The Penny Candy Counter at Turner's Market

By Darrell Griffin president of pureaudacity.com

In 1964, Stockton, California, was a mosaic of neighborhoods, each with its own pulse and personality. For those of us growing up in “Oakie Town,” life was uncomplicated, sun-drenched, and brimming with small adventures. Our days revolved around the open streets, the hum of summer, and the thrill of a treasure hunt that could lead to the sweetest prize: a visit to the penny candy counter at Turner’s Market. For a kid clutching a Coke bottle or a hard-earned nickel, that counter was a portal to pure delight.

This is probably not exactly how Turners Market and the Barbershop looked but give me a break, that was 65 years ago.

Oakie Town was modest, its streets lined with simple houses and patchy lawns scorched by the Central Valley heat. Shallow overflow ditches ran in front of the homes, catching runoff from irrigation or rare rain. To us kids, those ditches were treasure troves. We’d spend hours scouring them, eyes peeled for the glint of a discarded Coke bottle, redeemable for two cents at Turner’s Market. Find one, and you’d score three penny candies—a fortune in our young minds. The hunt was a ritual. After school or on lazy Saturday mornings, we’d gather in scuffed sneakers and hand-me-down shorts, splashing through shallow water, dodging weeds, and whooping when someone spotted a bottle. The thrill was in the possibility—every ditch held potential, every glint a promise.

But bottles weren’t the only way to the candy counter. Sometimes, Mrs. Turner, who ran the store with her husband, would offer us a chance to earn a nickel’s worth of candy—five whole pieces—by doing chores she didn’t feel like tackling. Sweeping the worn wooden floor, breaking down cardboard boxes, or stacking cans in the back could earn you that precious coin. Those tasks felt like a small price for the reward. Clutching a nickel, you’d stand before the counter, feeling like a tycoon, ready to make your selections.

Turner’s Market was the heart of our world, a squat, whitewashed building on a dusty corner. The wooden screen door creaked, and the bell above jingled as you stepped inside, greeted by the scent of fresh bread, ripe fruit, and the faint tang of pickles from a barrel. But the real magic lay in the back, where the penny candy counter sparkled like a jewel box. The penny candy market in 1964 was a vibrant world of its own, fueled by companies churning out affordable sweets that captivated kids across the country. Behind Turner’s glass case, jars and bins overflowed with treats, each a tiny masterpiece of sugar and nostalgia.

Candy lipstick, bright red and wrapped in foil, was a favorite. You’d wear it for a laugh, smearing your lips before biting into its sweet, waxy core. Bazooka Bubble Gum, with its powdery pink cubes and comic strip wrappers, was another star. Pop one in your mouth, and you’d chew for hours, saving the comic to trade with friends. Tootsie Rolls, chewy and chocolatey, were a staple, their small size perfect for savoring. Mary Janes, with their peanut butter and molasses bite, offered a sticky, satisfying chew. Squirrel Nut Zippers, sweet and nutty with a creamy center, rounded out the lineup, their quirky name sparking giggles. These candies weren’t just treats; they were cultural touchstones, peddled by brands like Topps, Hershey’s, and NECCO, designed to hook kids on a penny budget.

Choosing your three—or five, if you’d swept the floor—was agonizing. Would you go for the long-lasting jawbreaker or the instant pop of a candy necklace? Root beer barrels, hard and fizzy, competed with red licorice whips, perfect for twirling like a lasso. Wax lips, ridiculous and fun, begged to be worn before being eaten. Every choice felt monumental, the glass case a kaleidoscope of temptation. Mrs. Turner, stout and sharp-eyed, presided over the counter with a soft spot for us kids. “Pick quick, now,” she’d say, but her smile betrayed her. Sometimes, if you’d done a good job breaking down boxes, she’d toss in an extra taffy, a small act of kindness that felt like winning the lottery.

Redeeming a Coke bottle was a ceremony. You’d march to the counter, bottle in hand, and place it before Mr. Turner. He’d nod, slide it into a crate, and say, “Go pick your candy.” With a nickel from chores, you’d skip the bottle step, but the excitement was the same. The other kids would crowd around, offering advice or begging for a share. You’d trade a licorice whip for a peppermint stick or save a piece for your sibling to keep the peace.

Those candies were more than sugar; they were stories. Outside Turner’s, we’d sit on the curb, sucking on a Tootsie Roll or blowing Bazooka bubbles, swapping tales of the day’s hunt or who swept the store fastest. The candies fueled our imaginations, turning us into explorers or prospectors in our own backyard. We’d stretch each bite, knowing the next bottle or chore might be days away.

 

In Oakie Town, life wasn’t lavish. Many families, ours included, were descendants of Dust Bowl migrants or farmworkers, scraping by in the Central Valley. The penny candy market thrived because it was accessible—a single cent bought a moment of joy. The ditches, the bottles, the chores, the candies—they were our abundance. A two-cent bottle or a nickel from Mrs. Turner made us feel rich.

Turner’s Market is gone now, likely replaced by newer neighborhood stores. The ditches are paved over, and kids don’t roam like we did. But the memory of those days—creak of the screen door, jingle of the bell, glint of a Coke bottle—remains vivid. Most of all, I remember the candy counter, its jars glowing, promising magic for any kid with a bottle or a broom. In 1964, we didn’t have much, but we had Turner’s. And for a few pennies, we had the world.  The penny is slated to be removed from our U.S. money system this year.