One of my best hometown memories from the 1950’s is our so-called popcorn lady. She sold 10-cent bags of freshly made popcorn from her small bungalow stand on the southeast corner of our town’s business square. On Saturday nights, when the farmers came to town because the stores stayed open until 10 p.m., eager adults and kids alike migrated toward the aroma coming from that stand. These chatting shoppers and we joyful kids all dressed in blue-denims or colorful plaid dresses waited inline in front of it. Above a constant honking and yelling from the cars and pickup trucks full of laughing teenagers circling the town-square repeatedly, we could hear her popcorn crackling fast. While the steam rose from a freshly dumped batch in the catch area, her agile hands rapidly filled those pinstriped bags. With each bag handed through the stand’s open window, the buyer got a quick bright-eyed smile and a “Thank you, come again.” And then, as we munched down those hot salted tasty morsels, we no longer would wonder who the popcorn lady might be, or what she was really like.