One of those, three of these, please…

I know most of my brothers and sisters and older cousins can relate to the activities in this story, because we did them together many times back in the 60’s and early 70’s.  Like many things from our past, I’m afraid this experience is all but gone now. I’m talking about that classic kid activity: Going to the corner store for Penny Candy.

Penny candy galore!

This is my recollection of something that went on constantly over 50 years ago…your mileage may vary.  Please let me know in the comments what you remember.

First of all, you would be hard pressed to find anything for sale for a penny these days. In fact, a penny even costs more than a penny to make. It costs the U.S. Mint 1.55 cents per penny in 2016, even though all pennies since 1982 only have 2.5 percent copper, the rest being zinc.  That means that the U.S. government loses around $50 million a year making a coin that many people just toss in a jar or that is absorbed by their couch.

The poor penny is just not worth the trouble any more. Now, you might get lucky and find a 1943 1c Lincoln penny worth $5,450.00. Wouldn’t that be sweet (see what I did there?). I shudder to think how many collectible, high-value pennies and coins we mindlessly tossed on the counter for our sugar highs.

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Poor penny

Wait a minute you say, I saw an item on eBay or Amazon that only costs a penny. Sure you did…was it Amazon Prime, with free shipping?  Nope. Not at that price. That one penny item will cost you $5.01 with shipping. Such a deal.

Even when a penny was worth something you still needed to get those pennies into your hot little hand. So, if you wanted to get some penny candy the first thing you needed to do was conjure up some cold hard cash.

Need to make some cash quick!

We were basically slave labor as children at my parent’s house.  We didn’t get an allowance no matter how many chores we did.

We worked hard…but saw no cash!

Mow the lawn, trim the hedges, rake the leaves, wash the dishes, hoe the garden, clean the garage, weed the flower beds, watch your brothers and sisters… (mom) “You want an allowance?  Your allowance is food in your belly and a warm place to sleep, now get back to work!”.

So fund raising was key. And you had to be crafty. You couldn’t just beg from mom because she would ask “why do you need money?” Candy was not the right answer. We weren’t even allowed to go all the way to Ridges Carryout when we were young, even though we walked to school every day to Harry Russell elementary, which was right across the street from Ridges.

Made us walk all the way to school, but couldn’t cross the street to Ridges!. Also shows the bottle collection route down in Owl creek along Gibbons Rd

So still being stealthy, the first stop was to check all the furniture cushions. Everyone else had this idea as well, so it was not typically a big money maker. If you were really jonesing for a sugar fix, you might check out your brothers and sisters piggy banks, but these were usually well hidden or empty anyway.

There would be war if you got caught…

Not mentioning any names, but some of the clan may have stooped to pulling a Jesse James robbery by getting into the old metal cash box my parents kept in the back of their closet.

Weakest strongbox ever

This is where they “hid” (we all knew where it was) things like bonds, insurance forms, souvenir money from Germany, Italy, Vietnam, Korea and so on, along with my 2 dollar silver certificate papaw gave me and so on.

There was also a collection of dad’s blue coin collection folders for nickels, dimes and quarters. These folders were the kind that had a place for a coin for each year, so trying to not get caught you might just take one or two from each folder and other assorted loose change that included buffalo head nickels, wheat pennies, and other old coins.

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No bueno when too many coins were picked

The problem was that there were 6 kids, so 2 or 3 might have the same idea over time without thinking that others are doing it as well. The next time mom or dad looked into the cash box it might have been robbed blind. The end result was tanned hides for all, as no one ever fessed-up. Snitches may get stitches, but justice always prevails in the underworld of the sibling mafia.

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If no one speaks up, we all get a buff bustin’

The surest way to get your stake was to actually work for it and search the neighborhood for pop bottles. You could make 2 cents a bottle for returning them to the same place they came from…the stores selling the penny candy.  What a racket. It reminds me of the Hudson Bay Company, where they sold the trappers the flour, beans and other trade goods to live on, so they could bring back the furs and exchange them for flour, beans and trade goods to do it all over again.

Of course, every kid in the neighborhood was in on this secret and was doing the same thing…unless they were snotty rich kids whose parents simply gave them money or the poor, deprived, only-child that had no siblings to compete with. Does anyone even say only-child anymore?

Every kid had their own secret methods to track down bottles, kind of like the trapper had his trap-line.  You didn’t tell anyone your bottle route and if you ran across another kid on your line there might be a turf war over the bottles.

In those days you didn’t pull out a Glock or AK to fight, you just yelled or threw dirt clods at each other until someone gave in or their mother called them for dinner.  When I say called, there were no cell phones, they just yelled at the top of their lungs.  When’s the last time you thought of a dirt-clod fight?

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Dirt clod fight!

I liked walking the creek bed right along Gibbons road as it was on the way to Ridges.  People would drink their cold pop on the way back to their house, and finished up, huck them over into the creek so they didn’t have to carry the empty bottle any longer.

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I know there’s a bottle in here somewhere…

Some broke as they hit rocks in the creek bed, but bottles were thick and substantial back then as they were used over and over. Some would miss the rocks, hitting the water, mud or grass.

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Old school bottles…

If I didn’t have enough by the time I got to Ridges I would scour the dumpster or go into the neighborhood side streets, checking trashcans and other places where people leave trash.  Often down at the paper mill workers would leave a few empties behind where they had lunch.

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Two cents each please!

Depending on your mood…whether you just wanted a quick fix or a full bag of candy, it might take an hour or just a few minutes.  You might already have a start with a bit of birthday money or a quarter from papaw, or maybe you squirreled away some lunch money…who wanted to eat a deviled ham sandwich and succotash anyway?

So with your pocket jangling with coinage or your wagon rattling with bottles, you had to make it to your local penny candy emporium to redeem them.

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Money in the bank

Back in the days before corporate bean counters created “fun-size”, candy was very cheap…people actually handed out full size candy bars on Halloween. Every neighborhood or small town had a pharmacy, five-and-dime or small neighborhood market on the corner that sold penny candy.

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Where do I start?

We had a penny candy dealer staked out in every neighborhood, waiting for us like a corner drug pusher to show us their multi-flavored wares to give us that sugar rush we couldn’t live without.

Closest to our house in West Carrollton was Ridges Carryout, at the corner of Gibbons and Elm.  Today it is named Lynn’s but it is now a Trophy shop after several name changes over the years.

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Ridges as it looks today as Lynn’s Trophy Shop

This was a classic old wooden building that was raised up above the typical flood range of the creek along Gibbons road. The local creeks used to flood several times a summer back then. Sounds like they have fixed that with better engineering.

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I see on Google Maps that it has had a face lift with vinyl siding, and missing all the old metal signs (and charm). Probably sold them for a nice profit as they became rare and more valuable.

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I actually played on Ridges little league team for a year or two and after each game the team stopped in for some free candy and a coke.

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Playing left field, number 13! We beat Cox’s Army 6-2 and I got the game ball for 5 hits, including a double and 8 steals. Only game ball I ever received 🙂

You would walk up the wooden steps to the covered porch, past all the metal signs for Coca-Cola, 7-Up, RC Cola, beer and cigarettes and pull open the screen door, hopping inside before it snapped shut on your butt if you weren’t fast enough.

Once inside, it was like you had entered Willy Wonka’s factory, albeit on a much less grand scale and with a worn wooden floor that squeaked.  There you would gaze at the counter full of glass jars full of gumballs, jaw breakers and peppermint sticks.

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Too much good stuff!

There were wax root beer bottles, cherry lips and mustaches…

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candy cigarettes, Atomic Fireballs, Black Jack Taffy, Dum Dum suckers, Bull’s Eye caramel creams with that weird white creamy stuff in the middle, gum drops, taffy, Necco wafers,

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Typical goodies

Caramel cubes, root beer barrels, Smarties, Tootsie Rolls, Bottle Caps, Chuckles, various flavors of stick candy and the ever popular candy necklace…you just stretch it around your neck and chew a button off whenever you want, sticky neck be damned!

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Around, your neck, around your wrist…quick snack when you’re on the go

We had the usual spot figured out. If we wanted to range a little further afield from Ridge’s we might go to Reeds Drug Store or Bob’s Carryout.

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Good ole Bob

Bob was always super friendly but Reed’s had a “newer” more upscale vibe since it was a pharmacy, not like the old-school mom and pop stores with the humming and squeaking fan-belt refrigerators, old reach-in Coke coolers that you could barely see into and shelves crammed so full the aisles felt like canyons.

Find yourself over at Mamaw and Papaw’s house on Miami Chapel in West Dayton?  There was The Moraine Market, caddy-corner to Delco Moraine and across from George’s barbershop.

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Papaw Profitt on the porch of his old place with the Moraine Market over his shoulder

This was one of the first local markets to close down, I don’t remember going here as much as the other places.

Going to Miami Shores to visit Aunt Jean and Uncle Jim?  Before they rebuilt the Sellars Rd bridge, our favorite place for candy was the Tradin Post

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My favorite of all time…

You had to make a quick dog leg to the right as you came over the Shores bridge on Sellars Rd. The Benson’s house was right around the corner to the left.

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Showing where the old dog leg road and the Tradin Post used to be.

When the new bridge came in they expanded the road on both sides and renamed Sellars Rd Main Street.

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New bridge going in, old bridge on the right.

It was a sad day for everyone when the Tradin Post was torn down to make room for all the construction.

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Where the Tradin Post used to be

But we are talking candy so we easily switched our allegiances to the store down the road a block, called the Family Market.

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One of the versions of the Family Market

Today, after a tear down and rebuild, and a remodel or two, it’s called K&R Supermarket.

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K & R today

In between was also Buck’s, who moved here after Woody’s success chased him away from West Carrollton.  I don’t remember going here very much either.

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Where Buck’s Market used to be

If we were over at Aunt Janice and Uncle Ronnie’s when they lived on Orange Ave? We had to hoof it 3 blocks or so over on South Dixie to Speaks Market.

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Sneaking off to Speaks Market when the Crider’s lived on Orange

The hardest part of the whole process, and the most fun, was choosing what candy you wanted in your sack.  So many choices. You had to balance quantity and quality for the change in your pocket.  You might get several items for a penny, like simple hard candies, or 1 item might cost 2 or 3 cents, like chocolates.

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One of those, 3 of these, please…

I can only imagine how much patience it took being a clerk waiting for a group of 6-8 year olds to get done picking candy.

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Picky, picky, picky

But no matter what, you could fill a small paper sack for a quarter.

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Can I get 3 more Pixie sticks?

Decisions made, we would all go running out to play with our cousins and ruin our appetites for supper.  If we were at the Tradin’ Post we might grab some cardboard from the back and go up on the levee to sled down the dry grass to the river bank.

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High speed down the levee…no helmets back in the day

I remember sliding down and having a piece of broken glass slice through my cardboard like it was a devilish set-up to kill James Bond…the glass slicing closer and closer to the family jewels until I rolled off. I was careful to clear my slide path after that.

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Watch out for glass!

Where ever we were, high on sugar, we would run wild with our many cousins around whatever neighborhood we were in, playing tag, red rover or 4 square, chasing firebugs, climbing trees or playing hide and seek well after the street lights came on.

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Favorite summer activity, collecting firebugs

As the penny’s purchasing power was reduced to nothing, a lot of the mom-and-pop stores also disappeared as they were run out of business by the big chain grocery stores like Kroger super stores, Cub’s and Mega this and that.  Penny candy just seemed to fade away, tucked away in our dusty memory banks as we grew older.

Not for a penny and just not the same

In researching this story, I do see that there are candy companies selling bulk bags of old-fashioned taffies, wax-coated root beer bottles, Smarties and Dum Dum suckers. Can you buy any of this retro candy for a penny?  Nope. Even if you buy in bulk you need to bust out the nickels, dimes and quarters for each piece. Plus shipping.

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Not for a penny anymore!

But if you ask me, the most important thing missing today is the experience of running into that corner store a sweaty mess with grass stained bare feet, with a handful of pennies, looking at all the incredible choices and picking exactly what your pleasure was for that exact moment in time.

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As you recited each item you wanted with meticulous care and laid that sweaty money on the counter for the clerk to count out, you felt like a million bucks, all for a few pennies.

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Brawling Cowboy Style

My younger brother Greg and I used to get into some real “two men enter, one leaves” cage style fights when we were growing up.  It was pretty much classic sibling rivalry between a suave, sophisticated older brother and a younger, bull-headed brute of a younger brother. It’s my story and I’m sticking to that.

Two hardheads in 1966. Mom got more milage from our jeans with those iron-on knee patches.

Most of our dust-ups started out innocently enough, as sibling brawls go…the Saturday morning cartoons are over, mom and dad are out grocery shopping… we switch over to old school “Big Time Wrestling” on the TV.  After a few drop kicks from Flying Fred Curry, a coco-butt from Bobo Brazil and a stomach claw from Killer Kowalski, one of us would wind up doing a flying elbow drop onto the other from the back of the couch and it was on.

Bobo Brazil has the Shiek in a headlock after a coco-butt or two.

Our fracases generally started out as merely intense wrestling matches, but as we grew tired the moves got more more and more desperate… eye gouging, biting, nard punching, and even the odd wet-willy were all a fairly standard repertoire of moves.  As we advanced to back-flip reversals and moves learned about during real wrestling from elementary school gym class, everything intensified.

Bobo cranking it up a notch.

If you really wanted to escalate you would act like you were going to spit in the other guys face while you were holding him down…seeing how far you could let a spit goober ooze out before sucking it back in two or three times would drive the other to go full clobbering time Hulk. The goal was to make the other guy cry uncle or tap out, and with two hardheaded Profitt’s, bones would have to come close to snapping for that to happen.  These death matches could be brutal and go on for 20 or 30 minutes, with no bell to save you.  Big Time Wrestling, the 3 Stooges and Looney Tunes cartoons showed us the way.

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Learned from the best

Dad had more or less encouraged this rough-housing among us boys from an early age.  It was all fun and games until someone got hurt and mom got involved. When we got to the point of breaking furniture and each other too bad he did the classic old-school dad thing and bought us 2 pairs of boxing gloves.

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Classic way to settle things

I think he figured this would at least cut down on the eye gouging and finger biting since he could referee.  However, having spent 20 years in the Army, where personal issues were settled with gloves, Pugil sticks or in a bear pit, he got a real kick out of us going at it until one of us cried uncle or got a bloody nose. I can still picture him giggling like Dick Dastardly’s dog Muttley as we pummeled the snot out of each other.

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Muttley found humor in everything,

While he tried to explain the basics of keeping up your guard, jabs, hooks and uppercuts, we always rapidly devolved to a school-yard free for all with us rolling around on the ground…except with boxing gloves on.

As the oldest, I had more of psychological advantage than a physical one. Greg is a year and a half younger but was on the husky side compared to me, so he was pretty close to my size. Our blood would get to boiling until we were like two jacked-up pit bulls waiting to be released at a dog fight.  I can’t remember for the life of me what started one of these incidents, but it ended up with me speeding through the house after Greg and out the back door.

This happened in the mid 60’s while dad was still in Vietnam. We had just moved into a brand new house in West Carrollton and the back porch was more a six foot tall set of steps leading down from the 2nd story than the porch it would become years later.

Scene of the infamous porch jump, 1966.

Greg had a bit of a lead on me as he ran down the steps, so I thought I’d outsmart him by diving off the top of the porch and landing on him cowboy style like all the westerns show.  I timed it just right as he cut right, gave a mighty leap and landed…right on a tomato stake.

Stunned, I found I was not on my brothers back ready to pummel but impaled in the back of my upper right thigh deep enough that I couldn’t pull myself free.  The force of my jump jammed the stake even further into the ground. My left foot could barely touch the ground as I stood on my tippy-toes to help relieve the pressure of the stake that was nearly up my ass.

Laurie and Phil had run out the door behind us, always wanting to participate as audience rather than being “in the ring” themselves.  Mom was inside the house and they started yelling loudly that I had a stick up my butt and to hurry out before I died.

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Such well behaved children. That couch suffered.

Mom tried valiantly, but could not manage to lift me off by herself without doing more damage. This was before 911 and dad was off fighting the war, so she called Aunt Janice, our father’s baby sister that was our chauffeur and 2nd mother while dad was gone.

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Aunt Janice in front of our house, act 1966

Janice wasn’t sure that even together, they could pull me up and off the stake high enough, so she called her brother, Uncle Densil, to come over as well.  They got there about the same time, and after Densil cracked a few jokes about sticks and asses, stopped laughing and pulled me off the stick with an awful sucking sound.

Then it was off to the emergency room at St. Elizabeth since mom thought it was too deep for her standard nurse treatment of flooding it with peroxide and slapping on a butterfly bandage. When the doc came into the treatment room I’m almost sure I remember Densil saying something like “Doc, the boy got a stick up his ass and needs you to pull it out”.

He put me belly down on his examination table and poked around a bit, making me wince.  He gave me several shots of local anesthetic, again making me wince. Everything numbed up back there and he really went to town.  Poking and prodding, describing everything he was seeing as he went. “This is pretty deep, I’ll probe to see if I can find any splinters or dirt…this is just fat protruding out of the wound, no muscle, that’s good…oh, what is that…poke, poke, poke”

Meanwhile I’m listening to all of this face down, bare butt open to everyone in the room, unable to see what is going on with my leg. This being my first experience with a local anesthetic, I’m thinking “oh my god, I can’t feel anything, my leg is dying” and expressed that to the Doc.

He reassured me that was a good thing, otherwise I would feel intense pain. I relaxed a bit and assumed playing the role of a morbidly fascinated sub-teenage boy, asking “what did it look like, was it gross, how much blood”, etc., and the Doc played along, describing what he saw and what he was doing.

It felt very weird when I felt the tugging of each stich, yet nothing else.  “How many stiches” I asked, trying to determine how much neighborhood street cred I was going to get out of this.  “Only 4?” I replied when the Doc told me. I knew I needed to pump those numbers up if I was going to compete with some of the local kids.

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Only four stitches?

“It’s not a very big hole” he said, “it is just very deep”. “OK, good”, I thought, “I’ll go with the very deep thing.”  After all, mom would have just put a butterfly on it and called it good, and I had a score to settle with little brother.

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Brotherly love