The Candy I Never Got to Choose

Kevin Tondra shares how his grandma taught him sacred lessons, one roll of Necco Wafers at a time.

Some foods take you right back to a moment in time. For some people, it’s homemade cookies or a favorite holiday meal. For me, it’s a roll of Necco Wafers.

I spotted a pack near the checkout lane at a grocery store the other day and, almost without thinking, picked it up and dropped it into my cart. I wasn’t craving them. It just took me right back for a moment—to being a little boy again, spending the night at my grandparents’ house in Canton, Ohio.

A lot of my best childhood memories are from that house. My older brother and I always looked forward to staying overnight with Grandma and Grandpa. Their house felt different from ours. Life slowed down there. No rushing, no packed schedules, no sense of having to be anywhere else. Just long summer afternoons and being together.

Grandpa worked at Timken, so it was usually just Grandma, my brother, and me during the day. Sometimes my uncle was there too — closer in age to us than the adults, and more like a cousin than an uncle. Those afternoons were simple and unhurried, and when I think back on them now, unforgettable.

One of our favorite traditions was walking with Grandma to the neighborhood grocery store. It wasn’t far, but to us it felt like an adventure when we would head out on those pleasant summer days. When we got there, she always bought each of us a roll of Necco Wafers.

I never understood one thing. She never asked us what kind of candy we wanted. She just bought Necco Wafers every time. I liked Necco Wafers; I still do. But standing in a grocery store full of candy bars, gum, and colorful treats, I always wondered why I couldn’t pick something different.

108 Summer Steps

I never complained. We’d peel back the paper wrapper and start eating the candy as we headed toward the McKinley Monument. Grandma never held our hands because she couldn’t have if she wanted to. My brother and I would take off running, racing up those 108 steps at the McKinley Monument like it was the biggest race in the world.

Today, at fifty-five, I’d probably have to stop multiple times just to catch my breath. Back then, we didn’t think about it—we just ran. By the time we reached the top, most of the candy had already been happily eaten, and I simply remembered my Grandma.

I remember those fun summer afternoons. I remember feeling completely safe. The older I get, the more I realize the candy was never really the gift.

The gift was the walk.

As children, we often think love is measured by what someone gives us. As adults, we begin to understand that love is more often measured by the time they give us. My Grandma wasn’t trying to impress us with anything extravagant. She was giving us something far more valuable: her presence. She chose to spend her time with two energetic little boys who ran ahead, talked nonstop, and still somehow had room for candy before dinner.

When we finally made it back to the house, Grandma had two specialties I always hoped would be waiting for us. Sometimes she made spaghetti with her incredible homemade sauce. Other times she made what our family called “Tondra Soup,” a comforting broth with stew meat, onions, celery, cabbage, whole tomatoes, parsley, carrots, and potatoes, all simmered together with salt and pepper and served with noodles. It was nothing fancy, but it somehow tasted like home itself.

Truth be told, I don’t think I was really hungry for spaghetti or soup. I was hungry just to be there, oblivious to how deeply those ordinary days were quietly shaping me.

It’s funny how life works that way. In my faith, I’ve always been drawn to how God reveals Himself in the simplest things: a bit of water, a piece of bread, a drop of oil. He rarely seems interested in the dramatic. He works through the moments we barely notice at the time, leaving us to figure out the meaning years later.

Family memories seem to operate on that same frequency. A common object suddenly becomes an anchor, a way of holding onto someone who loved us well. A favorite recipe brings back a parent. A worn rosary recalls a grandparent’s faithfulness. And a familiar, dusty sidewalk becomes sacred, not because of where it leads, but because of who was walking beside you.

The Gift Was Never the Candy

For me, it’s a roll of Necco Wafers. Every time I see one, I don’t just remember candy. I remember unconditional love. I remember laughter. I remember running up the steps of the McKinley Monument with my brother and sometimes my uncle, while Grandma followed behind. I remember someone who never made me feel like spending time with me was an interruption. It was simply what she wanted.

My Grandma lived to be ninety-five, and until the very end, I was still “Kevee” to her. Even after I was married and had daughters of my own, she never stopped calling me that. To everyone else, I had grown up. To Grandma, I was still her little boy racing up those monument steps with a half-eaten roll of candy in my pocket.

The older I get, the more I think that may be one of the greatest gifts anyone can give a child. Not perfect days. Not expensive things. Just presence.

Children may not remember every toy or every birthday gift they receive. But they remember who slowed down enough to notice them. They remember who walked beside them. They remember who made ordinary summer afternoons feel like something more.

Isn’t that how God so often loves us? Not always through dramatic moments, but through His faithful presence. He walks with us through ordinary days, shaping us in ways we don’t always recognize until much later.

Standing there at the checkout lane, I looked down at the roll of Necco Wafers sitting in my cart. I smiled, knowing they probably still taste exactly the same.

As I walked to my car, I realized I hadn’t really bought candy.

I’d bought another walk with my Grandma.

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Copyright 2026 Kevin Tondra
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