This time of year, when winter finally gives in to spring, I am always excited to get in the woods and do my best to find at least enough mushrooms to fill a frying pan. Walking alone under the shade of the trees, with the leaves softly crunching under my feet, it is a good time to think and reminisce. See, I am not very good at finding mushrooms, and frankly, I don’t really get too excited about eating them either. Sure, they are somewhat valuable at up to $80 per pound, but that would require me to actually find enough to fill a couple bags. I didn’t have to think very long about why I walk through the woods, aimlessly searching for these hidden little fungi. It is because this silly tradition gives me a connection to land and the people I’ve shared it with. One of my earliest memories is hopping in my dad’s truck after church on a spring morning to go out to his office with him. Just a little kid, bundled up, noisily rustling through the leaves with his dad, searching for morels. I remember they were easier to find back then. Maybe because I was lower to the ground, or maybe time and my excitement of finding them has romantically distorted my memory of this experience I shared with my dad. More likely, he was just much better at finding them then than I am now, and he pointed me in the right direction.
Sadly, my dad isn’t here to go wander through the woods with me anymore. But this year I get bundle up my son after church on a spring morning, take him with me to my office, and noisily rustle through the leaves, for his inaugural mushroom hunting excursion. Hopefully he is better at finding them than I am. And if he isn’t perhaps his grandfather will guide him to his old mushroom patches like he used to do for me over 30 years ago.
