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Posted on November 4, 2026 By admin No Comments on See Comments

The partnership ended, but the name survived. Behind every bag of M&M’s lies a story of two candy families, wartime demand, and a business alliance that left its mark on generations of childhood memories. Those familiar initials still carry both men’s names, even though only one ultimately took control of the company behind the colorful candy and its fut

M&M’s stands for Mars and Murrie: Forrest Mars Sr. and Bruce Murrie, the businessmen behind the candy introduced in 1941. Mars brought his vision for chocolate protected by a hard sugar shell, while Murrie’s family connection to Hershey helped secure chocolate supplies. His father, William Murrie, was a senior Hershey executive. During World War II, the sweets found an important audience among American military personnel, who valued chocolate that traveled well and was less messy to handle.

The collaboration did not last. Mars eventually bought out Murrie’s stake, bringing the business under his control, but both surnames remained embedded in the brand. New colors, peanut centers, and other varieties followed as M&M’s grew into a worldwide favorite. What now feels like a simple childhood treat carries a small piece of business history: a partnership that disappeared from the boardroom, yet endured on the packaging for generations of candy lovers.

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Next Post: When I quit my job at an auto parts shop, my boss delivered my final $915 paycheck by pouring 91,500 oil-covered pennies across my driveway. Instead of letting his humiliation defeat me, my two children helped wash and roll every coin. Then we used that money to clear the school lunch debts of every child in my son’s grade. But the following morning, my former boss appeared at the school asking for me. It was four o’clock on Friday when Dale emptied the final bucket. Thousands of pennies scattered across my gravel driveway. All 91,500 coins were coated in greasy motor oil. My eight-year-old son, Noah, and five-year-old daughter, Lily, watched silently from the porch. Dale attached my pay stub to one of the empty buckets. “There you go,” he said. “Paid in full. Feel free to count them.” I’d spent six years managing his parts counter. I knew practically every product and part number in the building. Two weeks earlier, I’d handed in my resignation after finding a position at the local co-op. The new job offered health insurance for my children. That was all the reason I needed. But Dale took my decision personally. He hadn’t spoken to me since I gave notice. Now he’d found a way to make my final paycheck as humiliating as possible. He’d delivered every cent in pennies. I figured that because pennies were legal currency, there was little anyone in Wisconsin would do about his behavior. My children’s father was away hauling timber near Tomahawk that week. When he heard what happened, he offered to drive over and dump the entire pile back onto Dale’s property. I told him not to bother. The local coin-counting machine charged nearly twelve percent. Besides, those oily coins would probably jam it. So I brought out a large plastic washing tub. Noah and Lily spread an old blanket across the ground. We filled the tub with warm water and dish soap. Then we started cleaning. My children scrubbed the pennies with their little hands. I knelt on the gravel, wearing my bandana, and began rolling the clean coins. Fifty pennies per wrapper. We needed 1,830 rolls. Slowly, the shoeboxes on our card table began filling. By Saturday evening, Noah had a question. “Mom, what happens when somebody doesn’t have enough money for school lunch?” I looked at him. “Why do you ask?” He explained that a boy in his class had received a cheese sandwich that week. At their school, children with negative lunch balances were given that instead of the regular meal. Everyone could tell which students owed money just by looking at their trays. Noah glanced toward our mountain of pennies. “Could we use some of these to pay for lunches?” I sat quietly for a moment. That $915 was supposed to be our emergency money. With two children to support, I couldn’t afford to waste it. But the thought of buying our groceries with money Dale had deliberately thrown onto the ground made my stomach turn. On Monday, I called the school. Mrs. Fogle, the cafeteria worker who handled lunch accounts, answered. She couldn’t share the names of children who owed money. But she could tell me the total outstanding balance for second grade. Twenty-three students. A combined debt of $908.40. When I explained how I intended to pay it, she went quiet. “Oh, sweetheart,” she finally whispered. It took us five days to finish cleaning and rolling the pennies. My knees became sore from kneeling on the gravel. Twice, Lily fell asleep on the blanket while we worked. On Tuesday, she proudly finished the final roll herself. The paper wrapper was covered with her sticky little fingerprints. Wednesday morning, we loaded the shoeboxes and took them to school. Nearly five hundred pounds of pennies. Noah carried the final roll. He approached Mrs. Fogle’s counter and carefully placed it in her hands. She looked at him. Then at the boxes. And slowly lowered herself into a chair. Later that morning, the school’s social media page shared a thank-you message. It praised an anonymous mother who had rolled 91,500 pennies to help students. The post never mentioned where those coins had come from. It didn’t need to. By lunchtime, nearly everyone in town knew exactly which shop owner had delivered that unusual paycheck. Dale remained silent. At least for the rest of Wednesday. But at 7:40 the following morning, my phone rang. Mrs. Fogle was calling. Her voice sounded unusually serious. “Becky, I think you need to come to the school.” I sat up straighter. “What’s wrong?” She lowered her voice. “Dale Heckert is standing right here in my office.” Then she paused. “And he’s demanding to speak with you.” The rest of the story is waiting in the comments

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