Life Lessons of perseverance, patience, and learning from setbacks can be taught by even the simple board game of CandyLand. This year, we celebrated what I like to call a “Thanksmas”—a post-Thanksgiving, pre-Christmas gathering of all my children and grandchildren under one roof. If you’ve never tried cramming two holidays into one, I highly recommend it. It’s efficient, festive, and lets you eat pumpkin pie while unwrapping gifts. My “mountain daughter” from Reno brought her family, including granddaughter (Bristol) and new grandson (Malachi-yes, I double-checked the spelling in my Bible app). Justin, my middle son who runs the store came with his wife, Hannah, and their kids, Elizabeth and 10-month-old Calvin, who’s just starting to join the fun with his giggles and drool. My oldest son Jeremy flew in from Denver with his son Clark, the original inspiration behind Dig Dig.
Among the chaos of toddlers, turkey, and twinkling lights, there was one constant: Clark and Jeremy’s epic showdown over an old closet-stashed game of Candy Land. If you’re unfamiliar with the game, let me set the stage…
CandyLand is a deceptively innocent-looking board game where players navigate a candy-coated trail, drawing cards to advance—unless, of course, they hit one of the infamous sticky spots. For instance, you might find yourself stuck in Molasses Swamp, lost in Lollipop Woods, or mired in the Gooey Gumdrops. Each requires a specific color card to escape. And then there are the pink cards—wildcards of chaos—that whisk you away to specific locations on the board. This could either leapfrog you closer to the Candy Castle or cruelly yank you back to the early stages of the game. It’s a rollercoaster of sweet highs and crushing sugar crashes—basically, an emotional rollercoaster disguised as a children’s game.
Watching Clark learn how to play Candy Land was like watching a slow-motion life lesson—not about mastering the rules, but about navigating the emotional rollercoaster of setbacks and, most importantly, learning how to finish the game. At first, Clark displayed all the classic signs of frustration: tears, crossed arms, and dramatic exits. Those sticky spots and dreaded pink cards were too much, and Jeremy had to pack the game away more than once, only to try again later.
But slowly, Clark began to manage his emotions. By Day 3, he was completing games—a victory that came with a proud smile and maybe a little relief from the rest of us. This moment wasn’t just about Candy Land—it was about resilience, a skill that takes practice. The beauty of Jeremy’s approach was that he allowed Clark to quit when it became too overwhelming but always encouraged him to come back and try again. There was no pressure, no lecturing, just patience and gentle guidance. Over time, Clark learned that setbacks were just part of the game, and finishing—even when it was hard—was its own kind of win.
On Day 4, I decided to join in. Apparently, adding players and shuffling between rounds quadruples the appearance of those pink disaster cards. What followed was a 60-minute Candy Land marathon, full of unexpected detours and setbacks. By the end, even I found myself crossing my arms in frustration.
Then came the Candy Land plot twist. After returning to his home in Denver, Jeremy called me with a story about Clark playing Candy Land at a friend’s house. This time, it was a newer version of the game, and something was different. This conversation prompted me to do some research. I discovered that in the 2006 edition, the game was modified to make it more forgiving for players. Previously, landing on certain spaces—such as the Molasses Swamp—would cause a player to be stuck until they drew a specific color card to move forward. In the updated version, these challenging spots were replaced with licorice spaces that simply cause the player to lose one turn, making the game less punishing and more accessible for younger children.
The businessman in me couldn’t help but wonder how this change came about. Was it a response to parental complaints or lawsuits claiming irreversible damage to children? Or was it just a considerate move by Hasbro to spare the tears of future generations? We may never know. What we do know is this: when Clark heard about the change, he didn’t like it. “That’s not how Papaw’s Candy Land works,” he said. And honestly? I kind of love that.
And just like that, the lesson from Candy Land comes full circle. Building Dig Dig has often felt like playing Candy Land—navigating sticky spots, celebrating small wins, and pushing through setbacks to reach the sweetest victories.
Dig Dig – Where imagination meets excavation!
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