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During the ‘60s, at places like Woodstock, when other kids were doing drugs, getting high, and dropping out, I was being good. At the local movie theater, I was doing duds, Milk Duds that is. Sure, they had their downside: chocolate smudges, rotten teeth, and zits galore.
But such candy had another capability: gateway to more powerful sweets. Before long, I'd escalated to Walnettoes. I popped them chewy little chunks like pills, forgetting sometimes to remove their wax paper coverings. Soon, I wanted a bigger taste treat, so I started experimenting with all-day, taffy suckers. Then I couldn't stop.
To support my candy habit, I resorted to selling plumbing services, learned in shop class, at curbside. I'd wait on a corner. Men and women drove up in cars, rolled down their windows, and asked if I felt like plunging in. For $5.00, I'd fix leaks, clear drains, and thread pipe. I'd then make my next candy buy.
Soon my self-worth went right down the toilet. Police picked me up as a derelict then. And I'd shake the next morning when appearing before the magistrate. He'd take pity and hospitalize me.
That's when they found I'd become diabetic. So I entered a 27-step anti-sweet program. Today, I'm proud to say I'm clean from candy, but have to give myself three insulin shots daily for the rest of my life.
