Tag Archives: Candy

Moms Are Like Candy

bubble_gum

bubble_gum (Photo credit: JMacPherson)

One morning, while my mother did her makeup,  I wrote the words ‘Mom’ and ‘Sarah’ under the doorbell on the white molding of my parents’ front porch with a raw umber Crayola as though we were the only two who lived there.   As though the people who visited would be looking only for us, as though they would need to know our names before they rang the doorbell, as though everyone would know my mother as nothing other than ‘mom.’

It stayed there for years.  When my parents repainted the porch, I felt a sense of loss.  I still touch the space where I’d written our names, wishing I could erase the paint and take a photo for my own personal historic preservation.

When I got older, my mother and I would fight over her clothes.  I wore her sweaters, though my bony shoulders left marks like a hanger would in the cloth.  They never seemed right on her again after I wore them, she would say.  Before school, I would sneak in her closet and pull her tops on over my head while she was doing her makeup in the bathroom, and then sit at the table eating Pop Tarts and reading the obituaries of the Democrat & Chronicle when she came in the kitchen.  She’d pretend not to notice that I was wearing her floral knit cardigan from Barbara Moss.

My mother has always worn Maybelline Great Lash mascara in Blackest Black– the flamingo pink tube and the lime green cap feels both young and classic at the same time.  She has olive skin, dark eyes, and wears thick black Revlon eyeliner with the red coating and burns it with a lighter before using.  She used to have Coty powder–the gold, round, cardboard container sitting on her nightstand, next to her ashtray, where she would stow her chewed Extra bubblegum for morning.

Lately, she’s begun an extensive alarm clock collection.  Just in case.  When my boys turn on the alarm clock radio and have a dance party in her bedroom, she will say gently just before they push the ‘on’ button, “Don’t touch that.  It always messes up the alarm,” but then she will forget, entranced in their dancing, smiling with the gum pressed between her back molars.

Though at the age of four, I had all of my top front teeth pulled after days of Tang-drinking and Tart ‘n’ Tiny addiction, my sons are two and four-year-old gum-chewers.  Their brand: Pink Extra Sugarless Bubble Gum.

My mother tries endlessly to teach them how to blow bubbles.  I scold her for giving them gum.  She has a special stash hidden in one of her kitchen appliances for Johnny, so now it’s sacred and I can’t tell her no.  My favorite childhood gum was Fruit Striped with the zebra on the package.  I did my sixth grade science fair project on which brand of bubble gum kept its flavor the longest.  I blow large bubbles that, when they pop, cover my nose so I can’t breathe.  When I do this, my son thinks I’m amazing in the same way I think my mother is amazing as I watch her, kneading her gum between her thumb and her teeth, stretching it long like taffy and then pressing it close again.

When Johnny learns how to spell, I’m going to give him a raw umber Crayola and send him out to her porch, where for now, my two little boys ring the doorbell incessantly before swinging the front screen door wide open, calling, “Gramma!”

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Halloween Leftovers

As I write this, I am coercing the Sour Apple Laffy Taffy out of my molars with my tongue.  89.1 is on the radio in my kitchen.  My husband has just left for work, and when he left, I was slicing a piece of fiction (inspired by a 1920s plane crash in Brockport) into paragraph-sized morsels with kid-scissors.  I realize I am alone for the first time in nearly a week.

Loser Candy

Compelled to rummage through the candy bowl from Halloween, I stopped my project, and stared down into the bowl: Sour Apple everything.  Whoppers.  Clark Bars.  Runts.  Blech.

A week or two before Halloween, Johnny and I were watching the cartoon Gravity Falls, a Disney series that explores an eerie village through the eyes of a creepy family.  Johnny loves this show.  I was unsure at first, but loved it after seeing this: The Summerween Trickster–a candy monster made out of the bottom-of-the-bowl-rejects that the children of Gravity Falls have termed “Loser candy.”  So I sifted through my own Loser Candy, and succumbed to Sour Apple Laffy Taffy.  It was neon green (and tasted it), unsatisfyingly waxy, nothing like an apple.  Not even sour.  Not tasty enough to warrant the tiredness of my jaw after minutes of chewing.

Cory is not a fan of the show Gravity Falls, and I thought that by telling him about the clever Summerween Trickster, he might change his mind.  But this is the same person who looks at me strange when I watch Coraline with Johnny for the twentieth time.  Or The Nightmare Before Christmas.

Cory looks at me cross-eyed when I say to Johnny, “Hi, Johnny.  I’m your other mother.”

Johnny will say, “You do not have button eyes!”

My students think it strange that I watch such a creepy movie with my child.  But why hide the scary?  Johnny sees monsters all the time in movies and cartoons, but acknowledging that what appears in real life can be scary or threatening, too, like in Coraline, might make him more… prepared?

My cousin bought me The Happiness Project for my thirtieth birthday, so I’m sure some consider it abnormal that I dwell in the dark.  But I see it as pulling at life’s unbound strings, just braiding these fibers together, attempting to understand the fabric.

When brainstorming writing ideas, my students have said, “But I don’t have any conflict in my life.”  I press them with questions until they find something.  When students resist conflict and tension, the feared candy at the bottom of the bowl, I ask them, “Well then, if you understand everything, why write?”

Sometimes I feel like I understand nothing, and that’s when I write the most.

It doesn’t all have to be negative, but most of us don’t dwell on what makes our lives easy–the happy times, because we enjoy them, and take them as memories for a “rainy” day.  We live in the awkward, fearful, combustible moments and stare hard at the uncomfortable moments that play tricks on our minds or come back to haunt us when we think they’ve gone for good.


Dear Penny Candy,

The Pink Panther cartoon character
Image via Wikipedia

You are worth the eight minutes I have before I walk to my next class, so I will write you a love post.  More so, you deserve your own post, bag of penny candy— especially you, Tart ‘n Tinys.

I was less than ten, so all I had in my pockets was sticky lollypop twigs or lint.   Your price was within my reach, but you were not cheap, not easy, just accessible.  Especially after Dad slapped his pocket change on the table.  The Pink Panther Popsicles in the Skippy ice cream truck were 65 cents, and came with black gumball eyes (who made black gumballs?), but, Penny Candy, you were so much better.  You didn’t melt, for one.

It wasn’t just rummaging through your paper bag after I paid the teenage cashier that made me smile, it was the whole process: the dusky walk holding my older siblings hands, and the way they let go after my Mother was out of sight, to signal that yes, I was becoming a big girl.  “Hello,” the bell on the Unger’s Mart door tinked to me.

You, in those clear bins labeled with cents, beckoned me forth.  When I approached you, sweet love, imagining the bits of sugar on my tongue, my brother or sister would have to call, “Wait for me.”  I spent full minutes deciding which of you would bring me the most joy.   My fingers danced gracelessly, plucked and prodded through your clear bins, and placed each piece of you on the counter before the cashier, who never gave me a discount.  You were worth every cent.