Special celebrations became more so, knowing time was no longer on our side. 1989
Back in 1974…
Mom was creeping slowly along a woodland area—stooped over like she was searching for something she’d dropped. I was traipsing along behind, humming to myself, oblivious to her search mission.
She was determined to find the illusive springtime morel mushroom. At 16, I went along for the hike, but mushrooms held no interest for me, and I wasn’t a whole lot of help searching for them either.
Mom had taken a mushroom identification course and she assured me morels stood out from all the typical mushrooms you’d ordinarily find—which she affectionately called LBMs—little brown mushrooms.
This is what I knew about mushrooms: grocery store mushrooms wouldn’t poison you.
We kept walking—and Mom hunched her way through the forest. We returned with a few morels, which she proudly exclaimed would be worth our five-mile search and rescue.
That evening, she sautéed them with fresh garlic and butter, and indeed they were tasty.
So, this year when we were walking along her woodland property, we spotted her beloved morels. I thought, “They’re here, Mom!” Not many, but enough to sauté with garlic and butter.
As we celebrate Mother’s Day, it’s just one of the many ways I can remember my mom—ever the enthusiast about discovering new things—and always willing to search for them too.
