“You know what I would just love?” She asked.

She had been sitting quietly beside me, watching the snow drown the deck chairs, and her question roused me from my nap.

“What?”

“One of those licorice sticks, the kind that come in red.”

OK. I’m like, kind of sure she’s not pregnant, she’s just very late middle age, like me.

Isn’t it weird, though, how when you reach a certain age, one word, from out of nowhere in the middle of a dark big snowfall, can trigger a memory in a head full of them?

The aging head, it seems, is like one of those big glass containers full of toys that has a hook you send down for your favorite.

I’m a writer of advanced age, who lives daily with such words that can pop up and start a column, even about Tarzan and licorice.

It’s been 38 years full of snow storms like this one dousing our house in Maine, and summers full of caterpillars and ticks and humid nights.

Add to that the “word” you’re forbidden to use now, that kept me and others from the old newsroom, and Amy Calder’s desk drawer of candy that included licorice of all sizes and colors. I miss Amy’s candy.

Which brings up licorice.

Remember those old “Tarzan movies with swimming star Johnny Weissmuller”? Of course you don’t, but I do. I remember spending summer days in my backyard sitting up in one of our three climbable trees pretending to be Tarzan.

Tarzan who rode elephants, wrestled crocodiles and ate flowers and bananas delivered by his chimp, was my favorite.

Of course, chimps like Cheetah are scarce now, but I did have a workable “Jane” down the street.

This was Darla Karenbrock whom, as I recall, always wanted to play “House” with my sister and always wanted me to be the “Daddy.”

You remember that game, don’t you? Of course you do. You just don’t want your kids to know.

None of the guys of my crowd would give poor Darla the time of day. She always hung around in our backgrounds, eating something, and always had Bandaids on her knees.

Well, my memories are a little hazy, but there she was standing under my tree with a bunch of licorice sticks.

“You wanna be Jane?” I shouted.

“You gonna be the daddy?”

“No, I’m Tarzan,” I said.

Darla’s parents, who owned a candy store on Soper Street, were strict Catholics, and never let her go to see Tarzan movies.

I’m guessing, looking back, that it was probably something about a big guy with a wash rag hiding his equipment, that said “mortal sin,” not to mention his girlfriend Jane who lived with him.

Darla, with her licorice, just wanted to play “house,” and you can’t do that in a tree. End of that memory.

Well, as you know, the sunny January days ended abruptly this week with my tooth surgery and recovery, two storms and more to come, a failed hacking on my laptop that changed all my settings, Kevin McCarthy and George Santos’ debuts in Congress.

So it should come as no surprise, that considering all the turbulent news pouring out of Washington, Hollywood and Congress, that my readers should find comfort in this tale of Tarzan and licorice.

I have to run out in the snow now to find some red licorice sticks.

J.P. Devine is a Waterville writer.