AN EASTER CONFECTION

 Easter is a week away, and my mouth is watering for a peanut butter egg...The magical Easter Bunny was coming again...In the kids' year, this was the number two holiday, just a notch below Christmas. And in my family, not only did I get an Easter basket – I always got a new pair of shoes. Whether I needed them or not!

On our annual pilgrimage to Freeman's shoes store, where I got to look at the bones of my feet. (I learned years ago that his magical machine was a fluoroscope unit – that was radiating with X-rays, practically every kid in Millville, a couple of times a year.)  But our shoes always fit. (A shoe store never would use this marketing device in today's more health-conscious environment.)

Fred, the greatest shoe salesman, would make a face that said "Oh No" when we walked in because he knew I would try on every shoe in the store (to make up my mother's mind for me) and would immediately go to bring up the first armload of shoe boxes from the basement storeroom.  And my job began - try one shoe on for over an hour; walk up to the mirror and back. Continue until mother announces, "he likes that one!" The ordeal ended. Shopping for shoes was a tribulation. Shopping for toys was fun. But the only fun here was my chance to see the tiny picture of Buster Brown and his dog Tige inside the heel of my shoe.   Every time I looked at it, I would hear his commercial on the radio. "I'm Buster Brown. I live in a shoe. That's my dog Tige. Look for him there, too." I was always sad when their smiling faces inevitably wore off.  

It seemed every pair of shoes I ever got had a squeak in one of them every other step I took for a month, to the delight of my classmates. I always got a laugh when I was called to go to the blackboard to solve a math problem. I didn't always get a new outfit for our Easter Sunday visit to the Fourth Methodist Church, but I could count on a new pair of shoes. 

But back to the important stuff, Easter was made for me at 9 years – the goodies. Next on our agenda was our annual trip to the great candy haven on High Street – Giuffra's, the town's own confectioner. Wow! A real candy factory that predated Willie Wonka's - just thinking about the aromas in their showroom makes me hungry for one of their famed chocolate bunnies, wrapped in purple foil.  The scents in the retail shop were a magical combination of chocolate, licorice, and powdered sugar that I loved to smell the moment we walked in the door. Each year, I stared at a four-foot chocolate Bunny on display in the window. It seemed to grow each year, and I wonder, to this day, if it was real or just wood painted a deep brown… did some kid really ever get one like this? How long would it last? Would you (could you) be allowed to eat it all by yourself? Alas, the store is gone now (like many on our main street). I will never know the answer to the mystery of the giant bunny.

I always went directly to the giant display case, which held an array of great "homemade sweets. On display was the store's main product - personalized, filled Easter eggs in two varieties that ranged from a small quarter-pounder to a football-sized pound of goodness – I hoped that I would find a coconut-filled egg again this year in my basket, with my name inscribed in white script. I also made sure mom knew I didn't like the other kind with the pink stuff and a yellow center. Definitely not as tasty.

Now, years later, I realize that our visit to the candy store was my mother's clever way of seeing if my tastes for Easter candy delights had changed. She was never one to waste a penny on something I didn't like. She would return later to help Mr. Bunny fill my basket - ensuring I would need, sooner than later, another visit to Doc Abrams, the ever-drilling dentist - I think I alone supported his family.

Frankly, I still believed in Santa Claus. I was just hedging my bet, just in case on the big one, but I really couldn't believe in the Easter Bunny!  Even at my callow age, I couldn't fathom how a small rabbit, even a magical one, could bring a heavy candy-laden basket to every kid, everywhere. But I went along with it to humor my mother.

I must confess that at nine years old, I already had an obsession. With much self-restraint, I made my Easter candy last a whole week. I ration my intake to one marshmallow peep at a time and so forth. I was positive that my friends ate everything in their baskets the first day – they were a bunch of outrageous hedonists all!  I, however, righteously believed this sacrifice made the candy sweeter and the fun last for a couple of more days. I have to admit I was a very weird kid.

  Moral to this story: Waiting just takes longer.  If I could do it all over, I would eat everything in the basket before the first church bell rang!