There was an old sprawled out tree that stood along the edge of a pasture that was studded with pink multiflora roses, hedge trees, and expanses of tall green grasses. This tree had the kind of sturdy low hanging limb that grew out purposefully from the massive trunk just for the joy of climbing.
My Old Man, sung by John McDermott* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Beyond this pasture and old tree lies the woods. The woods was, and still is, one of my favorite places. The dense trees with the forest floor blanketed with May apples, mushrooms, seedlings sprouting and reaching towards the sun light, birds nesting, and the sweet smell of spring. To me, summer is a more relaxed season. The saplings are establishing their roots in the dark, rich soil. Birds are busy doing what birds do in the summer. Squirrels scamper and play. Autumn comes and the forest floor is blanketed with the beauty of the gem-colored leaves, and with it the sweet smell of the decaying leaves permeating the air. The squirrels are scurrying about burying their bounty for the coming winter. With the arrival of late autumn, the once beautiful leaves are various shades of brown and crunch underfoot. Then the stark beauty of winter: the leafless branches reaching toward the sky, looking much like a piece of sculpture. Then a magical snowfall comes, blanketing the forest floor now with the beauty of a winter wonderland.
I recall several times when my dad and I ventured out in the woods to hunt mushrooms. Dad was in his element when he was walking in the woods. I recall Mom saying on several occasions that Dad was probably born on a log! He always knew the best places to find these little treasures. Sometimes you'd find the small gray mushrooms, but you'd always be searching for the yellow ones: the morels. I never was one to enjoy eating mushrooms, but I sure enjoyed exploring the woods to find some.
The woods we'd look for mushrooms in generally seemed to have steep hills and "hollers". It was hard walking for a kid like me; but my dad, with his long legs and stride, easily climbed the hills.
Dad and I would fill our bags with the spongy gems and start making the long trek back to the gravel road where we parked the car. We'd get home and Mom would greet us at the door smiling as we handed her the bags of mushrooms. Oh, how she and Dad loved to eat mushrooms!
I'd go in the kitchen with her and watch as she filled the old white cast iron sink with water. After filling the sink, she would sprinkle in lots of salt. She would then slice the mushrooms in half and place them in the salty water to soak and to get all the bugs out. I can still remember the distinct fungus smell of those mushrooms to this day! When the mushrooms had soaked long enough and Mom was certain they were "de-bugged", she'd rinse them again in plain water. She'd then pat them dry and put them in a large bowl and set them in the refrigerator until it was time to prepare them for frying. Hopefully there would be enough for a couple of messes!
When suppertime came, she'd pour some flour in a pie plate and drench the mushrooms in the flour. In the meantime, she'd have the oil already hot in the frying pan. She would then place the mushrooms in the pan and fry them to a crispy golden brown. The entire house would smell of fried mushrooms!
One would think by watching my parents and little sister eat those morsels up, that they were eating like royalty partaking of the finest caviar! After listening to their relentless coaxing, I did eat a couple, but I never did acquire a taste for them!
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As Dad and I approached the old sprawling tree, he helped me up on the limb and then easily climbed up beside me. We sat there awhile enjoying the nice day. That particular day the red and white Hereford cattle were contentedly grazing in the pasture. Dad and I sat awhile longer and I remember asking my dad, "Why are those cows staring at me?" I was actually a bit scared of them! Dad just looked at me, chuckled and smiled that big grin of his and said, "It does look like they're starin' at ya!" Soon after, Dad helped me down from the tree, and we headed for home.
January 18, 1919 - November 7, 1996
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