"Let's go up to the woods and pick morels," said Mamma as she put on her sunbonnet, picked up a basket and closed the kitchen door. Naomi and I ran around to the summer kitchen to get the pokes we made the previous day by tying red and white handkerchiefs to the ends of willow sticks. Swinging them over our shoulders, we pretended to be hobos, as we followed Mamma down the lane. Our little puppy ran along behind us. Papa was in the pump house washing the milk pails. "Hope you find a nice mess of morels for supper," he shouted, as he waved goodbye.
On this balmy spring morning I am reminded of that trip to the woods with Mamma. The first hot, muggy day of May, 1910 brought on a sudden, short, thunderstorm, followed by a warm shower. The sun was still partly hidden by scattered clouds; the air was humid; sound carried for miles, and we heard the neighbors dog barking in the distance. On such a day a hushed silence fell overall, and you felt the world was standing still.

After climbing over the stone fence, we cut cross-lots through the cow pasture where our herd of cows were grazing. Our little puppy nipped at their heels, and, much to our amusement, scattered them in all directions.
Coming to the creek, Mamma gathered her skirts and carefully stepped from stone to stone, crossing to the opposite bank where she sat down to rest. Before hopping across the creek on the mossy rocks, Naomi and I looked into the little pools of water for schools of shimmering minnows. The pollywogs, still a dull shade of brown, would soon be changing into green frogs. Tiny tadpoles darted around among them like arrows.
With the ends of our sticks we poked under the driftwood to dislodge a sluggish crawfish. Catching one by his rib cage, we watched his dancing feet as he struggled for freedom. Sometimes one would manage to wriggle arounnd and retaliate by nipping us with his scissor-like claws.

Mamma pointed to the meadow saying, "look girlies, there's a patch of cowslips, lets pick some." We raced to the spot and picked a few of the golden blossoms while she picked a supply of the tender crown leaves to cook as greens for supper.
By the time we reached the edge of the woods the sky was clear and the sun high overhead. We flattened our bodies close to the ground and crept under the barb-wire fence strung to keep the cows out of the woods. Mamma knelt close to the ground and Naomi and I lifted the lower wire to enable her to creep through. On entering the woods we were greeted by an indescernible aroma, greeting us and inviting us to venture on. It was a combination of decaying logs, blossoming trees, and the smell of sun warmed earth. We breathed deeply of the good "woodsy smell," as we called it, and our clothing and hair were soon permeated with the pleasant odor.
Mamma had a double purpose in bringing us to the woods. Her great love of nature prompted her to teach us the names of trees, flowers and birds. That day we were looking for the rare and delicious morels, members of the edible nushroom family. The moist, hot days of early May provided ideal growing conditions for morels. Thr rapid-growing fleshy fungi, resembling a sponge, popped up among the roots of trees, growing primarily around white oak and elm trees, or around two year old stumps, and at times came up almost anywhere.

We were taught to recognize the bark and leaves of trees around which morels grew and we learned that a dead branch overhead indicated a dying root underground, a place where morels grew. Naomi and I looked high and low in our search, stooping and bending. Sometimes we would peer under the lacy parasols of the lovely May Apple, or lift the heart shaped leaves of the ginger-root, or peek behind Jack's pulpit.

MAY APPLE

My sister had excellent eyesight and more patience than I did and found ten or more morels. As she placed them inside her poke she counted out loud to provoke me. That was only a challenge, and I, eager to over-do or match her gleanings, raced over to find Mamma in the hope of picking part of a patch she found.
"Where is Mamma? We've lost her," screamed Naomi. Thoroughly frightened, we clutched hands and ran around the woods looking behind trees and bushes. The forest seemed like a jungle closing in on us, and we sobbed loudly as we searched. Turning back we found her only a short distance away. She was sitting in the middle of a large patch of morels growing around an old stump. "Look girlies, see what I've found."she exclaimed, unaware of the fact that we were momentarily lost. "Fill your pokes, but pick the morels carefully," she cautioned as she pinched off the tender fungi and filling her basket to the top. What a discovery!
"I hear Papa calling the cows up for milking," said Mamma. "It must be getting late." Eager to show Papa our morels and our somewhat wilted bouquets of wild flowers, we started for home, taking the short-cut through the meadow.
That night Naomi and I were tucked into bed, weary but happy, for we had experienced a day filled with enduring memories. I clearly remember that wonderful day. It truly was an immortal experience.

Featured Music: "Eclipeses Of The Heart"
Copyright © 2000 Bruce DeBoer
Used with permission of the composer

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