As a child, I enjoyed a joyful upbringing. It wasn't flawless, but I lived in a tight-knit community reminiscent of those idyllic neighborhoods portrayed on television. Adults would share gossip over hedges while the kids played freely.

Listening to the older generation recount tales of their youth was a favorite pastime, as the older kids plotted their escape from our town, which they felt could never contain them.

The well-meaning elders frequently offered their guidance, eager to equip me for the world while embodying the spirit of the saying "it takes a village." Much of their advice went over my head, much like a June bug bouncing off my bicycle during a ride, but there were indeed pearls of wisdom that have stuck with me through the years.

Even at a young age, I had my own opinions. While I can't recall many of my successes, the blunders are quite vivid! I want to share a self-taught lesson that I later had to unlearn.

I fondly remember visits to my great aunt's home. On days when my mother and grandmother were at work, I would spend time with her. She was the eldest and most prim of my grandmother's sisters, her style an intriguing mix of American Gothic and classic church lady.

Her house resembled a museum, filled with antiques, crystal displays, lace doilies, and slip-covered furniture—an environment that seemed to shout, "No children allowed!"

Her hair was always impeccably styled, and she rarely ventured outdoors unless dressed in gloves and a hat, sometimes even with a veil. Although she was kind to me, I never heard her laugh; I always thought of her as a vampire—not the terrifying type, but more like Grandpa from the Munsters.

Typically, I would head down the driveway to the backyard, but that day, she greeted me at the front door. As I walked through her living room—a space where she didn't even allow her husband to sit—I froze, captivated by the sight of unfamiliar candy in crystal bowls.

Sensing I had halted, she spun around and appeared beside me, as if summoned. With no words, she gestured toward the open glass dish, her fingers forming a peace sign. Her hand glided past a fancier dish with a metal lid that had captured my attention, and the hidden colors and shapes of the candies within burned into my memory. I picked two pieces I hoped would be palatable—yes, "yucky" was my young assessment!

They must have been in that dish for ages; she had to use a butter knife to pry them out, and I doubted it was real silver!

With a forced smile that barely masked my letdown, I thanked her for the candy and made my way to the back door, relieved we both were. Following her instructions, I waited until I was outside before tasting the candy. Her directive echoed in my mind, “Outside.”

Thank goodness I waited. The moment I bit into it, my gag reflex kicked in. As soon as I got far enough into the yard, I spat it out. It tasted like medicine!

In that instant, my childish logic presented two truths: the candy in the other dish must be the good stuff, and she was definitely NOT a daywalker. She didn't even step out to check on me but merely peeked through a window, probably avoiding the sunlight. Hmm...

Even in my youth, I understood that the world didn't owe me treats. I was raised to earn what I desired and to appreciate what I received, even if it fell short. The world doesn’t owe you anything; reciprocate by not feeling indebted to it! These were the Depression-era maxims passed down from my grandmother, which I'll elaborate on later.

No amount of effort that day could have yielded me the candy I craved. I know, I know, back then hard work was believed to lead to rewards. Thanks again, Grandma. Thus, Operation "Fancy Candy" commenced.

The following week, I was determined to acquire that delightful candy. I mowed a few lawns for quick cash and pedaled my modified bike to our local corner store. Unfortunately, there was nothing there. I had to ride a considerable distance—1.2 miles according to Google Maps—to the Five and Dime store on Main Street. Bingo! (We used that word a lot back then.)

The cashier looked surprised when I placed the candy on the counter with my money. She likely had never sold a bag of "sophisticated" candy to a child before. I stepped outside, tore open the bag, and my smile faded as I tasted a candy that didn't match its vibrant strawberry wrapper. I held onto it as long as I could until the unidentifiable filling oozed out.

I promptly spat it out, tossed the bag in the trash, and returned to purchase Sugar Babies. This time, the cashier nodded approvingly as I spent the rest of my money. I brought them home and shared them with friends, only to discover I had two cavities at my next dental appointment! Now, that was more like it! All that effort for something I didn't even enjoy. This lesson would be revisited many times throughout my life.

Lesson One: Just because something brings joy to someone else doesn't guarantee it will be good for you. Or—never take candy from a vampire!

Back then, nothing was better than candy, except perhaps free candy, so returning to the neighborhood with Sugar Babies made me a local celebrity, at least for a while.

Reflecting on my earlier teachings about the world owing me nothing and working for what I want, I seem to have misplaced the balance, focusing too much on the notion of not being indebted to others. Growing older, I noticed this mindset among my peers, particularly the men, raised in the South.

While I consider myself generous, sharing has become more complex in adulthood, and accepting gifts feels even trickier. Before you pass judgment, consider this scenario.

Have you ever had a friend buy you a drink, only to insist on reciprocating because you won’t feel satisfied until you’ve bought them an equal number of drinks?

This exemplifies the "don’t owe anyone anything" mentality! If you've ever done this, I would bet you are male; women seem to manage sharing without the need for an equal exchange.

You’ve nearly extinguished spontaneous joy and taken the fun out of enjoying a drink with a friend. Once “beer math” enters the equation, it no longer feels like sharing.

• You’ve transformed a simple gesture into a never-ending math problem.
• Your fixation on counting drinks may prevent your friend from enjoying their treat as well. Now, they have a math problem, too.
• You both end up with a hefty bar tab that neither of you will appreciate later. Not enjoyable at all.

Lesson Two: It's perfectly fine to accept and relish a gift. Gifts don’t need to be earned or worked for. Your persistent urge to repay can rob the giver of the joy of giving.

Ideally, there should be no room for this work-and-owe mindset in retirement; however, I still find myself expecting some work to precede any leisure. I need to see a clear connection between effort and reward. The real issue lies in my perception of happiness as transactional. For instance: "I would love to come over and watch the game, but I won’t be content until I’ve trimmed those hedges." Does that sound familiar?

This tendency has somehow followed me into retirement. A quick look around my neighborhood reveals I'm not alone in this endeavor.

I know what some of you who haven’t retired are thinking, but if you have retired neighbors, keep an eye out. They may fire up the grill for holidays, but their cars, pools, and lawns are immaculate. After they've tackled all the chores, and everything has been pressure washed (retirees have a love affair with pressure washers), you might catch them relaxing outside! Sometimes, they may even start their tasks before you leave for work! Was retirement supposed to be this much work? I ask for a friend!

Some may argue that their clean cars and neat lawns contribute to their happiness. You know what? I can accept that, too! (The author may have thrown a stone at his own glass house.)

Lesson Three: There isn’t necessarily a lesson here. Do what works for you. If that includes pressure washing and mowing stripes into your lawn, carry on. With all the chaos in the world, find joy wherever it may reside.

I have it good; I don't have much to complain about, though I do enjoy a good hobby.

I convinced myself once again and had to relearn lesson number one.

I was certain that happiness would come swiftly upon retirement. It’s easy to believe after 38 years of convincing oneself.

Retirement was my silver dish this time, and the freedom from work was the candy.

In line with the candy dish metaphor, not all the treats in retirement are as sweet as I envisioned—some aren't sweet at all. Those specifics are for another time.

For now, I’ll concentrate on the sweet moments in my life instead of fixating on the life I long desired, one I can hardly recall the reasons for wanting in the first place!

The saddest sight is someone who has completely surrendered their pursuit of happiness.

I refuse to become that person, and you shouldn't either.

Grab your candy, but choose wisely.

Grammarly wasn’t fond of this sentence either! Occasionally, I write odd sentences to keep things interesting online.

Thank you for reading.

© Claude Lyons Jr. 2024 All Rights Reserved