“The Candyman” was a self-dubbed title given to a man I met in a homeless shelter posing as an international youth hostel in Anchorage, Alaska. The facility was housed with mostly drifters, wanderers, and local Anchorage homeless folks. The first few years I went up to Alaska to partake in the annual commercial salmon fishing season, I stayed in the “International Hostel” because it was cheap and I could stay there for free if I did a half hour to an hour of chores in the morning before I left for the day. There were also the occasional young travelers staying there like I had crossed paths with in a hostel in Europe. Needless to say it made for an interesting environment. Also to save money, I would sleep in the common room which was a moderately sized room with anywhere from 4 to 6 bunkbeds. These were those “luxury” old metal bunk beds that one might find in an abandoned cannery and still true as the day they were made 50 years later.
I met the “Candyman” on my 2nd or 3rd season up there in Alaska. I know this because Mike, my partner in crime in those days, was with me when we met this memorable gem of a man. Mike hated the “International Hostel” and put up with us staying there for a few years before he found an actual youth hostel across town and was the catalyst for our ultimate and permanent departure from my initial place of refuge in Anchorage. See, I would always have a few days to a week in Anchorage before and after the fishing season in order to acclimate and enjoy the culture up there before 5 to 7 weeks of straight work and no comforts of society. Those weeks before and after the fishing season house some amazing and unforgettable memories that I’m sure will leak out into this blog over time. So needless to say, my time in Anchorage in places like the “International Hostel” were integral to the journey and the make-up of who I am today.
The story of the man for whom this post is intended to share with the world is a rare and strange, yet endearing tale. “The Candyman” will be used in place of this man’s name due to the fact that I cannot remember the man’s name to be quite honest and if I did remember his name, I would still use the nickname in order to protect his identity.
So there we were, sitting across from each other, with maybe 2 feet of space between us, on the lower bunk beds that put us just off the ground. The light was a cool gray light coming in through the upper window that hung at street level. We could see in the periphery people walking by outside on the sidewalk. A few people came and went in the big collective room full of beds. It was here in this prison-like still and simple setting that “The Candyman” told us his remarkably amazing and memorable tale.
“The Candyman” was a Vietnam War veteran. During the war against ‘communism’, he had flown a little single pilot/crew helicopter called “The Scout”. Now “The Scout” had one job and that job was a very dangerous job indeed. The job of “The Scout” was to fly into enemy territory at a very low altitude and provoke the enemy to fire at him in order to flush out where the enemy was hiding in the dense jungle. This job, as one might imagine, carried with it some serious occupational hazards. Such hazards resulted in “The Candyman” being shot down an absurd amount of times. He was never captured though, nor seriously injured or wounded amazingly enough. However, due to the nature of his job profile and actions taken to perform his duties at the level of pure excellence, he was awarded several of the highest medals of Honor a soldier could receive.
As Mike and I listened to “The Candyman’s” incredible story, we were both leaned forward a breath’s distance away from the unassuming legend who sat before us. There in his thick Carhart coveralls and hulking 6’3” to 6’4” massive build, with a twinkle in his eye, he began to pull out old faded piss colored newspapers that gave credence to his tale with pictures and bold lettered titles. It was all true. There he was, a young man, standing before a president receiving a medal of valor and honor and bravery and courage. A small symbol of what can never be expressed in words for what “The Candyman” did for his brothers in arms. He was proud of his past and revered his own story as one should when they have withstood the most severe and extreme tests of life; yet, he was not defined exclusively by his past accomplishments. He had a dream and a vision for his immediate future and he was actively creating that dream as we knew him there in Anchorage, Alaska in the summer of 2009.
“The Candyman’s” dream that he was living out and creating was to make and sell his Polish great grandmother’s caramel recipe, hence the nickname. Every day, “The Candyman”, in his Carhart coveralls, Russian style hat, and an old school boom box slung around his neck clearing his path with the vibrations of sound, would walk to a commercial kitchen that he rented out and he would make this unique and almost forgotten sweet treat. Then, he would walk around the streets of Anchorage peddling his little individually wrapped caramel candies for all kinds of strangers’ delight.
Now, I’m not a big fan of caramel I must admit. In fact, I avoid things with caramel most of the time. However, when I put one of “The Candyman’s” caramel treats into my mouth, I knew immediately that this caramel was different. Mike and I were instructed to let the caramel soften in our hands or pockets before putting it into our mouths. Then we were told to take our time with the caramel by letting it dissolve naturally within our mouths. Every second this caramel was in my mouth, was an eternity of wonder and delight!! I had never tasted anything like that before nor since. “The Candyman’s” caramel was truly special and something ancient that very well could have been lost in time. Needless to say, Mike and I were very thankful that this caramel was not lost in time. But how strange and ironic to receive something so subtle, sweet, and gentle from a legendary warrior of a man who seeks no praise or recognition from society.
I learned many things from “The Candyman” in the short time I shared with him. Not only had he seen and participated in more violence and horror than most people would ever see in a lifetime, but he somehow had achieved a state of peace and stillness of mind that allowed him to own an appreciation for his past. He was the archetypal wandering warrior who had continued on where most would have been destroyed by their experiences in war. He had found a path of peace and simplicity through the medium of making his great grandmother’s ancient Polish caramel and sharing that simple sweet unassuming gift with his immediate world. “The Candyman” was a true treasure born out of the chaos and blood of war bearing the message that there IS life after death, if you care to seek it.
As Mike and I headed towards the airport one gray wet cold morning by means of a taxi, we came over the crest of a hill that defines the edge of Anchorage’s downtown, and there on the left walking on the sidewalk was “The Candyman”. I turned to look at him through the back window of the taxi so I could watch him for as long as possible. There he was, the legend, the wandering warrior, a character and sage along my journey that I’ll never forget; walking on the sidewalk with purpose and peace, heavy torn and weathered carhart coveralls with a carhart coat over the top, a thick beanie on his head, his massive black boots, and a big classic silver boom box slung around his neck fashioned in place by a rustic hemp cord. Perhaps “The Candyman” will always be there walking, walking, walking………
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