Proust can keep his madelines . .

After lunch, I went down to the reception area because I was afraid I might have bad breath from the hamburger with onions I had just so joyously consumed as I had a meeting where I would be doing a lot of talking and I'm considerate like that. (I may be a cruel and unforgiving taskmaster but to the best of my ability my breath will be minty fresh as I tell you to bend over and stick your head up your ass).

Alas, the candy jar in the receptionist's area had no mints. There was nothing but a few paltry bits of rootbeer "footballs" and sugarfree lifesavers. In other words, the dregs. However, amidst the dregs was a square of Bazooka gum. How it got in there I'll never know but there it was so I took it. I unwrapped it as I walked back to my office and placed the small pink brick upon my tongue. Oh. The veritable torrent of memories that sweet, powdery bit of gum unleashed.

Summer days at little league games. Hot and sweaty in my matching shorts and tank top that were made of bright green terry cloth--fetching, I'm sure. I'd spend most of my time at the concessions stand run by the mothers (oh I see those volunteer mothers so differently now-- all the work they would do to raise money for the boys' uniforms and to pay the umpire on top of a long day of work while the dads drank beers in the bleachers and watched little Johnny pitch while his wife sweated over steamed hotdogs in a plywood 6 x 8 shack) where there were boxes and boxes of penny candy. Though I ALWAYS got a hot dog because until I was 14 I ate nothing BUT hot dogs (I remember when Burger King had hotdogs-- yes, I'm that old), I would invariably spend at least one dollar on red string licorice. That would buy me 100 long, skinny cords that I would tie around my neck in a thick necklace like some African tribeswoman trying to elongate her neck. Although they were never in place long enough to effect any muscle change since I would then proceed to walk slowly between the three baseball diamonds where grown-ups sat in lawn chairs and gnaw my way through the entire knot of red licorice. Very very pretty, I'm sure.

Of course, it never occurred to me at the time that there was no such athletic activity for girls. The one year I did play softball we were relegated to a narrow stip of grass at the old elementary school that had been turned into an administrative building. And I think our games were on Tuesday afternoons and no one ever came to see them. Good to know that's all changed now--- but when I was growing up, there weren't even any girls soccer leagues. But hey-- who's complaining? We had Bazooka!

And I as I chew my way down memory lane, I remember sitting with Stacey F, my best friend in fifth and sixth grade (junior high drove a stake through our love affair) on her back steps shoving as much gum into our mouths as possible and then blowing the absolute biggest bubbles we could manage before the competition ended with tears and screams as the bubbles exploded into our hair and across our cheeks. Hours and hours of effort to try and get the gum out of our long hair until we would inevitably be forced to reach for the scissors. Stacey ended up becoming a hard-core druggie in 9th grade with an out-of-town boyfriend who was 19 but that's probably because her father was an abusive prick and her mother was the co-dependent type. But how I digress . . .

I chewed my little treasure for a few minutes and then, in an instant, the flavor was gone and I hucked the gray wad into the trash and headed to my meeting.

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