The Great Mushroom Trips

slightly improved version of mushroom morphology chart. Created by me user debivort, January 2006 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Now that spring is officially here, it takes me back in time of days where my dad should have hated me, but he didn’t. Every spring he and his friend would take me mushroom hunting. My dad could spot them from far away. We never left empty-handed, thanks to him. They would go their way, and I would venture off a ways from them. We all carried empty orange netted bags. Every once in a while, I would hear my dad yell, are you doing ok? Are you finding any? I would always yell back, I am fine. I am doing ok. In the silence of the woods, I could hear him yell at his friend, telling him to come look what he had found. I could hear the laughter coming from the two of them. Mean while I was becoming annoyed with myself and more determined with each step, that I was going to find a mushroom, but in time  I would find that from bending my neck down for so long, I would become distracted  from finding mushrooms, as I kept catching myself stopping and rubbing my neck. I would find my mind wandering to where Mom was and what was she doing. I bet she was shopping and eating lunch with her friends. I would start to daydream about school, friends, and cute boys. I don’t know how long we were in the woods, but it seemed like we walked for hours. We probably were not out there longer than two. Dad would catch up with me and notice that I didn’t have any in my bag. He sat me down on a log and pointed out to me where the sun was, point to certain plants with umbrellas on them, showed me moss on the trees, and explain how the moss was a big signal for me. After we both rested, we would part ways, and back to hunting we would go. I didn’t want my Dad to think I couldn’t find mushroom, so I was more determined at that moment, to crawl on the ground, if it meant finding just one. Silence was heavy around me. No one must be finding them now, as I heard no laughter or chatter. About an hour later Dad and his friend came to where I was looking. They both stood their, looking at each other, with hands on their hips. My Dad’s friend was laughing so hard I wondered if he was going to pee his pants. He was doubled over from laughing so loud. They had both caught me crawling on hands and knees, bag  tucked in my jeans, head bent as if praying. My Dad didn’t laugh though. He just stood there for a moment, maybe considering how to tell me in a fatherly way, that I was crawling on the mushrooms . They were right there underneath my knee. Obviously, I never was asked to go again. The only thing I can say in defense about those mushroom trips is, that later in life, I learned I was color blind.