Dad was a rural mail carrier for 52 years, but he loved it too much to call it his job. His “office” was the natural world, and he never tired of admiring the flowers, trees and sky along his route. “God’s handiwork,” he’d say. Outdoors he could also scout the best places for mushrooms.
Morel mushroom hunting was a family tradition. I remember Mom and Dad taking us kids to a special spot in the woods one May day when I was seven. “First one to find a morel wins the prize,” Dad said. He winked at me, the youngest, for luck.
I picked through the grass, eyes roaming. I studied tree trunks and looked behind rocks. “Psst!” Dad beckoned me over and pointed beside a fallen tree. A cluster of morels sat at my feet. “I found one!” I yelled, pointing to it in triumph. Dad never let on he’d helped.
May still meant mushroom hunting, even after we grew up. We hunted together and soaked our finds in saltwater over night. Nothing compared to that first bite of morel dipped in egg batter, covered in soda cracker crumbs and fried in butter. It tasted like spring.
After Dad died it was hard to imagine him no longer part of the natural world that he loved so much. The first May without him was tough. Mom and I went to visit his grave together. Something was sitting on top.
In the center of Dad’s grave, set miles from any woods, grew a perfect morel mushroom. God’s handiwork, indeed.
