Last week's warmth encouraged the mushrooms to come out of hiding. My sister Sandra and her husband Gilbert know, full well, that is true. They came to visit me on Saturday and off we went to a little haunt that I know quite well. I call the place "Mushroom Heaven."
I lead them through thick and thicket, marshy areas, briars and brambles-- down winding well- trodden paths. The sun beamed down through the budding saplings and shed perfect light on the delicious delicacies.
Sandra and I loved to hunt mushrooms when we were children. We roamed the same old territory with our father and brother Johnny Wayne, as we did on the day of our most recent outing.
On rare occasions our dear mother joined the hunting party, in those happy days of the springtime's of our lives.
Dad knew just about everything there was to know about what grows on the woodland's floor and what rises above it. His teachings were absorbed and appreciated. We never got a tummy ache or worse from eating mushrooms.
So it was, there she was, the country girl turned city girl up to her old game, the mushrooms fell into her Walmart bag, two plus two equals four and so forth. The thrill seeker kept her nose to the ground, like a well-trained hound and kept on track until the bag was full and; she had her fill, until next time.
My brother-in-law, Gilbert was born and raised in El Paso. He had never experienced the pleasure of hunting the tasty fungi. We took care of that. The quick study took to it like a duck does to water and fared well for a first timer. He presented us with wild mustard bouquets, reminders of our past.
The eager beaver added Gilbert's spores to her mother lode. I saw before me the little girl that she once was, Sandra was enjoying herself. Too bad I didn't have a trophy to give her to go along with her vocal display and exercise of bragging rights.
As for me, I was just having fun being with them. I was glad to pull away from the push mower for awhile. The first trimming of the season isn't a fun thing to do.
Paul Baby and I hunt mushrooms when time permits, and we have been there thrice over, already.
My new pet, Tootie Mae missed all of action, but it was clear to see that she enjoyed meeting the relatives.
I send my condolence to the children, grandchildren, and extended family and close friend of the late, Harold Maesch.
Harold was a longtime family friend. When he was a young boy his father introduced him to mine. The boy enjoyed meeting my father, Hugh Lynch, but he was also fascinated with the pigeons on the roof of the old summer kitchen. He appreciated the beauty of birds so much. Dad said that the polite young man returned a short time later on his bicycle on a mission. His dad gave him permission to buy a pair of Homers. Dad boxed them up and sent the boy home with his blessings and no money exchange, as often was my father's way.
That became the start of a livelong hobby as a pigeon fancier for Harold and the beginning of an enduring friendship that spanned the years that followed.
Harold was an excellent carpenter. He built and mended several buildings at the homestead that still stand today. His hands were never idle. There wasn't anything he wouldn't do to help out his friends.
My hens are happy in the house that his skillful hands built for me.
He loved Mother's cooking; fried chicken and garden greens, favorites. Then there was the music. The piano received a workout when Harold and Lillie came to call. I remember it well.
When my parents lost their home in 1987, Harold was there for us.
His friendship was such a comfort when life, as it once was, began to crumble beneath my parents feet and mine.
Two years after my mother died of heart failure, Dad became seriously ill -- cancer. Harold helped him cope with his darkest days.
I envision a very special place in heaven for Harold. He earned a pair of the most beautiful wings aloft.
Rest in peace and thank you from the bottom of my heart for being the true family friend that you were.
I can be reached at 446-4852 or by email at firstname.lastname@example.org.