Candy of childhood

Late afternoon. On the small road home, I met an old man who had stopped his motorbike by the roadside, slowly taking out from an old wooden box some chewy, white-wrapped taffy candies. It was the kind of candy my friends and I used to eagerly wait for the distant cry of "Taffy candy!" when we were children, each of us clutching a small coin in our hands, our eyes filled with anticipation.

The man was about seventy years old. His face bore the marks of time, his skin tanned by the sun and wind, and his eyes lit up with a gentle smile when I stopped my car. He said, "Not many people buy these lately, sir. Kids don't like these things anymore." I bought three lollipops. I nibbled on one myself, and gave one to a child riding a bicycle nearby. The child took it, examined it curiously, and asked, "Uncle, what kind of candy is this that's so sticky?" I smiled. The innocent question was like a gentle knife cutting into my nostalgic heart.

During my childhood, taffy was more than just a snack. It was a treasure trove of emotions for rural children. Whenever we heard the taffy vendor's call, we'd rush home to ask our parents for money. Some, not getting any, would have to find scraps to trade, even gathering torn sandals, empty cans, and cardboard... to get a stick of taffy as long as a finger. Sometimes, just for one stick of taffy, we'd sit on the porch sharing small pieces, eating and exclaiming, "It's so delicious!"

Back then, taffy candy was a rarity. There were no shops, no supermarkets, and certainly no fancy labels. It was just a pot of sugar boiled and stirred until thick, with added crispy roasted peanuts and the warm, pungent flavor of ginger. It was chewy, rich, and slightly spicy. We kids jokingly called it "news candy"—sometimes it was crunchy like good news, sometimes it was chewy like a scolding, but every piece was memorable.

Taffy candy is also a symbol of longing and simple enjoyment. In times of scarcity, a stick of taffy was a reward, an achievement after helping my mother herd cows or after afternoons collecting scrap metal. Once, I skipped breakfast for two days just to get three sticks of candy. That night, I carefully tied them with a rubber band and hid them in an old biscuit box, not daring to eat them right away. Only when it rained and the whole family gathered together did I solemnly take them out and share one with my younger sister and one with my older brother, their eyes filled with surprise and joy. That is one of the sweetest memories that I still remember vividly to this day.

But now, amidst a bustling society overflowing with goods and choices, taffy candy has gradually faded into obscurity. Children no longer eagerly await the vendor's call. Candy sellers are also becoming fewer and fewer. Those candies, along with the rickety, creaky sound of motorbikes, now seem like lingering mementos of a time of hardship but also of deep affection.

I asked the old man, "Why are you still selling these? Nobody eats them anymore." He chuckled slowly, his voice hoarse, "Well, I know. But I don't sell them anymore. I miss the trade, I miss the sound of the children's laughter when they ate the candy. Nobody remembers it now, but it's enough that I remember it..."

His words left me speechless. It turned out that not only I, but also the people who make the taffy candy—they too are holding onto a piece of memory. Each stick of candy he sells is a way of passing on a little "warmth" of the past to someone who still knows how to cherish it, to children who happen to come across and taste it, so that for a brief moment, they can feel the sweetness not of sugar, but of a time of innocence and childhood.

In a way, taffy candy is an "emotional legacy." It preserves the flavor of a time before social media and smartphones, when children grew up with scraped knees, invented games, and sticky taffy candy clinging to their hands and hair.

Nowadays, when I walk through the markets, I no longer see the candy vendors of the past. Only occasionally, a few old men like the one I met, wandering around on their old motorbikes, as if quietly searching for someone who understands them. Otherwise, that memory lives only in the hearts of those who were "children" of the 80s and 90s.

I brought the remaining taffy home and placed it on the table. My child, surprised, asked, "Dad, what is this?" I said, "Taffy – the candy of your childhood." He broke off a small piece, tasted it, and grimaced, "It's so sticky!" I said nothing, just smiled. Because I understand that childhood is different for each generation. But if possible, I hope my child will also have a "unique flavor" – just like I once had with taffy.

Childhood memories don't have to be the same for everyone; they just need to be genuine enough that when we grow up and look back, our hearts still feel a sense of calm. For me, every time I see taffy candy, my heart is filled with memories of scorching summers, cool afternoons, the buzzing of cicadas, and the cry of "Taffy candy!" echoing through the gaps in time...

Taffy candy might seem like an ordinary snack, but it's a thread connecting me to my childhood self. Like that old man, he's not just selling candy, but also preserving a part of the soul of generations. And I, an adult amidst the hustle and bustle of life, was fortunate enough to stop at the right moment to see myself reflected in those aged eyes. Because sometimes, just one piece of taffy candy is enough to bring back childhood memories.

Tran Tuyen

Source: https://baoquangtri.vn/keo-keo-tuoi-tho-195546.htm