The Search For Morels!

Every year, around May, my brother Chuck and I would start getting excited. We knew the rain and warm weather would bring lots of morel mushrooms to our woods. Dad always made a big day of it and we couldn’t wait to hunt for morels and hear Dad’s stories.

Finally, the big day was here. It had recently rained and the sun was beating down, which told us we could get a good haul. Dad helped us pack some lunches, because this would be an allday event. We always wanted to wear shorts, but Mom overruled us and made us change into more appropriate clothes. We didn’t care about the heat, though. It was just exciting to be able to spend a whole day with Dad, traipsing through the woods.

Around 10 a.m. we’d head out. We always started out looking in the woods behind our house and it wasn’t an easy thing. The recent rains had left a lot of mud, but we were up for it! Looking at the base of a lot of trees, we finally found a few small morels and Dad announced that we might do better in the big woods across the street. So, off we went.

We each carried a little bag to put our morels in. Around 1:00 we stopped and had our lunch. This is when Dad (who had a lot of Irish in him) would start with one of his stories.

We sat on a broken wagon wheel, and listened as he started his story.

“A hundred years ago,” he began, “way back before any of us were born, even grandma and grandpa, there were wagons that brought families through here to settle out west. One year, a group of wagons stopped right here in this very spot to make camp. They probably ate their dinner right here where we’re sitting. There were lots of kids and probably dogs and horses all around this area, resting up for the continued trek.” Of course, Chuck and I were spellbound listening to his story and we would exchange glances, waiting to see how the story would end.

“On this particular day, there were Indians who had made camp a little further down,” he continued. “In the morning, they tried to attack the caravan of wagons! Fortunately, the families were already gone but had left a wagon behind because they didn’t need it anymore so the Indians set fire to that. And all that’s left is that one broken-down wagon wheel that the two of you are sitting on!”

We still talk about the big stash of morels that we found that day. When we got home, we watched as Dad put the mushrooms in a bowl of water and let them soak overnight. The next day, he fried them up in a skillet with lots of butter. I remember that they didn’t look nearly as big as they did when we found them. When they were done, he shared some with us. And we didn’t like them!! What a disappointment. “More for me!” Dad would say.

Of course, Chuck and I were mesmerized, as always, by Dad’s tale and we talked about it for days, probably weeks! We told all of our friends about it and thought we were pretty cool. In later years we realized that it was one of his tall tales, but it sure did leave a lasting impression on my brother and me. And it didn’t even matter that we didn’t like morels. We still went every year, just to spend time with Dad and hear another story!

By Laura Loveberry Elementary School Assembly

Author/Speaker, Inspirational Speaker Women’s Retreats/ Conferences, Caricature Artist