Sharing Sweet Memories with a Child

When I left you last week, my youngest son and I were in the midst of a conversation about the good ole’ days. You may remember that just after we flagged down the traveling ice cream man, the child made some wisecrack about my age. But he then begged me to tell him more stories from when I was a little boy a hundred years ago. So I agreed. The ice cream had me thinking a lot about the treats we were afforded during my formative years. Specifically, the treats inhabited primarily by sugar. (Very little sugar free stuff in my day.) They don’t have little family candy stores these days like our old neighborhood did. And our little sandlot gang invaded Randall’s Store often. It stood on a lot by itself between the Dora Mill and West Elementary School, neither of which exist today. Mrs. Randall was a sweet lady and a perfect match for a kid with a sweet tooth. If your parents had given you a quarter, you were excited. If they had been gracious enough to entrust you with a whole dollar, you had died and departed toward the heavenly realm. My friends and I made our candy decisions in Mrs. Randall’s store as meticulously as a bride picking out her wedding dress. My personal favorites were Mallo Cups, Mary Janes, BB Bats, and, forgive me please, candy cigarettes. A special treat was a stick of Bazooka bubble gum with a couple baseball cards included in the pack. Other kids preferred licorice (yuck!), Atomic fireballs, Pixy Stix, Wax Lips, Goo Goo Clusters, Almond Joys and Mounds bars. (Sometimes you feel like a nut, sometimes you don’t.) But in every case, you left Mrs. Randall’s store having received a small brown paper bag full of goodies and a heartwarming smile. Mrs. Randall’s store isn’t there anymore. I don’t know when it disappeared, but one day I glanced over on my way to visit my parent’s house and the lot was empty. No more Lik-M-Aid or black licorice. Modern kids are exposed to candies with obnoxious and unflattering sounding names like Skittles, Airheads, Dum Dums, Goobers, and Lemonheads. And few Mrs. Randalls. Don’t get me wrong, there are still candy stores with nice people. But Randall’s Store had a Mayberry feel to it that I think is tough to duplicate these days. As I traveled down memory lane that day, a nine-year-old JT could tell that my gaze was fixed on a distant time and place, never to be physically revisited. “It’s okay, Dad,” he said, “I love those Mallo Cups you told me about.” He truly does. I could hardly believe my eyes in a convenience store recently, but they’re still around. My son gets excited the same way I used to about the little point values on the piece of cardboard that come inside the plastic brown and yellow wrappings of a Mallo Cup. And on a recent trip to the convenience store, the kid’s little sugar treats and their drinks, which included a nostalgic Yoo-Hoo, were all carefully placed in a little brown bag by the smiling girl behind the counter. Like the Candy Man and Mrs. Randall, she mixes it with love and makes the world taste good. Alas, hope for a sweet future.

Business a little slow for the travelin' ice cream man

“Do your ears hang low, do they wobble to and fro, can you tie them in a knot, can you tie them in a bow” and so on and so on. I recognized the tune right away even though the words were absent. My youngest son and I were minding our own business and pulling out of the grocery store parking lot when we heard him. A few moments later we were following him, desperately trying to get his attention. It was the ice cream man driving the ice cream truck. He only comes out during warm weather months, you know. And you have to live on a crowded street in at least a partial semblance of a neighborhood for him to visit you frequently. On top of that, you have to be at home when he happens by. And finally, you have to obtain access to some cash flow. We chased the ice cream man a few blocks and eventually followed him when he hung a left down a country road. With JT’s encouragement, I frantically waved my hand out of the truck window to get his attention. When the ice cream man pulled over to the right side of the road, JT and I let out a triumphant cheer. Armed with my wallet, we approached the right side of the ice cream man’s truck where we knew the sales window would be. We were greeted with a smile and a “What can I do for ya today?” Fortunately, the ice cream man’s prices were reasonable. JT picked out some sort of chocolate ice cream bar with crunchies- all resting on a wooden tongue depressor-looking stick. I chose not to partake due to a previous sugar binge earlier in the day. We asked the ice cream man how business was going. “It’s a little slow,” he admitted. We expressed our hope that business would pick up, thanked him for pulling over, and bade him farewell. Back in the truck a conversation ensued that involved speculation as to why the ice cream man’s sales were off the normal pace. I remarked that maybe it wasn’t hot enough and a heat wave might be good for business. Nine-year-old JT agreed that the weather might be partially to blame, but pointed out it was more likely due to “the tough economical times we’re living in now.” . . . From the mouths of babes. “In my day you could sit on the curb with a quarter and wait for the ice cream man,” I informed my son. “And sometimes when he left you would have a full belly and change leftover.” The child then made an offensive remark about how old I was but then requested that I tell him more stories from the old days. We had some time to kill before heading home. JT couldn’t show up holding a tongue depressor with a half eaten chocolate thing-a-ma-jiggy or his brothers would be driven insane with jealousy. And of course, I would be the villain. So we rode around for a bit while he enjoyed his treasure. And I shared with him a number of memories about the good ole’ days of my youth. And per his request, I intend to share some of those recollections with you, though it will have to wait until next week.

I'm Keeping My Facebook Account

I told you all about Facebook in my column last week. In case you missed it, I provided all the warnings and dangers of engaging in this wildly popular online community. I acknowledged that despite the potential negatives, I was going to stick with Facebook. And I promised to tell you why- so here goes. Since joining Facebook, I have intentionally and accidentally connected with hundreds of people, many from my younger days in school, and others from recent ventures. Had I no Facebook account, I would have had no idea where they were and what was going on in their lives. Thanks to Facebook, I have seen numerous pictures of my former high school and college classmates and their children. What a pleasure to see how we have all matured and become responsible adults- for the most part. I even connected with my former speech teacher in college. She had told me way back then that I was destined to be a public speaker and encouraged me in countless ways. Now we are Facebook friends. And when I told her my team was coming to Boone to play a baseball game, Mrs. Mohler met me at the field with smiles and hugs. Remember me writing about Jessica? She’s the little girl I met at the children’s home in South Carolina when she was nine and who asked me to help her get adopted each time I visited her there. Thanks to Facebook, we have reconnected. She’s got a wonderful family and is headed off to college now and we talk via Facebook often. And Tripp. He was the catcher on the first high school team I ever coached back in 1988. Great player, excellent student, and an even better person. Had it not been for Facebook, I may have never known that he was aboard US Airways Flight 1549 when Captain Sullenberger safely landed it into the Hudson Bay back in January. Tripp and I have reconnected now and I am proud of the man he has become. I can also spy a little bit on some of my current players and GWU students that I chaperoned on a mission trip last fall. One of them called me a Facebook Stalker the other day. Partially accurate assessment. Accurate because I am now able to keep an electronic eye on my high school son and his friends. I can also stay in touch with my foreign missionary friends. I can see their pictures ten minutes after their photos are snapped. My wife, who initially raised an eyebrow when I joined “that Facebook thing,” now checks my site almost as much as I do- though I’ve yet to get her to join herself. I’ve discovered long lost relatives and reconnected with folks I had nearly forgotten. So why do I need to know what is going on with those who I have known in the past? Quite simply, because their lives matter to me. Of course there are predators and identity thieves patrolling Facebook. But there are also ministers, parents, and coaches who want to stay in touch with their former players. When folks are connected, they can support, encourage, and pray for each other. Herewith, I will keep my Facebook account active. So feel free to send me a friend request- at your own risk.