Candy Corn


The lidded candy dish sat on the piano in my grandmother’s living room. It’s dark blue glass took on an iridescent glow when the light hit it. As pretty as it was, it was the treasure inside that I anticipated.

Grandmunie lived 300 miles away. After the long trip in the car, we’d pull into her driveway and tumble out to receive her hugs and kisses. As soon as she finished, I would pull away and run inside to see if she remembered. Climbing up the piano bench, I’d carefully raise the lid of the candy dish, look inside and smile. It was there, candy corn. I’d put a piece or two in my mouth, savoring the sweetness of the candy and the satisfaction that she had remembered.

I don’t know how the tradition began. Did she put it there because I loved it, or did I stumble across her stash and discover a new candy? I don’t even remember if my younger sister liked it or not. What I do remember is how special I felt because she always had candy corn in the candy dish when I arrived.

Even today, the sight of the orange, yellow and white triangles takes me back to my childhood, and the special connection I had with my grandmother Gladys*.

*I was named after both my grandmothers: my first name Gladys from my paternal grandmother, and my middle name Lou from my maternal grandmother (Myrtle Lou).

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