ammogirl

(This has turned into an annual tradition of sorts; I first posted this on Father’s Day 2004, and I think every Father’s Day since. )

My mom and dad own a candy store. It really is the world’s best candy, and believe me, I’ve eaten a LOT of candy in my life. As a result, my dad is a candyman. When you’re a little girl, that is the coolest thing in the world.I spent a large portion of my childhood at that candystore. Most of my childhood memories are there. I grew up, not so long ago, no, but in that different time when you could send your six year old daughter two blocks down to the corner store and let her sit there for half a day reading comics, and not worry about her getting stolen. I did that a lot. I knew all the neighboring shop owners… and there were quite a few over the years, in the big building next door that first held a junk/antique shop. I hung with the owners of Catch the Wind long before they were internationally known in the kite world. I’m sure my love of reading was forged in the library next door.

I also spent a lot of time with my parents. Mom was all right to watch, but her job was dipping the chocolates or working the cash register. Either it got boring or I was underfoot… you have no idea how busy a candy store can be in the summer. You can’t entertain your kid when you’re working the counter. So most of the time, I hung out with my dad.

I’d watch him make candy, not really consulting the always open recipe book he had available at all time. Those recipes were ancient, given to him by the previous owner, made his by time. I’d watch other people watch him, the whole kitchen encased with windows so the customers could see the old fashioned way of making candy. When it was caramel day, he’d send me down to the store to get evaporated milk, cans and cans of it. On stick candy and sucker day I’d get my own place, along with everyone else that worked there, rolling it, making suckers, jamming the handles in. I stood on my little can and thought I was so cool, how jealous the tourist kids must be… So many other memories… smelling all the flavoring oils, dad reaching up to the high shelf and getting the one I wanted over and over, so I could smell it just one more time. Driving to Jerry’s Ice Cream store to get the big buckets of ice cream, back when the candy store was also an Ice Cream store. I was about 4, and my dad would have me read the menu for Jerry and his wife, proud that I could. Getting Ooga-Nooga burgers. I could go on forever.

I told my dad once, when I was about 8, I think, that I loved him more than I loved my mom. He just laughed. You won’t always. That’s all he said.

Of course he was right. I grew up, and what teenage girl loves her dad? I certainly didn’t. I couldn’t stand him… anything about him. We fought, I moved out, moved back in, moved out again. Came in the military. Had my own daughters. My relationship with my dad has been, shall we say, turbulent. I don’t know why, except that maybe we are so alike and it’s hard to see that, to admit you’re like your parent.

I always tell everyone I had a weird childhood. I didn’t have friends, I spent a lot of time by myself, I wasn’t a normal little girl. Maybe I didn’t have a childhood like everyone else; my parents owned a business in a tourist town, and because they are who they are, they wanted that business to not just succeed, but to thrive, and they wanted to do it themselves, not let someone else do it for them, even if that did mean they didn’t spend a lot of time at home. But I realize now how lucky I actually was. Because what I did have was a father who always loved me, no matter what. Who taught me to be silly, not serious. Who showed me that the little things are more important than the big things. And who made sure I knew one thing: that no matter what, no MATTER WHAT, he was always proud of me. Always.

I’ve always been proud of you too, Candyman.

I love you dad. Happy Father’s Day.