marshmallow Peanuts, Mexican Hats, Root Beer Barrels, Maple Cremes, Popcorn Squares, Chocolate Babies, Sour Balls, Red and Black Licorice sticks, Peppermint Sticks and Whirls, Red Hot Dollars, Bolsters, Orange Wax Whistles, Candy Cigarettes, Fireballs, Spearmint Leaves, Tootsie rolls, Orange Slices, Nonpareils, Nik-L-Nips, Bazooka Bubble Gum (and that arch-competitor Dubble-Bubble), Licorice Pipes and the many other penny candies that are enshrined up there in the Penny Candy Hall of Fame.

When one of us had at last made his mind up about an item, Mary would place the careful choice into that kid's little paper bag among the many other little paper bags she held in one hand - one bag for each of us - while keeping track of all the 1-cent, 1-, 2-, 3- or 4-for-1-cent and 2-cent items in each bag, and answering fastfire questions about prices and new stuff.

Sometimes there were 6 or 7 or even more of us crowded into that small space (not counting Mary), noisy with shared delight and the exchange of valuable information on the flavor, texture, duration, function, general value etc. of various items - all the high-tech candy parameters - each of us with anywhere from 2 to 12 cents to spend (what a rich day was a 12-cent day!) so we'd take longer than bankers to decide, till at last we'd choose, then often unchoose - then rechoose - without a thought for Mary standing there waiting.

Or we'd ask Mary questions, maybe for a glass of water and then all go into Mary's kitchen, Mary as patient and smiling as any of the highest saints, for saint she was and full of grace, brought many sweet blessings upon us. She was our special mother in that neighborhood.

She'd stand for what must've been hours each day as our raucous hordes descended upon her home and interrupted whatever she was doing at the moment; she'd hover there among us with that Mary smile upon her face, all the more remarkable as I look back from all the world I've seen since.

That was in the late forties and early fifties. Many years later, long after we'd moved away and after I'd graduated from college, one of my new buddies happened to have also grown up in that neighborhood - though for some reason we'd never met when we were kids - and one day when our reminiscences turned to the old neighborhood, we both lit up at the name of Mary Myers and set off to visit those streets of long ago. On our walk, we strolled up the old familiar driveway, opened the old door—and Mary Myers was still there! Of course she remembered us. We bought some penny candy and talked about old times.

As all the paths of my subsequent life have led in other directions, I haven't been back to the old neighborhood in the 35 years since that day. So from all this time away, thank you, Mary, from us all, for your candy store and for all those lovingly found and presented choices, but far moreso for all those even sweeter and longerlasting memories of kindness.

The delight of your little store is with me even now.

My Winchester '73

For a kid with no Red Ryder B-B gun, defenseless in the world, there was only one recourse. I don't remember specifically who my hero was , that nameless elder gentleman somewhere one summer (I salute him now, where he is in heaven) who kindly took the time and pains to show me step by step how to make the finest slingshot a boy could make with his own hands, the Winchester '73 of slingshots, which I painted green because that was the only paint in the cellar.

From selecting the finest wood (cherry, in this case, from a big backyard tree I knew well of) in the ideally forked shape and then incising the bark to receive the slings, using only genuine rubber (bicycle inner tubes) - not synthetic (car inner tubes) - and a soft but stout leather tongue from a good workboot (the local dumps, as they so often did, came in handy here), all tied together with strong cord, ultimately to propel the finest of ammunition: pocketfuls of pristine catseyes I'd won playing marbles with Paul G who lived on Mapleridge and had the finest marble collection around, housed in a big, beautiful red pipe-tobacco can with a handled lid.

My Winchester went with me everywhere, slung just right in my back pocket for the quick draw that was key to a shotslinger's survival. Maybe I'm not proud of all the things I did with my sidearm; I'll be the first to admit that there are times in a boy's life when issues of morality take a back seat, for whatever reason: maybe you're in love, maybe you're angry, hungry or tired, maybe it's growing pains and there's always the social struggle... maybe if time could be reversed for a moment I'd take back some of those things, done out of childhood emotion, curiosity or ignorance - which are pretty much aspects of the same thing - but I'll keep the pride I took in my accuracy. And I'll keep the notches in the handle.

One thing I wouldn't take back (and that I can admit to now, the statute of limitations having expired about 50 years ago), even though it involved twice breaking the solitary streetlight on a corner that darkened with one shot from the concealment of the woods not far from Mary Myer's candy store, was the second time I broke the light, and the life-changing moments that transpired afterward.

It's getting dark now; maybe I'll get to that tomorrow.

[Part II here.]