On May 24th, 2015—her 90th birthday—Eunice Cargo made a bold move from Brighton, Michigan, to Aurora, Colorado. It was a courageous step, and one that ultimately impacted Mary, me, and our entire family just as deeply as it impacted Eunice herself.
It’s true.
My own story of impact has, at its core, a simple yet essential element: popcorn. What I didn’t realize when Mary and I got married in 1978 was that I was marrying into a popcorn family. Yes, a deep and abiding legacy wrapped in the love of popped kernels. Every last one.
Sunday nights, it’s a given in our household. And really, the bar is low for what counts as a popcorn-worthy occasion.
After Eunice moved into an assisted living community just four miles from our home, I began delivering popcorn to her on Sunday evenings. Since her apartment didn’t have a stove—and because microwave popcorn is, well, microwave popcorn—I took it upon myself to ensure she got the real thing: stove-cooked, fresh, and familiar.
Sunday night became our time.
I’d sit across from her, angled just so, in a chair that matched hers. She rarely ate the popcorn while I was there—possibly because she didn’t want to share it. But more likely because the delivery marked the beginning of something more: rich, revealing, and unhurried conversation. Our chairs became an oasis of reflection.
Eunice’s memory ran deep and wide. Most Sundays, my questions would take her back to Calumet, Michigan—her childhood home. The daughter of immigrants. The seventh of eight children. Her father, Benjamin, worked deep in the copper mines of the Upper Peninsula. He never owned a car, consequently, he walked to and from the mine every workday. While the mine provided a living, it eventually poisoned his lungs and led to his early death. Eunice was still a young woman.
And somehow, it took a bowl of popcorn and the comfort of Sunday evenings to unlock the personal, poignant stories of those early days—days rooted in faith, resilience, and family.
One Sunday, as the popcorn rested on the kitchen table and we settled into our usual configuration, she spoke of growing up in a loving but austere home. The mines were run by British businessmen—wealthy by local standards—and Eunice grew up feeling marginalized. An outsider.
As the stories unfolded, I felt the weight of trust. I marveled at the tenderness, the depth, the quiet strength. After more than 40 years of knowing my mother-in-law, I was hearing these stories for the first time. Popcorn was the excuse my curiosity needed—and once given permission, the stories flowed. Richly. Deeply. Wisely.
Eunice would have turned 100 on May 24th, 2025. Her last birthday with us was her 95th.
Even now, I find myself wishing I could make one more Sunday night popcorn run to Peakview. To ask a few more questions. To sit once more in the comfort of curiosity and wonder. To share in the humbling delight of simply listening.
Sunday night. Popcorn. The quiet beauty of lingering—and the perfect excuse to make it happen.
Stories untold are a treasure undiscovered. Get curious. Make time. Pop popcorn.
I miss you, Mom.
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