GENERATIONS

THE
CANDY
MAN

Irving Small
is a real sweetie.

ELIZABETH APPLEBAUM

Assistant Editor

rving Small has his
pockets full.
He's got peppermints in
there. And fruit-flavored can-
dies with soft centers. He has
butterscotch treats and cara-
mels (popular with children
but not the best choice for
anyone with dentures). At
Pesach, his collection expands
to kosher-for-Passover sweets.
Professionally, Mr. Small
is an attorney. But his real
job — the one for which
countless youngsters and
oldsters best know him — is
as the Candy Man.
"I fill up my left pocket in
the morning, and I always
come back empty-handed,"
he says.
Mr. Small has been pass-
ing out candy for just about
as long as he can remember.
"It all started years ago
when our grandchildren
were growing up," says his
wife, Lina. "On Sunday, we
used to take them to candy
shops; one of our favorite
places was Milton's Drug
Store at Six Mile and
Hamilton. Each child got
several dollars and could
buy whatever he wanted.
That was when you could get
a whole bag of penny candy
for $1 and still have money
leftover."

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90

FRIDAY, MAY 22, 1992

Soon, the treats expanded
from the grandchildren to
workers at North Park
Towers, where the couple
reside. One day, Mr. Small
had a few hard candies in his
pocket which he gave to
assistants at the front desk.
Then the residents asked for
them.
Next, Mr. Small began
handing out his treats at his
office. The father of three,
he'll even approach
strangers at restaurants.
"I ask their folks, 'Do you
mind if I give this to your
child?' " Mr. Small says.
"The little kiddies attract
me."
"Now, everyone asks for
candy," Mrs. Small says.
"People call him The Candy
Man' and greet him with a
smile. And he loves it."
The process is a family af-
fair. Mrs. Small purchases
the treats, varying her selec-
tion but always buying bet-
ween 12 and 15 pounds a
week. Mr. Small passes the
candy out everywhere from
North Park Towers to Tem-
ple Israel, where the Smalls
are charter members.
Rabbi Harold Loss is one of
his best customers, Mr.
Small says.
Mr. Small admits to taking
a peppermint now and then,
but he insists he doesn't
make the stuff a habit.
"Oh, you eat plenty," his

Irving Small: "I always come back empty-handed."

wife chides.
"Do you have to give me
away?"
As sweet as the treats he
keeps in his pockets was the
moment 62 years ago when
Irving Small began courting
his bride-to-be, whom he still
calls "my girlfriend."
He was born in Phila-
delphia and moved to Detroit
when he was 9 months old.
His parents were in the
bakery business.
Lina was the daughter of a
prominent family in Owosso.
Her father, Joseph
Lebowski, was an immi-
grant from Russia who made
it big in the dairy business
when he settled in Michigan.
One of four daughters,
Lina spent her vacations

with cousins in Detroit. She
had just turned 16 when she
met a young student named
Irving.
Lina was quick to in-
troduce her new beau to her
parents.
"We used to sit on the back
steps of her home," Mr.
Small recalls, "My girl-
friend's father sat on the
top step, and I sat on the
bottom step." They talked
politics — both men were ac-
tive in the Republican Party
— and what life would be
like when Thomas Dewey,
who had once worked for Mr.
Lebowski, became president.
"My mother, meanwhile,
kept giving Irving his favor-
ite peanut butter sand-
wiches," Mrs. Small says.

"She wanted to get him for a
son-in-law."
She got him for a son-in-
law, all right, but not exact-
ly the way Mrs. Lebowski
wanted. The couple ran off to
a justice of the peace in
Ferndale when Lina was
barely 19. That was when
Woodward wasn't even pav-
ed, Mr. Small says.
Two years later, the
Smalls were wed in a public
ceremony at the Masonic
Temple in Detroit. They set- -I
tled on Mendota Street on
the city's northwest side, at
the end of the streetcar line.
Lina received a degree
from Wayne University,
while Irving completed his
studies at the Detroit Col-
lege of Law.

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