Popcorn

Popcorn

Last evening in Los Angeles, I made a batch of popcorn the old fashioned way, by that I mean the way my father did when I was a child back in Connecticut. I covered the bottom of a large pot with frying oil and set it on the stove over a medium flame. After the vessel had heated, the smell of hot oil came up and I tossed several kernels of popping corn inside and covered the pot. When those test kernels had all popped, I covered most of the bottom of the hot cauldron with popping corn, replaced the cover, and shook the pot back and forth, as it cooked on the burner. The popping soon became furious; I reduced the flame and continued to shake the pot vigorously as a wonderful smell filled the kitchen. For a brief second it was 1955 and I was a five-year-old boy standing alongside my father at the side of the stove in the old fourth-floor walkup that my parents lived in when I was born. After the popping subsided, I emptied the hot white puffs into a large bowl and stirred in melted butter and a pinch of salt. In my youth, my dad would pour the finished popcorn, butter, and salt into a paper bag and shake it well before dispensing the completed mixture into serving bowls, but in today's world in Los Angeles I had no suitable paper bag. Following that, it was time for Shirley and me to savor our hot buttered popcorn in front of the TV.

Late that night, as I lay in the darkness of the early morning hours, I thought about my father and of the many ways, he had influenced and shaped my life. He passed away several years ago and while he was alive, he was a stern and solitary man; I cannot remember anyone, other than family, coming to visit him at our house in Manchester. My mother had her art; my father had his work, and he toiled long and hard over the years to provide a home and security for his family. He also had my mom and he cared for her deeply; I will never forget how he looked at her. My father and I, however, never communicated well with each other, not our fears, hopes, or love. The final years of his life were painful and not pretty; he seemed such a forlorn and angry figure. Yet I possess so many of his traits, for better or worse, and I see and feel him within me every day. I, too, fear a lingering life, of failing health and time spent alone and unloved, and the dread and futility that can accompany such an end. His birthday is approaching and that means another year is spent. If I could, I would tell him that I miss him and loved him, in spite of myself and in spite of him, just as I always told him every time we talked over the last decade of his life. The memories now flashed through my mind in rapid fire, and along with those images from my early years at home came all the regrets and recriminations, my personal anguish over what might have been. All of these and more come bursting into my mind, swelling my emotions like popcorn exploding out of the past.

Laudizen King
May 22, 2011
Los Angeles