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Grandpa’s onion farm was nestled among the gentle hills of Gilmer, Texas. Gilmer was my hometown when I wanted to see a movie, or spend my hard-earned allowance in the sundries section at Oberman’s Mercantile. The word “sundry” was a product category whose boundaries were never made clear to me. The matter was further confused by the fact that there was no line of distinction between what was a sundry and what was a “notion”—yet the store advertised both. I could not worry over it. The only important thing to know was that the rows of candy jars sat on the sundries-section shelves. Association being such a powerful thing, sundry became a synonym for confection.

Oberman’s candy aisle was a parade of temptations sufficient to flush one away in a Wonka-like tide of over-salivation. My allowance could be spent on any one of fifty choices or a combination thereof. It was never an easy decision, because one wrong move could lead to a painful round of second-guessing. At night, after all had been consumed, the agony would surface from somewhere under the quilt covers: The BB Bats were special, but would I have preferred an array of Kits flavors? There were the chocolate and vanilla Kits, and yes, strawberry. And there were five in a pack, individually wrapped. Or, there would surface the panic realization that it had been months since my last chewable wax lips or wax bird flute. Then there was always my infatuation with Holloway suckers. They were by far the best value, because Holloway molasses caramel had been molded into the consistency of a paving brick, resistant to yes, even the incisor teeth. Grandpa warned me about Holloway caramel:

“Just suck on them. Never bite or chew. The tar will yank out your fillings and rot your teeth below the roots. By the time you’ve eaten a dozen of them suckers your little choppers will end up just like Uncle Archie’s.”