Spring at last.
The county has erupted in beauty. The forest floor is covered with trillium, dutchman’s britches, lady slippers, trout lilies and … mushrooms. You could almost hear the pop of blossoms while traveling through the countryside.
Last week, I prepared my granddaughter, Michelle, for the arrival of “popcorn” on trees in the orchard. I don’t know if she was listening to me when I pointed them out. Nor do I know if anything I say sticks with her.
I got my answer over the weekend. Son, Tim came over with Michelle, little sister Maeve and my daughter-in-law, Hannah. After seeking permission from a neighboring property owner, Tim and the girls headed up to our old mushroom hunting grounds, where Tim and I spent a lot of time, just the two of us, each spring.
Tim is a great mushroom hunter. He and my late father are the only people I know who could spot mushrooms in the woods while driving past.
May weekends in my youth were spent taking spring hikes, learning about the first bloomers in the woods and of course picking morels. At the time, Traverse City was still a relatively unknown tourist destination with large properties yet to be developed. Looking back, I’m sure we were trespassing on someone’s property.
We’d load up the car, large grocery bags in hand, and head out for the hunt. This was truly a family affair with my parents, the younger trio in our family (brother, Tom, and sister, Tassie) and in later years, my older sister, Marcia (AKA Cheech).
Being in the woods was the best part of this adventure. Like Michelle, I had a lot of questions about my surroundings. I also remember becoming frustrated watching my dad pick mushrooms hand over fist. The anticipation of finding the elusive fungi was great. I could have a morel bonanza at my feet and wouldn’t see it. Yet, dad could spot them from yards away.
He’d signal his “catch” with a “yoo-hoo” and my siblings and I would run toward him, hoping he’d let us pick his find. True confessions, some mushrooms may have been sacrificed in our race to pick.
My parents grew up picking morels as did my sisters and brothers. Mom recalled that the day before I was born, in May 1964, she went mushroom picking, swollen feet and all.
“The day before you were born, we were in the woods,” she’d say. “I’d point them out and they’d pick them because I couldn’t bend over.” Given this, you’d think that I would have been born with a taste for them. You’d be wrong.
I am/was the best mushroom hunter you can find: one that loves to pick, but not to eat.
Most everyone in the family loved morels. I tried so hard to appreciate what others drooled over. Sautéed, fried with cracker covering, with eggs … you name it, I’ve tried it. But I could never get past the smell of them cooking, which reminds me of a towel left in the kitchen sink too long.
I’ll say no more as I don’t want to “yuck” anyone’s “yum.”
My granddaughter may not like them either. But it’s my hope that years from now, she’ll be able to remember getting out in the woods and enjoying the wonder of nature in the spring.
The past six weeks my husband had a great time helping Tim and his wife get Michelle to school. This allowed us time to talk, one-onone, and I shared the story about the popcorn trees. We also talked about forsythia and counted the roadside bushes lighting up the spring landscape in bright yellow.
Sunday, after the mushroom trip, Tim told me that Michelle reported that “Andma” (her name for grandma) told her about the cherry (popcorn) trees. She also recognized the forsythia bush her parents purchased to add to their landscaping.
Spring at last.
