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Reflections February 2016

Musings of an Undefeated Matriarch

The 40-Day Candy Drought

By Sharon Kennedy

It was drummed into our heads that “giving up” something was the proper way to show God we loved Him, but it wasn’t out of love for God we gave up candy. It was out of obedience to our parents. We had no choice. Mom and Dad laid down the law. Candy was forbidden Monday through Saturday.

When I was a kid, Lent was the most dreaded time of the year because it meant only one thing. Candy was off limits from Monday through Saturday. For some reason known only to parents, it was okay on Sunday to devour all the candy bars I hoarded during the week. I’ve never been good at math, but those 40 days of fasting don’t include Sunday. If you count the days between Ash Wednesday and Easter, you won’t get 40.

But I never gave that a second thought. All I knew was I had to give up candy. It was drummed into our heads that “giving up” something was the proper way to show God we loved Him, but it wasn’t out of love for God we gave up candy. It was out of obedience to our parents. We had no choice. Mom and Dad laid down the law. Candy was forbidden Monday through Saturday.

I suppose every kid loves candy in all its forms, but I was a purist. Jelly beans stuck to my teeth so they didn’t interest me. Heath bars were too hard, Three Musketeers too soft, Junior Mints too strong. Mounds had too much coconut, Payday too many nuts, and a bridge mix was just too complicated. Chocolate covered cherries were fine once the cherries were spit out and fed to the dogs.

As a purist, I went straight for Cadbury’s Caramello bar. It was the most delicious candy bar ever to land on a store shelf. The brilliant blue wrapping, the crinkle of silver paper, the ooze of velvety smooth caramel all spoke to my sweet tooth. Never has there been a candy bar as heaven-sent as that one. The stuff sold today has the same name, but the taste doesn’t compare to its counterpart of years ago.

Growing up Catholic in Brimley, Michigan, wasn’t easy. Those delicate years of my religious youth were shaped by a harsh priest, a stern lady from St. Ignace who taught catechism classes every Saturday morning, and a mortal fear of God. Jesus was as real to me as the Easter Bunny, Santa Claus, or the Tooth Fairy. I believed in Him, of course, but it never occurred to me to pray to Him. Baltimore II taught us the Pope took the place of God on earth, which meant Pope Pius XII was more significant than Jesus.

But I digress. Back to the candy drought of 1957. I can’t say for sure that’s the right year, but one year is as good as another when you’re a kid. I remember as if yesterday the tragedy of a Sunday in Lent. When we got home from church I ran upstairs and checked all my hiding places — my toy metal stove, the drawers of my play cupboard, my red plastic sugar bowl. I rummaged through my dolls’ beds, their stroller, and a pretty shoe box holding all my holy cards, but it was no use. My sweets were gone.

You can imagine how I felt. I had fasted all week, attended the Stations of the Cross on Thursday evening, said my prayers, did my chores, obeyed my parents, and this was my reward. The candy bars I tucked away had vanished. There wasn’t a wrapper or chocolate morsel to be found. I have no idea how the rest of that Sunday went, but I’m sure I begged candy from all family members. And being good-hearted souls, I’m sure everyone contributed, even the culprit who stole my Caramello stockpile.

Lent is no longer the dreaded time it used to be. Kids may or may not have to “give up” something. Stations of the Cross have been abandoned in many churches, and being spiritual is more important than being religious. The convictions of my youth aren’t what they used to be either, and my Catholic roots have withered like October’s Winesaps.

Looking back, there was something comforting about our strict Lenten tradition. The routine never wavered, there were no surprises, and children never questioned anything. We couldn’t wait for Sunday to enjoy a simple pleasure like munching candy bars after a week of no sugar.

My, how things have changed!

 

You know what I mean don’t you?

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