Franco Grosso Lane

Popcorn man, family man, bird caller, gardener. Born on March 1, 1931 in Altomonte, Italy; died on Sept. 14, 2015 in Toronto, of a heart attack, aged 84.

Can one person embody the best of a city? I believe that in Toronto, Franco Grosso did just that. For more than 50 years, since 1964, he was known to many as the "original popcorn man." Like a Fellini character, the sight of Franco and his red-and-yellow street vendor's cart – with its inflatable toys, multicoloured flags, candy apples and roasted chestnuts – evoked an era when life was less complicated, when people had time to stop, chat and laugh.

A moving human landmark, Franco and his cart could be found everywhere – the Royal Ontario Museum, Kensington Market, Chinatown, Maple Leaf Gardens, the Canadian National Exhibition, Ontario Place, the annual Santa Claus parade, neighbourhood festivals across the city.

Franco created a positive space for people of all ages, classes and nationalities to meet. Kind, funny, hard-working and generous, he treated everyone the same, whether you were an old friend or new acquaintance. People who met Franco as children later brought their own kids, and grandkids, to say hello and buy a trinket or a tasty treat.

Franco was born and raised in the hill town of Altomonte in Calabria, southern Italy. In 1956, at 25, he sailed from Naples to Halifax, then settled in Toronto with his wife, Teresa. Franco at first worked in the stockyards, but when a makeshift cart came his way, he became a street vendor and the course of his life changed. With the earnings from his popcorn cart, he and Teresa raised five children, a close-knit family that grew to include 13 grandchildren and five great-grandchildren.

Over the years, Franco was the subject of countless photographs and paintings. His image graced the covers of many publications, from Canadian Geographic magazine to a 1970s book called A Complete Guide to Family Fun in Toronto, and the 2013 annual report of the City of Toronto Archives.

I spent hundreds of hours with Franco, watching, studying and learning from him. What began more than 10 years ago as a documentary (The Franco Effect) evolved into an ongoing art project, and a life-changing friendship. Mitch Albom's memoir Tuesdays with Morrie describes the relationship between an older man and his former student, life lessons and wisdom passed on by spending time together in conversation. For me, it was Fridays with Franco.

As in most Italian families, life happened around the kitchen table. Visiting Franco was good for the spirit, though not necessarily the waistline, thanks to his fried zucchini flowers (home grown and dangerously delicious). I learned about the life cycle of his garden, from seed collecting to harvesting his majestic tomatoes. Plant containers were named after family members who had given him seeds for particular hot or mild peppers, and fresh basilico made everything taste buono.

In 2006, he retired to look after his ailing wife, who passed away five years later. One of my favourite memories is of sitting with the two of them on their verandah. Franco would sing to Teresa in his scratchy, thick Calabrese accent, wooing her with a pink rose plucked from the garden, and I would witness first-hand what a 55-year marriage was really all about.

Knowing Franco made me a better person. He was my mentor, muse and personal hero. His greatest lesson was his life, and he is greatly missed. In the words of Morrie Schwartz, "Love wins. Love always wins."

Noelle Elia is Franco's friend.