World's Finest Fundraiser

The candy bars we sold each year.

Every year, the Catholic school I attended as a kid would have us sell World's Finest chocolate bars to raise money for our school and church. Yummy $1 milk chocolate with almond bars that broke into four perfect squares. Each chocolate bar wrapper included a coupon for a free McDonald's hamburger on the inside fold.

The bars always came packaged in a brown cardboard box of about 30. The cardboard box took on such an incredibly sweet scent. I remember wanting to devour bar after bar and sometimes I did! The box had a cardboard handle at the top. I remember how heavy the box would start out in the morning when I'd go to sell them, then get lighter and lighter as each sale was made.

My favorite hot spot to push these delicious treats, was at Franklin General Hospital, a block away from our home. I could easily sell about 60 bars in a day. I believe this location was my father's idea. He swore that visitors could buy them for patients and hungry nurses could pick one up on their way to their shift.

I was a very motivated kid candy seller. Why? I longed for those cheap-ass prizes in the catalog. Stupid crap like jump ropes, sticker books and other toys my folks could have easily purchased from Toys R Us or TSS (a popular department store near us back in the 1980s). One item in particular really caught my eye. It was a water bottle for my bike. I wanted this water bottle so badly for some reason. I remember how excited I was the day my dad attached it to my 10 Speed. I was such a geek.

Example of a simple water bottle for a bike

Things were going well selling World's Finest candy bars at the local hospital. I worked that location for about three years until one Sunday afternoon, one of the priests from our church happened upon me. He suggested I stop selling them there. What a jerk that priest was. From that day on, I never really made many sales. He screwed his own church by insisting I find a new location. Oh well.

Did you sell these chocolates for school when you were a kid?

It's Like Riding A Bicycle

"I'm doooing it! I'm doooing it!" I remember screaming at the top of my lungs.

I was doing it. Mom was no longer holding onto the back of the bike seat.  Gone were the rusted metal training wheels.  Gone was that clinkity-clink sound which always followed as I pedaled. Nope, this was a glorious day. It was just me, two wheels, the pavement, velocity and the air. I was one with the wind. 

Sitting atop the plastic orange seat of my little maroon-colored bike, I remember thinking how it was truly a perfect summer day. The sun was shining. The sky was the bluest of blues peppered with non-threatening cotton white clouds. I heard birds singing, but remained focused directly on the concrete ahead.

Kindergarten graduation had come and gone. I was moving forward onto bigger and better things. First grade in Valley Stream awaited me. I firmly believed that it was of the utmost importance that I learn to ride a bike if I wanted to fit in with western Nassau-County-outskirts-of-Queens-city-style kids. No more sleepy country time Oakdale. This was the real deal now.

At that point, it was hard to think ahead to the serious bikes I'd one day own. I couldn't even begin to imagine that by third grade I'd transition into the big yellow banana seat touring-style bike! I'm not gonna lie, I thought I was so stylin' with my white plastic floral basket and silver bell attached to the handlebars. I decked out each handlebar with plastic pompom type streamers extending out each end. I loved that bike.

From there, I moved on to the big blue Huffy in sixth grade. With my winged hair and blue suede Pony sneakers, I thought I was so cool cruising around the Italian neighborhood of nearby Elmont with my boyish tomboy friend Dawn. I believed any girl with a one syllable name had to be tough! Dawn was a tough kid with a colorful history. Her parents were divorced and she lived with her dad who smoked cigarettes and worked in a correctional facility. He was nothing like my dad who wore pastel Polo shirts and boat shoes to his teaching gig.

We'd cruise the area innocently flirting with boys named "Enzo" and "Toto" -- their dad's typically owned bread bakeries or landscaping companies. Their houses were way too big for the allotted plots and oftentimes were guarded by one or two religious statues. It really made you think twice about breakin' out the eggs and shaving cream on Halloween. Seriously. How does one disrespect property watched over by Mother Mary?

I think back to that day on my bike--age five going on six in November. Funny how as a kid it felt great when someone let go. It was all about freedom and it felt so good to be trusted. Yet sometimes as an adult letting go isn't as liberating. Some days I want to hold on so tight.

As always, thanks for listening.