The Real Candy Lady Who Inspired My Book

When I think back to my childhood in Buffalo in the early 80s, one person always comes to mind: the candy lady. She wasn’t famous, she didn’t own a shop, and she didn’t have much—but to us kids, she was magic.

I can still see her now. She had smooth chocolate-brown skin, warm brown eyes, and jet-black hair rolled tight into shiny curls. The moment she opened her door, the scent of coconut oil and shea butter floated out, mixing with the cool breeze of our neighborhood streets.

She carried herself with a kind of quiet pride—gentle, yet firm. She wasn’t someone you ran wild around; you stood up straight, you said “yes ma’am” and “thank you.” Somehow, she taught us respect without ever raising her voice.

But oh, the joy when she reached into her bag or tin and pulled out candy! 🍭 Sometimes it was a handful of Now and Laters, other times a few peppermints, or even a Blow Pop if you were lucky. We’d wait for that moment, shuffling our feet, trying to peek without being rude. It felt like Christmas morning every single time.

It wasn’t just the candy, though. It was how she made us feel—like we mattered, like we were cared for. She gave freely, not because she had to, but because it was in her nature. To a group of little kids with scraped knees and wild imaginations, that kindness was unforgettable.

Decades later, that memory is still alive in me. It’s the heartbeat of my book, The Candy Jar Chronicles. I wanted to capture the sweetness of those afternoons, the way something so small could leave a mark so big.

Every time I sit down to write, I picture her—standing there in her rollers, smiling softly, smelling of coconut and shea butter—and I know I’m writing not just a story, but a tribute.

Question for you: Did you have someone in your neighborhood growing up who made you feel special? Maybe a neighbor, a store owner, or even a teacher? I’d love to hear your story.