My dad was a dentist who kept a private candy drawer. I knew he had it. He knew I knew he had it. We never spoke of it.
Throughout my young life and into adulthood, I would find my father during the night, droopy and snoring in his favorite chair, deep in REM sleep, a halo of light gently hovering over his salt-and-pepper hair, a tattered novel or newspaper balancing precariously atop his belly.
Strewn about, hiding in armpit crevices and scattered all over the floor, were crumpled wrappers from sour balls and Swedish licorice drops.
One of my favorite memories of this mediocre sugar stealth was the time I came home late from a night out during high school. I found my dad in his spot, eyes aflutter, head topsy-turvy. I sat next to him so I could finish the TV show he was not watching before I got tired and went to bed.
He must have sensed my presence and woke up. He turned his head to look at me and it was so obvious he had a piece of candy in his mouth, like a squirrel harboring an acorn. He then pretended to continue reading, ever so slightly sucking on the licorice or sour ball.
Years and years later, while visiting my dad in his new condo in Naples, Florida, I found my 5-year-old daughter and my father snuggling together in his chair, sharing a piece of candy from the secret drawer. I sat down next to them as inconspicuously and gently as I could so as not to scare away the moment. My dad leaned over, slipped me a Swedish licorice ball, and smiled. We did not speak, only chewed.
It had taken 31 years and a grandchild, but he’d finally acknowledged — and shared — his bounty.
This summer, I was diagnosed with high blood pressure after a year of marathon doctor visits — testing, measuring, checking and questioning. Finally, a hypertension specialist concluded her interrogation with a single question that shook me to my core: “Jessie,” she said, “do you by chance eat black licorice?”
Did I eat black licorice?
What she didn’t know is that my dad had died on Oct. 19, 2015. I still remember where I was sitting when I got the news. How the air felt on my skin, how numb my feet felt when I tried to get up to walk. In the floating haze of my grief, one thing that kept me grounded was the taste and smell of black licorice.
Once a month, my best friend’s father would mail me a huge bag of black licorice from Bulk Nation, the store in Florida where Dad bought his coveted supply. I’d squirrel it away into the freezer to hide from my family. Every night before bed, I’d slip two or three pieces of this candied ebony root into my mouth. These savory, sticky moments instantly transported me back to his chair — his quirks, his need for privacy, his humor. I missed him so much. For this one brief moment each night, licorice gave my dad back to me.
There, on the second floor of the UW Health Preventive Cardiology Clinic, my eyes flooded with tears as I confessed to the doctor that yes, I ate black licorice every night.
“No more black licorice for you,” she said, tender but firm.
I’d of course known that eating candy every night might be bad for my teeth — I was a dentist’s daughter, after all. But it had never occurred to me that there were other health problems associated with eating too much licorice. It turns out that black licorice contains glycyrrhizic acid, which can cause swelling and high blood pressure while depleting electrolytes, disrupting heart rhythm and causing other damage. It is recommended that at-risk hypertension patients like me should just avoid this candy altogether. The FDA warned that ingesting more than two ounces per day for two weeks could cause an irregular heart rhythm, and I was definitely eating more than that. From that moment on, I’d have to find another way to keep my memories of my dad close.
In Judaism, the anniversary of a death is called a “yahrzeit.” This past fall, as my father’s yahrzeit approached, I sat patiently with my new wireless at-home blood pressure monitor on my left upper arm, awaiting my daily diastolic and systolic summary, missing licorice — when I heard my father’s voice in my head: “Jessie! Acccchhh, feh! Who needs to have everything all the time, every day?” I laughed, remembering another one of his common phrases: “Everything in moderation.” It was as if he’d come back to parent me once again. Who needs black licorice every day and in excess amounts? Apparently, not me. But I did need to feel connected to him.
Memories of those we love come back when we least expect it, sometimes taking our breath away and stopping us in our tracks. Every human connection is unique. I still had the sour balls — hopefully medical research leaves those alone — but the loss of this licorice connection to my father left me feeling untethered, dangling between the past and the unknown.
So I found new tactile reminders of him. Now I pull out the handful of wrapped Macanudo cigars that were found in his belongings and give them a good sniff. I put on one of his favorite records, Billy Joel’s “The Stranger.” Then I unwrap a sour ball, close my eyes and think of him.
May we all find a way back to those we miss.
Jessie Loeb is a postpartum infant and maternal care specialist, and a licensed secondary childbirth and parenting educator at Capital High in Madison. Her new parenting memoir, “Puddle Splashing,” is available at jessieloebdoula.com and area bookstores.
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