Thanksgiving always brings memories of my father, especially, because he died around this time of year. One memory that crept out of the closet of my mind was about shopping trips to Sears. It was back when Sears was the #1 retailer, and had fascinating things going on like canister vacuum cleaners set up to blow air through their hoses, suspending a beach ball in the air. Or on hot summer days, window air conditioners turned up full blast with plastic streamers billowing on the delightfully frigid stream of air. But the best part was the huge (to me at the time) candy counter.
Every time we went to Sears (which back then meant once or twice a month) we would stop by the candy kiosk. Even if only my dad went, and mom stayed home, he would still bring me along just so I could get some candy.
I was pretty consistent in what I wanted: milk chocolate stars. Sure, sometimes I would get adventurous and want chocolate covered raisins, or those quarter sized chocolate patties covered with sprinkles. One time I even got peanut brittle. But I would always return to the delicious simplicity of chocolate stars.
They always bought 1/4 pound for me. I would watch in breathless anticipation as the lady behind the counter weighed out my selection and poured it into the white and red striped bag and hand it to my mother or father, who would then hand it to me with the requisite instructions of "Don't eat it all at once. Save some for later". I would nod dutifully in response.
I would of course pop one into my mouth immediately, and delight in the sensation of letting it melt slowly away, the lasting taste of chocolate on my tongue as the delicious star disintegrated offsetting the desire to chew it up for a burst of chocolaty goodness. But, true to my nodded commitment, I earnestly put forth my best effort to not eat all the chocolate stars in haste. Sometimes I would even eat one or two, then give the bag back to my mother to hold until we got to the car or arrived home, since either situation qualified as "later".
These chocolate-garnering ssoirees were also my first introduction to the concept of inflation. I would look at the price tag on the bin of chocolate, and try to figure out how much my quarter pound would cost. At the time I didn't think much of why my bounty clutched in that paper bag went from costing 15 cents, to 18 cents to 20 cents, then more as the months and years went by. "It's called inflation": my dad explained it all, when I asked about it. I think I was 8 at the time, and I really didn't comprehend that a 3 cent increase in the price of my quarter pound of chocolate reflected a $10 a month increase in the cost of groceries, or a new car costing $500 more than the last time dad bought one. In the mid-60s, that was a big increase in either expense.
Such things were beyond the concerns of a young boy who loved his parents for little things like buying him chocolate stars. Yet, as I look back on my life, it seems the simple things like that are the way I knew without doubt that my parents loved me and wanted my life to be filled with happiness and security.
When I grew into my teens, a quarter pound of chocolate stars was no longer enough to satisfy my budding teen narcissism. It took things like the right pair of jeans or shoes, eventually inflating to musical instruments costing hundreds of dollars. It's interesting, but now, whenever I reminisce about my dad paying for my bass trombone or my Les Paul guitar, I wince at the thought that I was so demanding.
Now when I think of those chocolate stars, the handful that would make up one quarter pound, and cost only a few pennies, I am most thankful for parents who loved me that much.
