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They confessed to shopping there on numerous occasions, quickly explained that they have many grandchildren and really only get popcorn for themselves. Right. We met today at Mallard’s new restaurant in Shakopee for some good eats but very disappointing service, as, unfortunately, our advanced age makes us almost invisible.
Heading southwest on 169, Stacy wheeled us very near to the front door of the jammed candy store parking lot. Stacy always drives. He’s from Chicago and a bit more pushy and daring than we nice Minnesotans, and we like it, sitting in his back seat.
The excitement of nearing the candy mountain was palpable. An absolute gatherer’s paradise. Hunters? Not so much. But Stacy and I have been tamed and stood respectfully with our yellow baskets, after perusing the aisles and aisles of excess to our satisfaction. Eventually, we rejoined our spouses after what seemed a reasonable time (to us) for a primordial gathering experience.
Bryce, a summer employee attending Jordan High, expertly packed our 2 hours worth of finds, having no appreciation for the nostalgia that drives oldsters to pay over a hundred dollars for Nickel Nibs, Necco, BlackJack gum, bottles of Squirt, Bubble Up, O Henry bars, candy cigarettes, pop rocks and other boomer fare. He just methodically fit it all into a box, cash only, and cheerfully wished us well, obviously used to the nonsense of these invisible ancient people, and actually more interested in the babe at cash register No. 3.
Huh. Bet he can’t operate a dial telephone! So there!
Earlier in the day, I had asked bachelor friend Arty in 519 what his favorite youth candy was. Hands down, it had to be the venerable Heath bar. Not a Health bar. Heath bar. He bought one almost every day after school as a child. If you look at its logo, it looks like H Eat H bar. At least, that’s what Arty thought and he ordered it that way. “Give me an H Eat H bar,” he instructed the clerk, time and again. It wasn’t until the last day of sixth grade that the clerk bothered to tell him that it was pronounced “Heath Bar.” Still chagrined and humiliated after all these years, nonetheless, I spotted a Heath Bar today and purchased a couple in his nostalgic honor, 65 years later. $2.98 each, but hey!
Flashback to rural Alexandria, 1954: When Tarnow’s resort closed shop for the summer, our only source of penny candy was five miles from our rural homestead, and rides to town were always at a premium. Except Wednesday nights for church choir, when the chosen choir attendee would take penny candy orders for his 4 siblings, returning from church with Bazooka Joes and licorice strings, Clark bars and assorted must-have goo. Junior choir practiced first, adult choir later at 8, allowing for a quick trip to the treasury at the Fountain of Youth on Fillmore. I once ordered a “male Hershey”, thinking it might stun the clerk, but he promptly handed me a chocolate bar with nuts and said, “what else?” Disappointing. If you had time left on the church adult choir hour clock, you could stop and peek at a (gasp) color TV, proudly displayed and running in the lobby at KCMT.
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I say four siblings, because when I texted my big sister this morning asking about her favorite candy, intending to surprise her with it, she responded that she couldn’t recall having an extra penny for candy. ??? She did remember having only $1.25 for a week’s worth of school lunches and occasionally skipping lunch for the freedom and luxury of a 15-cent slice of lemon chiffon pie and 10-cent fountain coke at the Bluebird Cafe, near the Trumm Drug corner. That was all before the ubiquitous sales tax, which would have made such an elopement impossible for a poor girl of no means. Not a penny left for a candy treat!
My big sister is a war baby, one of six children, and has entirely different youth memories than us baby boomers, who lived a life of A-bomb anxiety, crushed into tiny spaces meant for previous smaller generations. And we had to walk uphill to school barefoot, if I recall. But I digress.
