Growing up as a kid, we did the same thing for nearly every Mother’s Day weekend unless it was pouring rain or really terrible weather. We would gather our gear and travel up north to our very rustic cabin and spend the weekend hunting morel mushrooms.
My mom loved to eat them and it was a good time to do things to prep our cabin for summer visits. We’d fill the water, undo some winter-proofing things we’d done, mow the grass. We’d build a fire and roast hot dogs and make s’mores at night. But, during the day, we’d be hunting around for the elusive morel mushrooms. I’d follow my Dad through the woods with an onion sack in my hand hoping I’d be the one to spot the ‘shrooms because I was close to the ground. Sometimes we’d get turned around, but Dad would never call us lost.
Sometimes we’d hit a jackpot! We’d find a huge group of them and we’d be sure to leave enough behind so our “spot” would hopefully be there next year (if we’d remember where it was!).
Those were some core memories that got formed out in the woods. I remember driving up north and we’d start to see trillium blooming and Dad always said that was a sign that the mushrooms would be ready.
I can no longer eat morel mushrooms, sadly. I’ve acquired an allergy. But, every Mother’s Day weekend I look along the wood line of my property for the morels anyways. When I find one, I always think of my Dad. Every time I see one I want to call him up and tell him about my find! Sadly, Dad is gone, mom is still here but we can’t eat morels together for breakfast on Mother’s Day anymore. Times change, but I remember the way these parts of nature made me feel and I’m glad they are still here to bring back the memories and I hope that kids today are forming these same core memories.
