01/24/02

Assorted Tales of the Chocolate Kind

As witnessed by the tales--both true and fictional--told around a

summer's campfire, the telling of one good story in a human interest

column often brings forth others which deserve to be passed on.

Thus it came to be that in the days following the publication of an

article about my Aunt Gwen's habit/technique/penchant for poking the

bottom of each of the chocolates of a boxed assortment to find her

desired confection readers shared their own stories regarding

everything chocolate.

"She had a spoon," whispered one reader who stopped me in a local

cafe. The patron had grabbed my shirtsleeve and bid me stop.

"I have something important to tell you," the person said in hushed

tones as he leaned toward me from his place in the red vinyl booth

near the window. He looked at me with intent eyes. For a moment I

felt as if I was caught in the middle of a real-life Clue© game: the

customer, in the Highway Cafe, with a spoon.

"She had a small spoon she inserted into the bottom of the candy to

find the center she wanted," he whispered. "She checked them all

out. She only ate what she wanted."

He let go of my sleeve, nodded his head slowly, winked one eye and

turned back to his chicken soup. He picked up his own spoon, slowly

placed it in his bowl and turned it ever so slightly.

He glanced at me, nodded again, then continued his supper.

Auntie Gwen never used a spoon. She used her finger. Who knows

where that finger had been A spoon captures the essence of civility.

Perhaps a silver spoon. Like a baby's first spoon. There was a touch

of class to the concept.

A day later, the telephone rang. A neighbor had news to share about

a mutual friend. She then asked about one of our family members, and

discussed the weather.

I could tell she was holding something back.

When the conversation dragged, I allowed there to be a pause, the

kind I use in my office when I know students know that I know what

they know, and I am determined to wait them out, determined to wait

them into the truth.

"My late husband, he loved chocolates, you know. He used to get

quite a few boxes at Christmas when we owned the business." She

paused.

"Yes," I said, knowing this was just the tip of the iceberg.

"Well, he would share them of course, and sometimes, I would just

help myself, you know. Without asking. Share and share alike. He

was my husband, you know."

"Sharing, yes," I said.

"Well, one day I opened up the box, and here was a note: '8 pieces

left.' He counted the pieces. He put a note in the box, like he

didn't trust me or something. Can you believe that?"

I am beginning to believe there is great repressed anxiety in the

world regarding boxes of assorted chocolates.

The Wife finished the newspaper, folded it neatly and said, "You

know the story of the box of chocolates and Christmas Eve at my

parents' house, don't you?"

"The night your dog ate the box of Bavarian Mints intended for me?"

I asked.

"No. The Christmas Eve the furnace went out and Dad called the

repairman and he came out right away and made the necessary repair.

In addition to paying him, my Dad gave him a box of candy that was

sitting on the coffee table."

"What kindness for doing work on the eve of a holiday," I said.

"No, no. Mom came into the room and wondered where the chocolates

were. Dad said he gave them to the repairman, and Mom started to

freak out. 'Not the chocolates. I've been eating from that box.'

'No, opened the lid, and it was completely full,' said my Dad. 'Only

because I have been eating the chocolates from the bottom layer so

you wouldn't know I was eating them. The box was only half full.'"

Life is like a box of chocolates. Some layers are better than

others. But every story is a good one.