Gettin' Earthy!

Now that I’ve started talking about the four elements, I’ll confess: I’ve always been an earthy woman. In my youth, it was easy to see. I oozed sensuality like most twentysomethings in the days of free love with no strings attached. In Hot Flashbacks, I mention how boomers my vintage were lucky. The AIDS epidemic didn’t rear its ugly head until nearly a decade after we made love and not war till there was no fight left in us. I delighted in bawdy jokes back then and salty language, too. I had no idea that these tendencies were so heavily driven by hormones. I hope you’ll enjoy reading in the book about some of my more hilarious epiphanies when my hormones stopped and, finally, I could be motivated by something other than my “animal urges,” as an ex of mine once called them.

Earth is my element in more ways than one. The signs in my astrology chart are primarily Earth (Sun, Moon, and Ascendant). In Chinese medicine, which has been my ancient adjunct to the modern allopathic kind for over 20 years, Earth is my element—the one that needs constant tune-up.

It should have come as no surprise to me, then, that Earth and environmental protection became my job. For over half my long civil service career, I worked in waste reduction and recycling programs. The rest of my astrology chart is primarily Air, so, again, it was predictable that astrology would be my side job. I love making the bridge from Earth to Sky and back. You might say I’m in my element(s).

This week we celebrate our Valentine’s Day to the planet—Earth Day. My last post was a lead-up to this important day each year to take stock of where we are as individuals, and as a community, in keeping our globe vital and viable.

Earth Day started in spring of 1970 and has grown bigger and better over the years with vast varieties of local celebrations and opportunities to do your part to save your little corner of the world. I won’t argue about whether or not global warming is real and if the Earth needs saving. As a person who has worked on the inside of environmental stewardship, I am sorry to report from many trusted leaders that it might already be too late to save many species and resources that we take for granted. Late, but not impossible. We like drama; witness our choices in TV programs. Maybe that’s why we’re waiting for the 11th hour.

I belong to a church named after St. Francis of Assisi. Not only was “St. Frank” the Dr. Doolittle of his time who talked to the animals and is their patron; he is also the patron of ecology. I celebrated Earth Day at a day retreat with Sr. Linda Gibler, a contemporary and learned nun with credentials in cosmology.

One thing that came up in this breathtaking Earth Day retreat with Sr. Linda, her second in a row with us, is how the media has influenced our view of the world. In the ‘50s, television first became affordable to the public. With the acquisition of that little box came our first awareness of what was going on with people in other parts of the world. Prior to that, only a fortunate few had any direct contact with those in other countries, real or vicarious. TV planted the first seeds with everyman and everywoman that there were everypeople dotting our Earth with the same hopes and dreams with similar and sometimes unique concerns. Slowly we learned about starving children, genocide, and natural disasters, building global connection and compassion. The Internet brought the global community together in a way none of us who pre-date it could have ever imagined.

Back to David Suzuki and how we are the Earth and its four elements:

Use this Earth Day to dig dirt! Make digging it both figurative and literal. Play in the dirt, pot plants, dig in the garden, and dig up those ugly shrubs. Take a nature walk and notice what things pop out of it speak to you. Actually, listen for their psychic dialogue. We did this on our Earth Day retreat and decided it doesn’t matter where the voice comes from, even if it’s only a subconscious place in our own minds. A buttercup is often very wise—or the buttercup part of our brains—whichever.

Use less, recycle everything you can, and bring your own cloth shopping bags to the market. Minimize your use of bottled water (buy a reusable bottle ) to help keep all those plastics out of landfills and learn which ones are safe. Keep abreast of these and other green issues. Make your next car a hybrid. Discover some of the truly creative ways people are making recycling pay—literally! We are all four elements, but earth is the one that represents our home, the only place humans inhabit, as far as we know. One of the things Sr. Linda observed—as our scientific knowledge changes, so does our story. Maybe if we find life on other planets, they’ll have advice for taking better care of ours.

Most of all hone your relationships and make more of them without geographical boundaries. That’s the earthiest thing you can do. Peace and cooperation on Earth is what will save it. This we can only do one friend, colleague, councilperson, cyber buddy, or family member at a time. When we know we are the Earth and so is everyone on it, there is no other option but being an Earth Mama or Papa, protective of our family.

And speaking of the Mamas and the Papas, that groovy boomer band, maybe one of their greatest hits, with a few minor adjustments to the lyrics, can become our Planetary International Anthem: This Is Dedicated to the One I Love.

Each night before I go to bed, my baby.
I whisper a little prayer for you, my baby …

The Vast Lane to Elementary School

HOT FLASHBACKS is more than a place to learn about how your past contains a prescription for a cool future. It’s a way to live life in the Vast Lane. Not the fast lane, but the Vast Lane where you on-ramp the High Way. It’s the route that takes you on an ever-exciting journey whose ticket is an open mind. That open space in your head is a pocket where beauty and insights can pop in.

My first spiritual teacher taught me that life is a school. So, let’s board a yellow bus for our trip in the Vast Lane, just for sentiment’s sake. While we’re at it, let’s go to elementary school. That’s where most of us went in a yellow bus.

I don’t mean kindergarten through sixth grade or whatever grades are considered elementary in your school system. I mean the four elements--the stuff we’re made of—and the universe itself—earth, air, fire, and water. We are, indeed, in elementary school all the time. Life itself is a constant interaction of this quartet both in the physical and metaphorical sense.

I remember being shocked when I first heard that we’re composed of the same essentials that make up the earth we walk on and the stars in the sky. I had never considered that much bigger view. I barely had an inkling of what it meant, yet I knew it was profound.

With time, I came to understand that this fact proves the great interconnectedness of all people and things, not just on earth, but also in the universe. Dr. David Suzuki, a Canadian science broadcaster and environmental activist, cites this fact in his documentary Suzuki Speaks, first and foremost, as the reason why we should protect the earth. Whatever we do to the earth, we do to ourselves because we are the earth.

He illustrates in a very visual, special-effects way, how we constantly create and recreate the earth in a physical sense. The air we inhale and exhale is exchanged with all life forms and has been since life forms could breathe. Fire is captured as sunlight. Photosynthesis feeds and literally fires us up. Most of the human body is composed of water, needed by every vital system to survive. We, in turn, become part of the earth’s biological and the hydrological cycles, evaporating, condensing—ultimately making our liquids, even our tears, into rain. Our flesh? Earth. Even though we hear this often spoken in a figurative way, we literally share many of same components in our planet’s top layer, such as calcium, phosphorus, magnesium, and potassium.

In the vastness of space—even on the surface of our globe—we may only seem like specks. But specks add up. We are part of the earth as much as the trees, the mountains, the great rivers. When America was taken from the Natives, our souls lost their cosmic view as much Native Americans lost their land and dignity. Here’s to all the indigenous people, not just in my own little corner of the world, but to the original land lovers who had it right all along.

DNA, life’s common building block, was only discovered in the early 1950s, not even a nanosecond ago, considering the 13.7 billion years since our hot, tiny universe was born. Living in the Vast Lane requires us to embrace mystery. These are just the facts, apologies to one famous TV detective of the same era as this discovery. Perhaps just these facts will spark us to live in awe of who we are and what we are a part of.

In her enormously witty and profound one-woman show, In Search of Intelligent Life in the Universe, Lily Tomlin’s character, Trudy the Bag Lady, advises us to practice awe-robics every day.

Have you started your workouts?

Bookmarks

Our book launch and signing on March 29 at Borders was a resounding success for Capital Crimes: 15 Tales by Sacramento Area Authors. We had a steady stream of guests, enthusiastic chatter, coffee, tea, cookies, laughs, and a lot of interest in our local Sisters in Crime chapter. Thanks to all who stopped by and took home a copy of our short story anthology. Twelve of the fifteen authors were able to attend this first in a series of events to debut our book to the public. Who are we and what do we write about? Everything from dark to comical in mystery genre. Check Lulu for a chance to preview.

Locals have four more opportunities to purchase Capital Crimes locally and meet the authors:

Underground Books in Sacramento, on Saturday, April 12, 2:00-4:00P
located Next to Starbucks, Corner of 35th and Broadway

Central Library’s booth on Wednesday, May 7, 11:00A– 1:00P at the Farmer’s Market in Cesar Chavez Park between 9th & 10th and I/J Streets, across the Library

Roseville's Martha Riley Library on Saturday, May 31, 1:00-3:00 pm
1501 Pleasant Grove Blvd., Roseville, next to City of Roseville Sports Complex

Elk Grove Library on Saturday, June 7, 11:00A – 1:30P
8962 Elk Grove Blvd., Elk Grove

I will attend all the signings except for Underground Books, which I cannot make due to another commitment. Catch me on a panel at the Roseville event with five other authors and editors talking about our writing process and how we created our crazy quilt of crime capers set in our own backyard.

If you live in or within driving distance Sacramento and are interested in having the Capital Crimes chapter of Sisters in Crime at a signing in your neighborhood, contact me: hotflashbacks@gmail.com. If you know someone at a book store or library, all the more likely that we can arrange it.

Meanwhile, Capital Crimes, the book, can be purchased online at these sources: Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Lulu.

Finally, thanks, again, to all our readers for your support! Especially those who brought friends, flowers, and your smiles to an exciting day for a book debut.

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Photo by Jaci Muzamel: Capital Crimes authors Juanita Carr (L), Robin Burcell (C) , and Joyce Mason signing one of our books (R) at the Borders Book Launch in Sacramento.

St. Paddy's Day Publication Update

Dear Hot/Cool Club,

Happy St. Patrick’s Day! Today marks the six-month anniversary of this blog. I hope both you, and our community in the making, are blessed with a little luck of the Irish and enough blarney now ‘n’ then to make us giggle.

This festive celebration feels like the perfect time for an update. At least twice a year, I’ll devote a post to my publication progress on writings in the works. I’ll always announce any major publication milestones in a separate post.

Hot Flashbacks, Cool Insights, the book, is over 90 percent complete. That’s the good news. The bad news: Those final 30 pages are like trying losing the last ten pounds on a diet. I always put off the hardest part till last. I decided to set aside a few hours during Holy Week for the chapter I expect will be the most difficult to relive on paper. My husband would say I have a flair for the dramatic, even the melodramatic. At least I will be in the right atmosphere of historic and spiritual suffering. Sister Agnes Henry always said we should offer up our suffering, that we all have our crosses to bear. When will I get that woman out of my head?

This last leg of the book journey also comes at a time of increased activity, both inner and outer. If you have been reading these pages, you know already that we have lost half of our fur family in a short time span. We’ve had another death in the family and other losses.

But life goes on full blast, giving us barely enough time to get the joy in the morning promised to those who mourn. I have been back to work two days a week doing some fascinating editing work, and I won’t bore you with the rest of my litany of To Do’s. I am living proof that you cannot say baby boomer and “retire” in the same sentence with a straight face. Would we really want it any other way?

Heading the list of activities that are competing for my attention is the book launch and recent publication of Capital Crimes: 15 Tales by Sacramento Area Authors. See the right bar next to this post for ordering information and local book signing events. Capitol Crimes is the name of my local Sisters in Crime chapter. One of these short mystery stories is mine, and you could say it’s a small appetizer—a taste of the kind of humorous cozy crime caper I like to write. Granted, it is a bit more twisted than my mystery book on the back burner.

One of the reasons I’m eager to complete my first memoir is to get back to The Crystal Ball. The plot: A do-gooder and her ex-CIA agent beau join forces to prevent murder and mayhem at a New Year’s Eve costume party. She’s president of a longevity association, and the Crystal Ball is their silver anniversary—and someone wants to steal what he believes they have that he covets, the secret of immortality.


The Crystal Ball has been finished since 1990, but as I learned more about mystery genre, I have embarked on a major rewrite. It is the beginning of a series, and I am eager to take a break from Memory Lane to visit Fantasyland. I’d like to spend time in the heads of my fictional characters for a change. I think it would be perfect to alternate between memoir and mystery. (In fact, I met an agent once who suggested it.) I like to say I write M-in-M’s for memoir, inspiration, and mystery. I think the “in” is always there, between the lines of the pages of both kinds of M. However, sometimes I write straight inspiration. You’ve seen it here.

Once I’ve got that first draft manuscript done of Hot Flashbacks, Cool Insights (I’m aiming for May 1), I’ll do another round of agent and publisher queries, although I’m also open to self-publication to get it out there sooner than later. I’ll use my intuition—my hot flashes of insight!—to guide the way. I’ll be looking for the usual cosmic signs that I’m on the right path. And, of course, if you have any personal connections I should know about, do tell!

Meanwhile, thanks for your encouragement and envisioning a fabulous finished product that continues to find its audience. I’ve had a lot of time to think about what I want to get out of my life as an author. Fame and fortune is not my motivation, although I’ll accept them if cheerfully, if offered! What means the most to me is connecting with the people that will find my work helpful and entertaining, whether that’s in the hundreds, thousands, or millions. I got a taste of that fine fit in my astrological writing and hope to go there again with memoir and fiction.

Last but not least, Happy Spring! The Vernal Equinox is the natural New Year for us in the Northern Hemisphere. What metaphorical seeds do you want to plant in your life to sprout in spring, bloom fully in summer, and harvest this autumn? Some ideas: improving a relationship, changing your diet, growing a personal quality such as compassion.


Thanks for sharing the journey,
Joyce

The Power of Positive Puppy

When my beloved and I first got together in early 1997, he was living in Dallas. I lived in Sacramento. He had recently lost his job in a layoff due to a company downsizing. He was single—never married. He lived on a little manmade lake in the suburbs where his only pets were the ducks and other wildlife, except for his next-door neighbor, a Jack Russell Terrier.

It didn’t take more than a couple visits for us both to agree where our relationship was headed—a merger. That’s why I almost died when he called and told me that he missed me so much between visits, he just had to get a puppy.

What was he thinking? I had two cats! How would this ever work?

Even though I was raised with dogs, primarily boxers and one pansy poodle, I had converted to cats in early adulthood and never looked back. It wasn’t that I didn’t like dogs. I just found cats and their independent qualities and easy care fit my lifestyle better than being tied down to a needy dog. Especially as puppies, they were hard work and demanded constant attention.

However, once I saw a picture of that cute little Yellow Lab, I knew I’d just have to work it out. I was sucked right into the puppy vortex. (Look at this picture and tell me, could you have resisted Baby Bear?) Besides, how could I deny Tim companionship when I was over 1700 miles away and could only see him every couple of months. We had agreed to let our relationship develop in its own natural timing. Tim knew I wasn’t interested in an extended long-distance relationship, but I wasn’t pushing to move in together tomorrow, either. Tons of decisions had to precede that, including the toughest one of all: Which one of us would uproot and relocate?

The merger happened much sooner than we expected while sipping a tropical drink at a riverside restaurant in Sacramento. Tim had just come out for my father’s funeral, only three months after we had first gotten together in Dallas.

“I think I’m ready to move out here to be with you,” he said. “I can look for a job here just as easily as there. Besides, I don’t think you’d be happy in the Bible Belt.”

I was stunned. Later, he told me he was as surprised as I was. He had no idea that he felt that way—that he had already decided—until the words came tumbling out of his mouth.

Once that happy bomb was dropped on both of us, our lives were afire with more frequent calls and constant efforts to figure out the logistics of the move. He’d arrange to have a friend watch his house till he was ready to put it on the market. I’d take vacation and fly to Dallas the week before Memorial Day. We’d transport clothes and anything else we could fit into his car besides the puppy, then make our way to Sacramento in 500-600 mile increments—not pushing it—stopping frequently for puppy pit stops, staying overnight at the end of each of the three days it would take for the trek at that pace.

I’d like to say our trip was unremarkable, but we’ll never forget how miserable we were pushed all the way forward in our tight quarters in the front seat of Tim’s sporty Toyota Celica. Bear lounged in the back, seats down, in his huge crate, inverted to resemble a laundry basket and upsized for his ultimate growth. He took up a lot of space, a life-long quality. This scene also spoke volumes about who would be the center of attention in our family.

Bear’s happy, wagtail personality gave us all kinds of laughs along the way, especially his candid customer feedback at the Holiday Inn, where he entered the room, took one look, and pooped in the hallway. I had painstakingly researched dog-friendly accommodations. We’d tie him to a tree or fence near the pool while we’d try to work out our body cramps with a swim. People pushing 50 aren’t made for long drives with or without exuberant puppies. The worst part was eating fast food all day. Since we couldn’t leave Bear in the car alone in the hot weather, the drive-through was a must. The last night we actually got to visit a park and let him run around a little, and we felt comfortable to leave him in our room long enough to duck out for some real food before blimping out into something from Supersize Me.

Once settled in Sac and recovered from freaked-out cats, the real fun began. (Darrin hid for two days, making me question my new life decision seriously.) Bear developed an unholy love for his new mother, barked and got all agitated if Tim and I even so much as embraced. Our poochie pervert was wont to dig my underwear out of the laundry basket. One day he started tossing around a pair of panties then catching them in his mouth. After one of the tosses, the undies landed on his head over one eye. He looked just like a lecherous pirate. We laughed at that sight for years.

Bear redesigned my Birkenstocks with a scalloped edge I did not appreciate. Although it was already broken down and desperately needed replacement, he chewed through the fence and infuriated my landlord. But these were tiny, minor puppy indiscretions. He was wired, a dog that seemed to be bouncing on pogo sticks instead of paws. People with Labs would look at us with pity and announce that they rarely settle down till they’re five or six. We would lock eyes and telegraph a silent scream to each other. We were sure we’d never last that long.

But last we did, through an array of puppy and people problems way too long to list. Tim had health problems that taxed us for years and impacted many areas of our life together until they finally took a turn for the better. Bear had all kinds of challenges—hip dysplasia, which meant rigorous efforts to prevent future arthritis—Vitamin C and more Glucosamine and Chontroitin than we consumed as we approached senior status, then exceeded it. There were the intractable skin rashes and all kinds of salves, shampoos, and daily doses of antihistamines. He’d break out in terrible skin eruptions and his itching drove us all crazy.

He was expensive. (Who knew there was such a thing as a doggy dermatologist?) It was very difficult to find competent pet sitters and go anywhere overnight given his regime. It only got worse when he was diagnosed with Cushing’s disease at age 10. The symptoms were excessive thirst, drinking, and peeing often. His tendency to eat everything in sight worsened.

Cushing’s is a production of excess adrenal hormone. In Bear’s case, it was almost certainly caused by a benign pituitary tumor. The excess cortisol pumped by the adrenals had an upside. It was like giving him steroids for his bad hips. That’s why we decided not to treat him and to let nature take its course. The treatment is drastic—highly monitored doses of a DDT derivative to shrink the tumor. The amount has to be just right and requires five days of watching your dog like a hawk for changes in his appetite that signal he’s had just enough of the “poison” to help and not harm him. The treatment and monitoring cost several thousand of dollars and the maintenance dose of the drug is over $100 per month.

We had just spend nearly $3000 on an operation for Darrin, but I was ready to go for it until Tim reminded me that Bear’s hips were getting worse and the Cushing’s helped alleviate his growing discomfort and difficulty walking to a great extent. He wanted to go for quality, not quantity of life. Because Bear was originally his dog, I felt Tim’s opinion ruled, but it ultimately made sense to me, too. Later, two different vets said they’d probably have done the same thing. One told us she knew people who got all excited that there was a treatment for this disease, primarily of older dogs. They’d put out all that cash and hopefulness, only to have to put down their pooch six months later because of painful arthritis. We had to take into consideration all of Bear’s health issues.

Our boy’s last year was tough on all of us, although he kept his usual good humor nearly to the end. As is often typical in both animals and people, he had a last hurrah. His condition improved so much around his 11th birthday, we wondered if we were being pessimistic about the end being near. Sadly, it was only three days later, and it was not pretty. In a way, that was a blessing, because there was no question about what we had to do and its urgency.

It is difficult to let go of the glue in your family, the dog with a smile, the canine cheerleader whose goofiness brought sunshine to every dark day. He loved when I tucked him into his crate at night. He still slept in it in our bedroom—his one constant, his “blankie” or recreated womb—until his last year or two. Then he finally preferred to sleep near the foot of our bed. He’d run to the bedroom, and wait for his last biscuit (cookie) after his pills, and, of course, a goodnight kiss from Mom. We had this tender ritual we began when he was still a puppy. We borrowed it from the Waltons. We always said, “Nite-nite, Sweet Bear.” Tim and I nite-nite-sweeted each other and all the cats as well. I made up a song that was part of Bear’s routine. I sang it to the tune of Rock-a-bye Baby:

Nite-nite, Sweet Beary
In your soft crate
Mommy will tuck you
She won’t be late.
Gallop to Dreamland
Pills, cookie, kiss.
Isn’t it heaven,
Nite-nite like this?
(Spoken) Nite-nite, Sweet Bear.

I sang his song one last time on January 15, 2008 when the vet on duty sent him to Dreamland and Heaven for good. My heart was breaking to put him down so soon after losing Darrin only two months earlier, but one thing is true. Our four fur sons, including the two we have lost, will always be our family. They are the hub of the home we created together, whether they are with us in body or only in spirit.

No matter how many new four-legged bundles of love join our family in the future, there was only one dog for us in the whole world at a time in our lives riddled with stress and turmoil. His needs brought us out of our self-absorption. Bear was the greatest gift my husband ever gave me—the one I thought I didn’t need.

The power of positive puppy brought us joy every day, no matter what was going on. Just thinking of Bear always will.

Woozie Boozie!

Not woozy boozy (long oo’s)—your state after too much to drink. My birth mother Helen coined this cute expression. It’s pronounced woojee boojee (short oo’s, as in the word wood). Mind you, this is the same mother who told me I did not inherit any of my word fun and pun tendencies from her.

Woozie boozie is sort of an adult kitchy-kitchy-coo. It’s something to say when a friend or loved one does something adorable or needs support. It’s ooey gooey love without the tickle under the chin. It says, “You’re so cute,” or “Let me support you, hug you.”

There is no reason to stop this kind of verbal syrupiness just because a person grows up. It doesn’t matter what you call it or how you do it; adults need motherly little there-there’s and cheek pinches from their friends and families, too. Of course, not everyone can stand that much mushiness, certainly not my cats who run off when I woozie them once too many.

Helen signed all her letters with xo’s and WBs for woozie boozie. It has become an family in-joke. We woozie everything, and when Helen died, I got her closest friend, brother, and my husband and I glass heart ornaments for our Christmas trees engraved Woozie Boozie. A world without Helen was bad enough, but a world without woozies is not a place I want to live

Terms of endearment come naturally to me. I have to restrain myself not to call friends honey, dear, and sweetie. Some don’t mind and do it themselves; other’s react a little like my cats or at least a sour puss when I call them “names.”

Pet names, secret phrases—they are one of the charms of love in all its forms. When I was growing up, my adoptive parents called me Punkin—never Pumpkin with the second P. I think we tend to become what we’re called and constantly affirmed, as I was definitely their pun kin, the way I play with words unmercifully. If you become what you’re called, you’d think my sweetest endearments would be grabbed like the last dollar before payday.

Here’s some homeplay (the opposite of homework). What were your nicknames or favorite love words over the years? For a while my sister called me Jobie. Lots of people call me Joycie. I have a crazy affection for hon. (I still have an urge to name an especially docile dog Attila the Hon.)

How have these names and labels influenced you? And how about your nicknames and love words for others? Flash back and forward again with some cool insights.

Have fun with it!

xoxoWBs,
Joyce

Penny Candy: Sweet Memories

When I was nine, my parents bought the cottage across the street from my aunt and uncle’s year-round home on a spring fed lake in southern Michigan. I loved it, even though it was little more than a shack. It underwent a vast remodel as we, slowly but surely, made it our home away from home. Going to the cottage on weekends fed my sweet tooth and gave me a change of scenery from the Chicago suburbs. It also gave me cavities and sometimes a bellyache.

First, there was the sugar fix on the way. I was enchanted and ensalivated by the revolving “trees” of all-day suckers in the oasis restaurants on the Indiana Toll Road. I’d order chicken potpie, like my parents, but only because they’d make me eat something before my big dessert, one of the gigantic and colorful lollipops. I’d never seen anything like them. They were a kid’s dream come true, as spectacular to me as Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory. They were overpriced and a visual fireworks display in swirled sugar—one of my four basic food groups along with hot dogs, peanut butter, and popcorn.

Then there was the store across the lake. My sisters and I would walk nearly two miles one-way to spend a quarter apiece on brown bags full of penny candy. Nothing was more satisfying after that hot, long walk than biting into Laffy Taffy, chocolate cigarettes, Dum Dum Pops or sassafras drops. A kid could get all the juice she’d need for the walk back from two bits worth of penny candy, a veritable fortune and serious allowance save-up in the ‘50s. Now there are some wonderful boomer candy sites where you can get a sugar blast from the past, too: Treat Station, Candy Store, the Retro Collection at Groovy Candies—and you can even do a Nextag search and comparative price shop for those bottle cap candies I loved to bite into, buttons of pure colored sugar.

Unfortunately, these were not my only cane-driven indulgences. My school was only a block from a corner store with every kind of snack imaginable, as well as the local custard stand on the other corner. Remember frozen custard? I can still get it at Culver’s when we visit relatives in Wisconsin. Frozen yogurt doesn’t come close, and “regular” ice cream doesn’t have that soft, instant melt-in-your-mouth texture. For nostalgia nuts who don’t live in the Dairy State (of course, they’d still have it there!), check out this Custard Stand List I found. Looks like Wisconsin has more than any state, a good reason to visit the place. (Tell the tourist bureau. I’ve even got a slogan for ‘em—Custard’s last stand).

While sugar is a serious addiction in my life and the lives of many Americans in general, I have been thinking how much harder I had to seek the white powdery substance as a kid in middle school. We ate far fewer prepared foods, so it wasn’t snuck into every morsel with aliases like glucose, fructose, and maltose, among others. Sugar fixes were purer—witness my penny candy memories—and they were enough to make you sick to your stomach, if you ate too much—a self-correcting mechanism that we lack today. Now we have such a steady stream of the stuff, we just build up a tolerance and need more and more of it to take the edge off our need for a sugar fix. Substitutes are no answer, as evidence mounts proving them riskier than the sugar they replace with the exception of natural sweeteners like stevia.

But let’s put off a serious sugar fast till after Valentine’s Day. If he or she is the right vintage, give your favorite honey some boomer sweets for an old-fashioned, nostalgic V-Day. Visit an “antique” store and see what boomer object you can find to put it in, like a vintage lunch box. Or wouldn’t it be great to find one of those big red heart candy boxes of yesteryear?

I’m on the wagon with sugar. I plan to use these candies as art objects in a boomer collage I’m making …

… but just in case I fall off my high horse, pass the Pepto! Or for an even more retro advertising memory, the Alka Seltzer. (“Plop, plop, fizz, fizz, oh what a relief it is!”).

PS – Let’s hear from the “Peanut Gallery” with some comments about your sugary childhood faves!


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Photo by Art Ebsersole