*P*O*P* goes the Memories (and Happy 100 to my Mom!)

It’s been a BUSY summer, and I haven’t had time to blog, paint, or breathe in between trips (near and far, short and long), family, friends, church, hikes, and who knows what else. Plus, it’s been 98 degrees in my Sunshine Shed every afternoon! (Perhaps a window air conditioner is in order next summer).

But here I am, with POPCORN and my MOM, Maggie, on my mind!

I was watching a Jim Gaffigan clip on CBS Sunday Morning that prompted my summer blogging hiatus to lift for a moment. I knew I needed to get writing while the spirit moved me (and while the shed had cooled down today!) In his bit, Jim talked about his obsession with popcorn (and trying to plant popcorn seeds in sand along the beach). I think I just found my soul brother! I have always had an obsession with popcorn for as long as I can remember.

One of my very earliest memories — the kind that are cemented somehow as your first — includes popcorn! But a little background, first.

When I was turning three years old I took a 6-month train-ride/journey with my patient and loving Grandma, while my single-mom mother stayed at home working and somehow caring for my baby sister. Dear Grandma Grace hauled this sensitive 3-year-old, thumb-sucking, teddy-bear-squeezing, pillowcase-corner-rubbing toddler with her from San Diego to Iowa, Minnesota, and Louisiana and back. There may have been other stops, but those are the ones I remember. We stayed with my aunts, uncles and cousins. The concrete memories of that trip include the following toddler milestones:

• Playing with pots and pans in the mud after an overnight rain with my red-headed 5-year-old cousin Dana (there are lots of Dana’s on my mom’s side of our family, see below). Upon running out of mud because we dug down to dry dirt, and no more water was offered to us, I cried. (Iowa)
• Blowing out my candles on my 3rd birthday cake, at said cousin Dana’s house, and I think I cried again (What the heck?!) I guess I was a melancholy 3-year-old! (Iowa).
• Meeting two more Dana’s — Uncle Dana and Cousin Dana Elizabeth “Libby.” “Too many Dana’s,” said my Aunt Annie to me with a chagrined smile much later in life. She confessed she had been a bit perturbed at my mom because she had chosen to name me Dana after Aunt Annie had “claimed” the name first for Libby…her husband’s name WAS Dana, after all!(Minnesota)
• Watching my Aunt Janet pop popcorn in an aluminum pot on her white enamel gas stove (the only method back in the day) and, OH MY STARS, witnessing my older cousins Joe and Bill, lift the lid WHILE the popcorn was popping and grabbing hot flying kernels to shove into their guffawing mouths. 😳 Even back then I was such an obedient little rule follower, and this wild rebel act shook my world! They all laughed, my Aunt wryly “chided” them, and I eventually relaxed and enjoyed the scrumpti-delicious bites for perhaps the first time in my life. Oh my! It was in Louisiana that my love affair with popcorn began!

Is it the salty, crunchy, buttery collision of flavors bursting in my mouth with each bite? Well, yes. But there are lots of other foods that taste as wonderful as popcorn. For instance, other items on my “last supper” menu include tacos, dense chocolate cake while sipping black coffee, warm whole grain bread slathered with butter, and my new favorite: beef curry bao bao buns dipped in chili sauce! But, popcorn reigns supreme…because popcorn, EVERY TIME I EAT IT, brings back a flood of tender memories of my mother.

My mom, Margaret Dickinson Omer Gray Bierschwale, was larger than life — in body, voice, soul, spirit, humor, and manic depressive episodes. She was a complex woman, full of contradictions: brash, bawdy, intelligent, artistic, spiritual, irreverent, condescending, supportive, loving, stern, social, monastic, secretive and direct. To sum up in two words: Magnificent Maggie!

I related with Mom on her terms, as mine weren’t really her concern or consideration. But I loved her! And she loved me, and I knew it — though it was difficult for me at times to love the fire but not get burned. I can hear her now, “Dammit Dana, you think too much. Knock it off! Don’t sweat the small stuff, and most of it is small stuff.”

Back to popcorn. My first, happiest and ongoing memories of my mom revolved around popcorn. In that arena, we were truly kindred. When I was small (and she was always large!), my mom would lie on the couch to watch TV with a black-speckled metal turkey roaster pan filled with popcorn. I would squeeze in behind angled knees, reach across her rotund hips and soft belly and dig into that deliciousness…her hand often meeting mine. Happy crunching and munching with my mother. Nothing else in the world mattered in those moments.

She rarely dined on popcorn without an accompaniment. Sometimes she would grab a tall glass of milk then scoop the freshly popped corn into the glass and eat it with the spoon. (I never caught on to that one!). She often sliced apples and handed them out to us on a napkin. THAT one stuck! I still love the marriage of a cold crunchy apple alongside my buttered bliss. Sometimes she’d pair her popcorn with iced black coffee. 🤔🤨

Another of my handful (get it! 😉) of nostalgic childhood memories was when we piled into the 1961 Ford Fairlane (the last model with wings), to go to the drive-in movies in Santa Barbara. My sister and I donned our footie pajamas, the speaker hung on the cracked-open window (that also allowed for the cigarette and cigar smoke to waft out of the car), and Mom unveiled a paper sack full of home popped popcorn. If we were lucky, we had two — a front and back seat bag! Usually the paper sacks were doubled so that the Crisco used to pop the corn, and the Blue Bonnet used to slather it, did not get all over our PJ’s and blankets! Greasy-pawed sisters reached into our backseat bag again and again until we had our fill, and we may or may not have watched the movie before falling asleep in the backseat.

Mom’s popcorn legacy carried on into my own family, with popcorn and apples becoming a favorite snack I prepared often. But it was “Grandma Mag’s” popcorn that took on a significant role with her grandchildren. Once my mom and dad moved back to Oregon after being gone for a decade, we started making Sunday-after-church visits to their beloved single-wide at the Blazing Stump Mobile Home Park in Vida, Oregon. We would squeeze into the tiny living room, and my tweenage kids would find a chair or sit cross legged on the floor, awaiting their bowl of freshly popped popcorn. After the first 5 minutes of hugs and “how’s school?/fine” exchanges, the kids were soon bored, and eager to get home. Thankfully, it was the yummy popcorn that kept them busy and semi-content until the obligatory visit ended. By this time, Mom was using an air popper (no more Crisco!) and she slathered the piping hot white nuggets with real butter that she browned ever-so-slightly on the stove. HEAVEN.

But the popcorn routine gradually changed as my mother’s Parkinson’s Disease started to progress with an angry, slow-burn vengeance. One Sunday, we stopped in and Mom started her popcorn popping, butter browning regimen. I noticed her being stressed — sweating, agitated, harried — and the butter burned. “Dammit!” I was alarmed as my eyes caught hers in the kitchen. I’d never seen this commanding, demanding, grandiose woman look so vulnerable. “OK, Kids,” she announced, “You’ll just have to eat it without butter today.” Soon after that, the popcorn popper stayed on the pantry shelf, the butter chilled in the fridge, and my mother proudly gave each child a micro-waved bag of popcorn that she popped either ahead of time or while we were arriving. More time passed, and one Sunday the kids were told, “There’s microwave popcorn in the cupboard if you want to fix it yourself.” And sadly, the popcorn stopped completely about the time the Sunday conversations stopped making sense. Finding words, moving from her chair, maintaining her grandiosity ceased as well as the post-church snacks. She died a few years later at 79.

Could these popcorn memories be called “bittersweet?” “Don’t be ridiculous, Dana!” I can hear my mother scolding! “Stop being maudlin! You either laugh a lot or cry a lot.” She laughed a lot. And I do too.

There’s nothing “bittersweet” about my popcorn, nor these memories with my mom. They are warm, salty and delicious, and I savor them.

Happy 100th Birthday, Mom, on August 15th, 2024. I’m now off to make a snack. Hmmm, what sounds good?! 😜🍿

Love is sharing your popcorn. Charles M Schulz