Take On Life

Hi everyone,

For 15 years, Joe Pepin taught with the best of them at Danbury High School. He made numbers meaningful for kids by subtracting the mystery from math.

But something was missing, Pepin will tell you. He could feel it in his belly and his briefcase.

Every day, after the last bell rang, Pepin went one way and his students went another.

Every day, the connections Pepin had made in class were severed, just like clockwork, until they were reattached the next morning.

The race riots at Danbury High in the 1970s changed all that, not least of all, for Pepin.

As tempers flared and fists flew on Clapboard Ridge — sometimes over a pretty girl, more often over a poor choice of words — several administrators and staff members told Pepin he would be perfect to run the district’s new alternative school.

“I was ready for a change at that point,” Pepin said Thursday afternoon. “As I look back, it was the best decision of my career.”

So in the fall of 1977, in the oldest school in the city, Joe Pepin became principal of the city’s newest school, the Alternative Center for Education.

ACE for short.

To this day, some claim ACE was the knife school officials used to cut out the cancer at Danbury High in the 1970s, a poor excuse to send 76 troublemakers to Locust Avenue.

Pepin stops well short of that description.

“They wanted to do something with the kids who weren’t succeeding at Danbury High School, for whatever reason,” Pepin said.

“Before that, sure, there were some tough times at the high school. My daughter was up there then. But once we got going, I think it helped ease some of the problems up there.”

Thirty-five years ago, ACE was uncharted territory for staff and students alike. Pepin’s job description was one part principal, one part innovator and one part first responder.

“We put out a lot of fires in the early days. There were a lot of disciplinary issues and things like that,” said Pepin, whose father worked in the hat factories and whose mother worked at Feinson’s. “But we never had any of the (racial) problems like they had at the high school at that time.

“Back then, we were so new, the kids didn’t know what the school was about, and I didn’t know what the school was about,” Pepin said. “But I did know one thing: I knew that it wasn’t going to be a dumping ground.”

Instead, Pepin made ACE a proving ground for so many students over the next 20 years.

He raised expectations and eyebrows by thinking outside of the box. Pepin dared to make ACE selective, and the strategy worked — maybe not every time, but enough to justify his methods and win the hearts of his students.

“We interviewed both kids and their parents or guardians,” said Pepin, 75. “We required letters of recommendation and community service. Everyone had to be committed — the kids, their families, the school, everyone.”

The strategy was genius.

If kids and their families valued ACE, they would respect the school and its ability to be transformative. For students who made the grade, there was a sense of achievement the moment they walked through the door.

For many of these kids — after struggling at Danbury High, after struggling with issues at home — ACE was the perfect tonic for their ego, if not their transcript.

Pepin also integrated camping, hiking and other nontraditional ideas into his curriculum.

“Some people might say, ‘Why treat these kids any differently than other students?’ But the other side of the coin is: These kids were failing, and now they were back in school,” Pepin said.

“I believed in what we were doing. We all did,” Pepin said. “It’s amazing what you can do when someone believes in you. All of a sudden — boom — you’re back on track and you’re flourishing. I can’t tell you how many times that happened with kids.”

Other times, Pepin remembers, there were 1 a.m. phone calls from kids hanging out on White Street who needed a ride home.

Or worse, the calls from kids who were afraid to go home.

“We got all those calls — me, the teachers, the guidance people, everyone,” Pepin said. “And we all answered them. Everyone understood that coming in.”

But no one understood it better than the kids at ACE, the same ones who helped heal a city.

Hi everyone,

The irrepressible smile gets you the moment you walk into Bobby Murray’s room at Bethel Health Care.

Not the fancy, high-tech wheelchair that resembles the flight deck of the Space Shuttle.

Not the affable therapy tech stretching and kneading Murray’s arms and legs while she breaks down Super Bowl XLVI in her commemorative Giants T-shirt.

It’s the smile that gets you.

And it gets you good.

No matter who comes through Bobby Murray’s door, you see, this is how he greets friends, family, strangers – even amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, better known as ALS or Lou Gehrig’s disease.

All at once, Murray’s smile is both disarming and reassuring, and I find myself in awe.

Never mind that ALS is a particularly cruel terminal neuromuscular disease that does not have a cure – at least not yet, Murray will tell you.

“Why be negative and be in the dumps when you can be happy and live one day at a time?” said Murray, 44, who was diagnosed with ALS seven years ago, after working as a successful sales executive for Red Bull energy drink.

“It doesn’t do any good if I’m negative. It doesn’t make you feel any better,” Murray said. “I choose to live my life this way.”

Even as his muscles betray him, Murray’s strength resonates through his smile and his voice. Life is still about having the power to make choices – ones that really matter.

But someday, Murray understands, his ability to talk will become a memory, too, just like his days of running and tackling on the football team at Washington & Jefferson College in Pennsylvania.

Once they’re gone, they’re gone.

So what then?

Not too far from Murray’s wheelchair at Bethel Health Care is a special computer that gives him the freedom to write emails, surf the Internet and otherwise connect to the world.

The technology was given to him by New Milford’s Shirley Fredlund, the founder of “Voice for Joanie,” a nonprofit group that lends this sophisticated equipment to folks with ALS and teaches them how to use it.

Instead of typing on a standard keyboard, Murray stares at letters and other characters on the screen and blinks when the cursor touches the symbol he wants.

“I’m very fortunate. This will be my voice someday,” said Murray, who grew up in Newtown, but moved to Bethel Health Care a few years ago. “It’s a hard system to learn at first. You can’t have any other movement whatsoever. You can’t even move your head.”

This technology is also expensive – think new-car expensive – and can run as much as $10,000 to $20,000 per unit in some cases.

While donors such as Union Savings Bank, IBM, the Diebold Foundation, the MBIA Foundation and the Ellen Knowles Harcourt Foundation have been generous over the years, Fredlund still needs money to meet the growing demand for eye-gaze computers all across the country.

That’s where the fundraising comes in, Fredlund explained, so “Voice for Joanie” can help Bobby Murray and other people with ALS use the equipment they need for free.

So mark your calendars: On May 5 at the VFW Hall on Avery Road in New Milford, the annual “Voice for Joanie” fundraiser will be held. There will be raffles, door prizes, magic, music, food and a silent auction.

Murray even donated a football for the event autographed by former New York Jets quarterback Joe Namath.

“Bob’s awesome. He’s one of my best friends,” said Natalie Wagner, 31, his therapy tech at Bethel Health Care. “We spend an hour working together at the end of the day. We’re like brother and sister.”

Murray agreed on the spot.

“She’s like my second family,” he said, flashing that million-dollar smile again. “We are like brother and sister.”

Murray refuses to be defined by ALS, three letters that have changed his world forever.

But just like his old football days, Bobby Murray still loves to lead. At Bethel Health Care, he serves as president of the resident council.

“They call me the mayor,” Murray said with a laugh.

“They really do,” Wagner nodded. “He’s not kidding.”

Fredlund went a step further: “Everyone knows him and loves him.”

I’m not surprised. They’ve probably seen that irrepressible smile, too.

Hi everyone,

I never knew there was a vampire in my house until I met Tania Bonacci’s precocious fifth-graders Thursday at South Street School in Danbury.

“It’s called ‘vampire energy,’ and it means you’re using electricity even if something is turned off,” Lauren Pudelka politely told the man with the pen and pad.

“Even if your TV is turned off,” she said, “it’s still using 75 percent of the energy it would use if it was turned on.”

Lauren, the girl with a flower in her hair and a message in her heart, was exactly right.

According to the U.S. Department of Energy, 75 percent of the energy used to run home electronics, most notably TVs and computers, is drawn by these devices when they’re turned off but left plugged in.

The numbers go down when you use Energy Star appliances, but you get the picture.

On Friday, Lauren and her classmates will talk about energy — how to conserve it and how to drive a stake through those bill-inflating vampires — during “Go Green Night” at South Street School.

The event will run from 6:30 to 8 p.m., and visitors are encouraged to wear green. There will be energy-themed crafts and games, as well as student projects and student-run conservation booths.

“This is the kind of learning that stays with kids. There are science components, math components, writing components. It’s all there,” Bonacci said. “They’ve taken this project to heart and worked really hard on it. I couldn’t be more proud.”

The project was born last fall after fifth-grader Riley Duhamel and her dad, Jay, saw a TV promotion for Disney’s Planet Challenge and emailed the idea to Bonacci.

It was a tall order, for sure.

“Students select an environmental issue that they can research and investigate and on which they can take local action,” the website for Disney’s Planet Challenge reads.

Bonacci said each project is graded on the strength of its content and its sustainability. The winning class gets a $10,000 grant and a free trip to Walt Disney World.

“When my dad sent the email, I didn’t know if we would have time to do something this big,” Riley said. “But Ms. B. was really excited about it, and everybody else was, too.”

And how.

On Thursday, with the clock ticking toward “Go Green Night,” some students worked on posters. Others worked on graphs and charts. Still others worked on computer presentations and photo albums.

“It’s why you get up every day,” Bonacci said of the project. “I know it’s a cliche — you’re making a difference in kids’ lives — but you really are, and that’s why it’s a cliche.”

Over the past several months, Bonacci’s class has talked about the finer points of fluorescent lights, which are four times more efficient than incandescent lights, fifth-grader Jordan Hassan explained.

Students have also learned about nonrenewable resources such as oil, natural gas and coal, which are used to generate electricity at power plants.

“Once our nonrenewable resources are gone, they’re gone,” said Barkha Bhavsar, who even wrote a song for “Go Green Night.” “And once they’re gone, we won’t be able to produce electricity anymore.”

Tonia Bonacci’s fifth-grade class isn’t about to let that happen, at least not on their watch.

These kids want to unplug the world and save it at the same time. They understand that cutting energy costs not only saves money, it saves the environment.

“The kids go home and tell their families what they learned, and everyone gets excited. The whole thing is like dominoes,” said Bonacci, who has worked closely with South Street principal Marnie Schork on the project. “The kids also did an assembly for the whole school.”

On Friday, “Go Green Night” will finally become a reality.

“South Street is really this hidden gem,” Bonacci said. “We’re such a great community here, I knew we could pull this off.”

All it took was a provocative email.

And a vampire.

Hi everyone,

Once a month, from September through May, the King Street United Church of Christ serves generous portions of homemade lasagna under its Danbury steeple.

For the folks who share in this gift — some from outside the congregation, but most from within — the dinner is nothing short of soul food, the sort of spiritual nourishment that gets better with each layer of lip-smacking lasagna made by Jessie Patton and Barbara Westby.

This isn’t your standard variety of soul food, however, the kind with its roots in Southern cooking, although that, too, follows a recipe sprung from pinches and dashes rather than teaspoons and measuring cups.

The monthly lasagna offering at King Street United Church of Christ is baked with the kind of proprietary ingredients that only come when three — and often, four — generations of a family come together.

In this case, it starts with 88-year-old Jessie, who spreads her sauce and her smile among the ricotta cheese and those undulating strips of noodles each month.

“My mother is a rock. She’s the one who got me involved in this,” said Becky (Patton) McKee. “She even takes home all of the big sauce jars so she can recycle them. She keeps telling me she wants to find an apprentice.”

It sounds like she already has.

The family affair continues with Becky, and her husband, David, the second generation in this monthly venture.

Becky helps out in the kitchen, boiling the water and browning the beef, while David breaks down the nursery and sets up 13 tables and dozens of chairs with the couple’s two sons, Nathan and Travis, the third generation here.

The McKee men also set up the coffee pots and the dessert table, site of the church’s formidable collection of pies, tapioca pudding and other treats.

Becky and David’s daughter, Jessica Balanda, also helps out. Sometimes, she and her husband, Marc, bring their young son, Caeden, the fourth generation in this remarkable volunteer effort.

“When we get all four generations involved, it’s really neat. We enjoy it,” Becky said. “It takes a lot of time — a pretty big chunk out of our Saturdays — but it’s only once a month.

“We figure that it’s our way of giving back to the church, because it’s given our family so much over the years.”

The magic, you see, is in the reciprocity.

The Patton-McKee family’s association with the King Street United Church of Christ began more than a century ago.

Jessie and her husband, John, were married in the church nearly 70 years ago, not too far from a kitchen that comes alive the second Saturday of each month.

Becky and David were married here, too, more than 40 years ago. Jessica and Marc also walked down the aisle of King Street United Church of Christ.

Not long afterward, of course, they were helping out on lasagna night.

Proceeds from the dinner — $12 for adults, $10 for seniors, $6 for kids under 10, and free for kids under 5 — benefit the church’s volunteer outreach work.

The next monthly dinner at King Street United Church of Christ is Saturday from 5 to 7 p.m.

Even if you’re not a big fan of lasagna and tapioca pudding, check it out for the soul food.

Hi everyone,

For some, Black History Month in Danbury consists of two words: Marian Anderson.

But long before Anderson established herself as the best contralto in the world, the stirring vocalist who broke the color barrier at The Metropolitan Opera in 1955, there was Homer Peters, better known as Judge Peters to his 19th-century friends.

Peters, I’m told by Diane Hassan of the Danbury Museum & Historical Society, was a self-made man who operated the city’s first “ice cream saloon” and played his fiddle with the same, sure conviction as he spoke about the abolition of slavery.

“He inspires me,” said Hassan, a research specialist at the museum. “When you think about that time — and what was going on in the world — he’s just amazing.”

Peters was born in Newtown in 1811 and moved to Danbury in 1829. After working for local farmers, he took up barbering and opened his own shop in 1847, according to his 1881 obituary in The Danbury News, the same paper that once referred to him as “our venerable citizen, Judge Peters” in its pages.

“The deceased was a man of large, good nature and considerable wit and was as well liked as he was well known,” his obituary read.

James Montgomery Bailey, an acclaimed Civil War correspondent, wrote about Peters in his “History of Danbury, Conn., 1684-1896,” which was published after Bailey’s death.

“Homer’s wit was quick and keen and could all his stories and apt sayings be gathered together, they would fill a volume,” Bailey wrote.

“On one occasion a good lady was talking to Homer upon the subject of his soul’s salvation, and said to him, `Homer, you know more than most of your race.’

“ ‘Humph!’ said Homer, ‘or yours either;’ which so broke up the lady, who had a keen sense of humor, that the religious conversation was permanently deferred.”

Peters and his wife, Nancy, who was born a slave in Maryland, lived in a small house on Coalpit Road in Danbury with their three children, Hassan said.

Peters, a successful businessman by any measure, owned two other buildings in Danbury, including his ice cream saloon at 53 Liberty St.

Forget about Haagen-Dazs or Ben & Jerry’s.

To hear James Nichols, a Danbury farmer of the day, write about Peters and his ice cream saloon in August 1849, a visit to the city’s famed creamery was not to be missed.

“We turned the horse (and wagon) in the direction of Judge Peters Ice Cream Saloon,” Nichols wrote, “where having entered, we were cordially received by Lady Peters and her two daughters, the tumblers of cream bespoken, and the whole party except myself partook of it with the greatest imaginable relish.”

Nichols was also a fan of Peters and his celebrated fiddle-playing.

In September 1846, Nichols wrote about Peters filling a Danbury ballroom with his four-stringed jubilation at the end of the night: “Judge Homer Peters, a finished professor of Music, was now called on to conclude the festivities of the evening with a few scientific cotillions.”

Peters was no stranger to Danbury’s Concert Hall, a landmark that once stood at the corner of Main and West streets, where the city’s Civil War monument is now poised.

A few years before he died, Peters headlined at the Concert Hall again, The Danbury Globe reported on Aug. 6, 1875.

The paper offered a glimpse into the event — and a window into Danbury’s past — with its story: “Our colored folks enjoyed themselves last Tuesday night with a fancy-dress Hop in Concert Hall. The Judge furnished the music. The door keeper was instructed to charg de white folks a quarter for comin’ in.”

With all due respect to Judge’s musical talent and his “considerable wit,” I can’t think of a much better way to spend a quarter in 1875.

Unless, of course, his ice cream saloon was open down the street.

Hi everyone,

It didn’t take long for the Lauf boys — Bill, Jack, Bob and Walt — to stake claim to one of the greatest dominions Danbury has ever known.

From the moment the family moved into its two-story house at 14 Davis St. in 1924, the Lauf boys became the youthful proprietors of a backyard ski jump, a coveted swimming hole that doubled as a hockey pond, and a grass field perfectly suited for endless hours of baseball, football and kite flying.

“We had a great childhood, we really did,” Jack Lauf said the other day in Southbury, the memories of base hits and box kites vivid in his 90-year-old eyes. “But we also had great parents who loved us and made sure that we did our homework, went to church and grew up the right way.”

Walt Lauf, still the kid brother at 86, lives in northern Vermont these days with his wife of nearly 65 years, Trude. He, too, cherishes those stories of four brothers growing up in Danbury during the Great Depression, the proud kids of John and Hattie Lauf.

“Some of the things we didn’t have growing up were a blessing in disguise,” Walt said by telephone Friday. “It made us be more creative. We played a lot of baseball and football and things like that, but we also invented our own games.”

About a year ago, Jack and Walt decided the tales from their humble and often humorous days on Davis Street were worth saving for their children and grandchildren.

So Jack and Walt Lauf did just that.

The brothers spent a good part of 2011 reminiscing, laughing and spinning their boyhood stories into a self-published book, complete with timeless black-and-white photographs and a fine hand-drawn map.

A few weeks ago, the first copies of “14 Davis: Memories of four brothers growing up in a make-do Great Depression family,” arrived in the mail. The 81-page softcover book was published with the help of Jack’s daughter, Leslie.

Jack and Walt describe their childhood on Davis Street, near Ridgewood Country Club, in the book’s preface:

“Growing-up life at this time was as happy as the sun’s rays dancing off white caps on Lake Candlewood, as easy as finding nightcrawlers on the golf course after a soaking rain, as difficult as getting out of daily household chores and as fun-packed as a day at the old Danbury Fair.”

These were the days, you see, when neighborhood kids played baseball until you couldn’t see the pitcher anymore, the days when Dad’s tape held baseballs together long after their covers had come off.

Other times, the game of the day was “Duck-On-The-Rock.” One of the Lauf boys would put a small rock — the duck — on top of a larger rock, and then everyone would take turns throwing rocks to try and knock off the duck.

“We felt it was important to keep these stories and memories alive for our families,” said Walt, who like Jack, has three children. “But certainly, the fundamental purpose of this book is to hand down our family’s history.

“We’re hoping that people who read this story in the paper might think, ‘Geez, we ought to do that for our family.’ The way publishing is today — it’s so simple on the computer — there’s no reason why you can’t,” Walt said.

“To be honest with you, I wish I knew more about my parents and grandparents, running around the Carpathian hills and everywhere else.”

As the brothers tell the story, John Lauf came to America from eastern Europe when he was 8 years old, and lived with his mother and three sisters.

Later on, like so many other Danbury fathers, John Lauf worked in the city’s hat-making industry. It was dirty and dangerous work, but it put food on the table and a roof over the family’s head during the Great Depression.

Hattie Lauf, meanwhile, waited tables at the old Hotel Green on Main Street and raised her boys to be gentlemen — well, most of the time. She was also a talented seamstress and a gifted rug-maker, Jack recalled.

All four Lauf brothers served in World War II, a tremendous source of pride for John and Hattie Lauf. The Laufs hung a Blue Star banner in the front window at 14 Davis St. while their sons were overseas.

Bob Lauf is 87 years old now. He lives in a nursing home in Pennsylvania. Bill Lauf, the former Sunday editor of The News-Times, died unexpectedly in 1981 at age 62.

Like Walt, Jack is retired. But he still loves a good story and a good joke, same as ever.

“A few weeks ago, I went into the hospital for pneumonia,” Jack said, pausing to let the punch line flip end-over-end like a punted football from his youth. “And I came out of it with a triple bypass.”

Sounds to me like a story for another day. Or even better, another book from the heart.

HOW TO ORDER A COPY: “14 Davis: Memories of four brothers growing up in a make-do Great Depression family” costs $12.50, including shipping and handling. For more information, email jackhlauf@gmail.com or ncwally@comcast.net.

Hi everyone,

Don’t be fooled by the matrix of scaffolding in front of The Salvation Army thrift store on Main Street and the ghost-town appearance of the first floor.

The Danbury landmark is still open Monday through Saturday, 10 a.m. to 6 p.m.

But it’s hardly business as usual.

The thrift store, in true Phoenix-like fashion, is undergoing a $400,000 renovation that is expected to be done by March, according to Lt. Col. Tim Raines, commander of The Salvation Army’s adult rehabilitation ministry for the Eastern territory.

So while Jim Maloney’s new health clinic takes shape across the street, The Salvation Army store is getting ready for a major unveiling of its own with new fixtures, a new layout and a new attitude.

Suddenly, the smell of neglect has been replaced by the smell of fresh paint and a fresh start.

This is another encouraging sign for the revitalization of downtown Danbury, especially for local families trying to stretch their budgets in an unforgiving economy.

“We’re trying to invest in the community,” Raines said Thursday night. “At the same time, we’re aware of the image of the old Salvation Army thrift store and we’re trying to reinvent it. We’ve changed the name to the Family Store.

“The whole concept is being changed. It’s going to be more like a department store, where people of all classes can go shop and find a bargain.”

Consider: As I shuffled through the racks of clothing Thursday night — the pants, shirts, coats and everything else have been moved upstairs after being downstairs for years — I found a Ralph Lauren women’s barn coat with a brown corduroy collar. The blue coat was in gently used condition, if not better.

The yellow ticket with “Family Store” printed on it read, $14.99. But because yellow tickets were half off Thursday, the coat was a steal at $7.50.

Anyone could see that.

I’m glad Raines and The Salvation Army folks saw fit to upgrade the lighting here. It would’ve been a shame to skimp on the lights and update everything else.

The place is so much brighter now and the metaphor for the future — whether that future belongs to The Salvation Army, this corner of Main Street, or the people whose lives are changed by the missions supported by these retail purchases — is unmistakable.

“This is one of the stores that we’ve owned for a long time and we felt it was time to clean it up and spruce it up,” Raines said. “We have a commitment to the community and we think this investment will help us do that.”

The Salvation Army’s commitment to the community, of course, includes free treatment for people fighting alcohol and drug addictions, among other demons.

“It’s a win-win situation for the whole community. Everyone benefits,” Raines said. “It’s going to be a brand-new store with the old prices.

“This is a process we’re doing all over Connecticut, right now. We just opened a brand-new store in Newington in November and we’re opening another one in Willimantic next month.”

But right here in Danbury, in a historic brick building dating to 1932, The Salvation Army is priming its walls and powdering its nose for a new era of helping people.

To read more about the new Salvation Army store in downtown Danbury, check out my “Take on Life” column Friday, exclusively in the print edition of The News-Times.

Hi everyone,

It didn’t take very long, maybe a second or two, before Daniela Macia’s 10-year-old eyes spotted one of the brass rings of childhood in Danbury — a big red button to push with no waiting.

I suppose it doesn’t get much better than that for a kid at Stew Leonard’s, the grocery store carnival with free samples, fresh food and all that mechanized magic.

For nearly a quarter century now, Daniela and thousands of other kids at Stew’s have run up to a mega-sized box of Twinkies and pushed that same big red button.

“Hi! I’m Twinkie the Kid!” the cowboy hat-wearing snack cake declares to Danbury’s next generation of kids.

But will there be a generation after Daniela? And how about her 7-year-old sister, Natalia?

SEE TWINKIE FOR YOURSELF: http://youtu.be/rGo-NYQPicw

Sadly, Twinkie the Kid is the face of a dying brand with a flawed business model to match.

For the second time in almost eight years, the parent company of Twinkies — first it was Interstate Bakeries, now it’s Hostess — announced last week that it is seeking bankruptcy protection.

Hostess listed $860 million in debt in papers filed with the U.S. Bankruptcy Court for the Southern District of New York, according to The Associated Press.

That’s a lot of Twinkies.

As far as I can tell, there are no butter cream buyouts coming from the President’s Council on Physical Fitness.

Times — and tastes — have changed for Twinkie the Kid, you see.

Gone are the days when Twinkies filled every kid’s school lunch box. Gone are the days when kids washed down their Twinkies with grape Kool-Aid or Tang, the SunnyD of the ’70s.

These days, despite near-epidemic problems with childhood obesity, apple slices, carrot sticks and celery stalks smothered in peanut butter have become the snacks of choice in many American households.

And yet, there is something irresistible about a talking snack cake wearing cowboy boots, even at 150 calories and 4.5 grams of fat.

I suppose one part of it is nostalgia. The other part, at least for me, is the wide-eyed radar kids use when they run up to push those big red buttons.

As much as Clover the Cow — the bovine in the back of Stew Leonard’s where kids tug the rope to elicit a foghorn from her throat — and the Chiquita Banana lady with the Carmen Miranda headdress, Twinkie the Kid is a headliner here.

Just don’t try buying Twinkies at Stew Leonard’s.

The company hasn’t sold them for several years, Meghan Bell, a company spokeswoman, said Friday afternoon.

But there’s no denying Twinkie the Kid’s popularity with those who love his slow-motion, jack-in-the-box entrance.

For those new to Twinkie the Kid, just look for the giant ear of corn suspended from the ceiling in the produce section at Stew Leonard’s; Twinkie the Kid is nestled right around the corner.

“I remember growing up with Twinkies. They were a part of my childhood,” said Felipe Macia, 45, a banker from New York and the father of Daniela and Natalia.

“But it’s a different world now. Watch this: Do you know what a Twinkie is?” Macia asked Daniela.

The little girl shook her head. So did her sister.

But not Shira Newman.

Newman is 31 years old and lives in New York. She’s been coming to Stew Leonard’s ever since her family moved to Somers, N.Y., when she was 2 years old.

On Friday, she visited Twinkie the Kid with her parents, Donna and Steve Bookin, and her 9-month-old son, Max.

“The store wasn’t this big when we first started coming here. It was just a tent where they sold produce — fruits and vegetables, things like that,” Donna Bookin said, adding with a laugh, “I came here so much they built a bigger building.”

Over and over — at least five or six times — Newman pushed the big red button to summon Twinkie the Kid.

And, every time, Max — in a nod to the cadence of Ridgefield’s Maurice Sendak — smiled his beautiful smile.

Sure, Twinkies are hardly the food pyramid’s missing link, proprietary cream filling and all.

But for those who remember Twinkie the Kid and a simpler time, it’s still fun to press that big red button at Stew Leonard’s.