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Jeremy M Staiman

The Candy Man Can

Photo Credit: Depositphotos
Photo Credit: Depositphotos

When bad things happen, sometimes you only need three words

Who can take the sunrise

Sprinkle it with dew

Cover it in chocolate and a miracle or two?

The candy man

The candy man can because he mixes it with love

And makes the world taste good*

For those of us of a certain age, the memory of the man behind the counter of Bill’s Candy Shop, sashaying around the store as he crooned those words in the movie Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, is unforgettable.  

Over half a century after the film debuted, the candy man is, surprisingly, still a fixture in many of our lives. But we needn’t head over to the local nosh place or theater to find him. 

He’s right there in Shul, doling out delectables to our children and grandchildren, to help make time in the synagogue a positive, sweet experience for our little ones. 

Yet even behind the most innocent initiatives can lie a seamy underbelly of cutthroat competition and intrigue. Years ago, my uncle told me that at his Shul in the U.S. (I won’t give the city, because I don’t want anyone to figure out exactly what Shul it was, but it starts with a “Brook” and ends with a “lyn”), the competition between several candy men got way out of hand. The nasty feud was settled in the modern-day equivalent of a pistol duel at high noon: the Simchat Torah auction. The drama was intense as the competition hit a fever pitch, but when the dust settled, the victor was awarded the exclusive right to give out candies in their Shul for a full year. 

I don’t think it ever got ugly in our Shul here in Israel (though come to think of it, there is one guy who walks with a limp), but we, too, make the honor of being called the Candy Man part of our annual auction. I sometimes wonder if the winning bid is secretly underwritten by the dentists in the congregation.

The winner this year, as it has been for the last number of auctions, was a jovial senior citizen, a rabbi and widower, named David. Honestly, everyone calls him by his first name, but he’s 15 years or more my senior, so I’d rather call him Rabbi David. Rabbi David can be faithfully found at his seat, each and every week, with his tub of candies. 

We had the opportunity to wish a Mazal Tov to Rabbi David over Sukkot, on the birth of his latest great-grandchild. What a simcha!

As he arrived to Shul last week for Simchat Torah, did Rabbi David know that the substandard Yizkor candle he lit was starting to melt away its plastic casing?

My 4-year-old grandson, who joined us for the holiday, is a rambunctious delight. Unsurprisingly, he has one front and center tooth knocked out (better, at least, than his father and his younger brother, both of whose antics caused them to prematurely lose two!). He and his siblings know exactly where to find Rabbi David, and the Candy Man always tells me how adorable they are. 

I don’t disagree. 

And so it was, that my lovable little blond, blue-eyed, Yom Tov guest was greeted by Rabbi David with a big smile, a candy, and a pat on his head, awaiting the beginning of Hakafot.

When the Yizkor candle burnt through the plastic, and began kindling the items around it, had we already escorted the Torahs from the ark, and begun dancing? Were we singing songs of salvation as the flames licked and consumed the framed photos of his late wife and their beautiful family, along with the paintings which had graced their walls throughout their marriage, plus a decade beyond her passing?

The Hakafot were profoundly meaningful this year. Following Rav Yosef Rimon’s general guidelines of dedications of each circuit (one for the victims, one for fallen soldiers, one for the dedicated families, etc., etc.), we peppered the service with special messages and tributes along the way. Our Shul commissioned an apron of sorts for our Sefer Torah, which poignantly listed all of the fallen soldiers over the past year who come from our city. 

While everyone had been rightly concerned about how to celebrate on this first anniversary of the war, a beautiful, deeply meaningful balance was struck. There was no lack of tears, yet there was also abundant celebration. 

Who was the anonymous lady who was heading to her own Shul, thought she smelled smoke, and went out of her way to keep looking and looking — up and down the street and then back again — until she finally spotted the black clouds billowing from Rabbi David’s window? What gave her the courage to charge into the building, pound on all of the doors, making sure that everyone was evacuated, and then calling the fire department?

At some point, Rabbi David was called out of Shul, and was informed that his living room had been destroyed (other than the five bookcases of his sacred books, which is pretty miraculous, but this isn’t that kind of a miracle story), and there was smoke damage to the rest of the dwelling. 

Rabbi David’s livingroom.

But he had places to go and people to see. Specifically, the next night was his new great-grandson’s Shalom Zachor. I texted Rabbi David a message of support, but didn’t see him for several days (no surprise, since his home was unlivable). A few days later, he was back at his seat at the morning Minyan. He seemed very much to be his regular, cheerful self. I approached him afterward and we spoke for a few minutes. 

“I hope that one day the feeling of nachat from your new great-grandchild will be greater than the loss you feel from the fire,” I wished him.

Looking at me earnestly, straight in the eye and without hesitation, he responded. 

“It already is.” 

Then he uttered the three words which left me speechless.

“It’s just stuff.”

“It’s just stuff. No one was hurt. It’s just stuff.”

Possessions of a lifetime. Memories which can’t be replaced. But it’s all just stuff. Maybe on a national scale, compared to some of the tragedies around us, a fire doesn’t necessarily rate so high. However, on a personal level, this could have been devastating. 

But Rabbi David has perspective, and optimism, and a great sense of humor. 

To me, there’s the miracle in this story. A miracle of the spirit. 

Who can take a lifetime

With faith, taking each mile

Forgetting his own troubles, bringing others a smile?

The candy man

The candy man can because he sees things as we should

And sees G-d’s world as good!

P.S. Noting Rabbi David’s incredible attitude, and that his joie de vivre was undiminished by this event, I later shared with him that the candy he gave my grandson that morning was not nearly as thrilling as the chance to see all those fire engines in real life! Thankfully, he responded with his trademark huge laugh. 

*Songwriters: Anthony Newley / Leslie Bricusse Lyrics © Downtown Dmp Songs, Taradam Music Inc., Newley Musical Estate Limited

About the Author
Jeremy Staiman and his wife Chana made Aliya from Baltimore, MD in 2010 to Ramat Beit Shemesh. A graphic designer by trade, Jeremy is a music lover, and produces music on a regular basis -- one album every 40 years. He likes to spend time with his kids and grandkids slightly more often than that.
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