<strong>By Norman Knight</strong>
We were visiting with the four grandkids, and, as usual, there was lots of noisy talking. (They are a chatty bunch.) At some point in one of the several threads of conversation, the words “lemon drops” came out.
The oldest grandkid (age 11) paused and then with the slightest smile (I’m sure I wasn’t imagining it) made a comment to the effect that lemon drops are for old people. When I questioned that assumption, I got the distinct impression that his mom, also slightly smiling, agreed.
I tried to explore the basis of his (and her) belief that the classic yellow candies were somehow an identifier of a particular age cohort. From what I can piece together, lemon drops is a mostly satirical shorthand that comedians, cable cartoonists and authors of adolescent books might use as an easy way to designate something or someone as elderly. Who knew lemon drops were so funny?
I wasn’t aware of the modern, underlying meaning of lemon drops. As I think about it now, though, I realize I, too, have heard joking references that associate certain candies with the geriatric demographic. I vaguely picture a scene where some sweet little old lady digs a piece of hard butterscotch candy from the bottom of her purse and offers it to a young person who is slightly confused as to what he is receiving. It makes me wonder if all the generation categories: the Gen Xers, the Millennials, the whatever the next group will be called (Generation Z?), have candy associated with their group. Probably.
I was a big fan of lemon drops when I was a kid and proudly accept them as an honorable badge of my Baby Boomer heritage. (I will argue, though, against butterscotch candy as being of my generation. To me, it has more of an echo of my grandmother’s house.) Still, if those Gen Zs need more candy ammunition for their satirical stereotypes of us Boomers, I have a few suggestions from the corner candy store of my memory.
First, how about candy cigarettes? Think about it. We were eating what was basically sticks of white sugar while subconsciously adapting our minds to the pleasures of tobacco. In addition, on the display racks near the cardboard packs of candy cigarettes were pink bubble gum cigars also pushing Big Tobacco’s hidden agenda. How did we survive our childhoods?
After we spent our precious pennies and nickels on sweet cigarettes and cigars, we might sample some red wax lips. Yes, paying good money to chew on slightly sweetened paraffin was our idea of fun. In the same category of candy facial enhancements, I seem to remember black licorice mustaches. You know, with facial hair sprouting from every other hipster in Starbucks and with the prevalence of lip augmentation on those runway model wannabes wandering the mall, I’m thinking those two items would be big hits these days.
On the chewing gum display we were offered many options. Originally developed in the 19th century by Dr. Edward E. Beeman as an aid to digestion, Beeman’s Gum was a neighborhood favorite. For licorice fans, Blackjack Gum was black gold, and if you were in the mood for an intense chewing experience, Clove Gum was your choice.
The mere mention of certain candy bars harkens me back to the old neighborhood drug store. A Clark Bar or Bit-O Honey was a portal to sucrose nirvana.
Of course, any Boomer worth his or her Schwinn banana seat bicycle cannot think of those candy bars without remembering the TV commercials that advertised them. The Clark Bar Talking Camel and the Bit-O-Honey jingle took up permanent residence in my head. I can still sing it today.
After our conversation, I went looking for and finally found some lemon drops to share. Three out of four g-kids agreed: They may be old-fashioned, but they were good. I’ll bet they would like red wax lips, as well.
<em>Norman Knight, a retired Clark-Pleasant Middle School teacher, writes this weekly column for the Daily Journal. Send comments to [email protected].</em>
