26 February 1998
My mom and I got into a rut of watching any movie-of-the-week slop we could find on TV. Every night we'd start with the basic channels and, if nothing there fed our masochistic need for dramatic pap, we'd move on to cable. Lifetime. USA. Someone would give us our fix.
It was during this time that I discovered something about my mom that I hadn't known before: she hated Orville
Redenbacher. It seemed that his popcorn company was a hearty supporter of made-for-TV dramas. We saw him almost
every night and the routine was always the same. Orville's wrinkled, knowing grin would come on the screen and
she'd purse her lips and listen intently. Orville would cavort, tossing popcorn into the air. Mom grunted. He'd
catch it in his mouth. She'd snarl.
"I hate that bastard," she'd bark as soon as he was gone. "I hate that bow tie. He's such a..."
She struggled to put her loathing into words. "Son-of-a-bitch!"
"Mom!" I'd gasp in mock horror. "That's terrible!" Then I'd egg her on. "Why do you hate
him so much?"
"Ohhh...he's got that..that...GRANDSON who looks just like him." This was usually enough to get her out
of her chair and into the kitchen, set to work out her aggression on a mid-movie snack.
I arrived at my place of employment one day in 1995 to discover a note from the secretary, taped neatly to my desk.
Amy,
Mom called.
Orville Redenbacher dead in tub.