Growing Dad’s Popcorn
Every summer, like clockwork, my father would prepare the old garden plot behind our house. He wasn’t much of a talker, but when it came to the soil and seeds, he was a poet in motion. Among the tomatoes, beans, and peppers, one crop always got special treatment: popcorn. Not the buttered microwave kind, but real, heirloom popcorn with tiny kernels that exploded into delicate, snow-white puffs.
“Popcorn’s not just corn,” Dad would say, pressing seeds into the ground. “It’s got memory. You grow it right, and every kernel tells you a story.”
When I was younger, I didn’t understand what he meant. To me, popcorn was just a snack, something I burned in the microwave after school. But to him, it was a legacy. The seeds he used had been passed down from his grandfather, smuggled across states and planted in different backyards like hidden treasure. Growing popcorn wasn’t just about food—it was about history, patience, and pride.
Dad treated each stalk with reverence. He’d walk the rows every evening, plucking weeds with one hand while sipping iced tea from a mason jar with the other. I helped when I could, dragging the hose behind me or chasing birds off with tin pans and noisy yells. But I never really shared his passion—not until the summer he got sick.
That year, the spring rains came late, and Dad’s energy came slower still. The garden didn’t get its usual start, and by June, the plot lay fallow, waiting. He sat in his chair on the porch, a blanket draped over his legs despite the heat. “Go plant the popcorn,” he said one evening. “Don’t let it skip a year.”
I hesitated. I didn’t know how. Not really. But he looked at me with those determined eyes, the same ones that had stared down storms and stubborn tractors, and I nodded.
He watched from the porch as I worked. I found the old seed tin under the workbench and opened it like it was a sacred box. The kernels were small, smooth, and golden, each one a promise. I remembered the rhythm of Dad’s hands, the spacing, the depth, the way he whispered to the soil as he worked. I tried to mimic it. My rows weren’t perfect, and I overwatered more than once, but the shoots rose anyway.
As the weeks passed, I took to walking the rows like Dad had. I’d tell him about the progress each evening, describing how the stalks stretched taller, the tassels dancing in the breeze. Sometimes he’d nod, sometimes he’d correct me with a quiet word. “Don’t forget to hill them,” he’d say. “Keep the raccoons out. They know good popcorn.”
By August, the ears were thick and firm. Dad passed before harvest, slipping away one quiet night while the garden stood watch. I picked the ears myself, husked them by hand, and let them dry in baskets the way he taught me. That fall, I made popcorn on the stove, just like he used to. The kernels popped slowly, deliberately, each one echoing in the pan like a drumbeat from the past.
It wasn’t just good—it was perfect. Slightly sweet, with a crunch that melted into air. I packed jars for family, saved seeds for spring, and passed a jar to my own son, who’d started asking questions about the garden.
Now, each year, we grow Dad’s popcorn. And each time it pops, we hear him again—in the rustle of the stalks, in the warmth of the kitchen, in the quiet pride of doing something with care.
