In our refrigerator lies a bag of mushrooms.  A young friend who knows John and I can no longer range through the woods and meadows hunting the luscious morel, put them in John's pickup.  

For those poor souls who have never eaten a morel, what can I say?  They are the Truffel of the midwest, the treasure that sends hundreds of 'mushroomers' into the woods every April.  No mushroom you can buy in the market tastes like a morel.  Close, maybe, but no cigar.

There are four types of edible mushroom found in Indiana woods and meadows.  The yellow and grey sponges – so named because their texture resembles that of sea sponges – the snake head – a smallish black 'head' growing atop a long stem – and the elephant ear – a plate-shaped mushroom that can grow quite large.  There's another I can't remember the name of, but it grows into a perfect round white ball.  You slice and fry it like morels, but it has a very bland flavor somewhat like button mushrooms you find in the market.  Ah, puffballs! that's the name,  They can grow as large as a basket ball, but I'd rather not mess with them.

But the morel!  My net-friend, Alyce, in New York was aghast when I told her we ate wild mushrooms.  And lived.  "Do you have any really weird dreams?" she asked.

My older sister, Jackie, was an inveterate mushroomer.  She used to live where we do now and I remember visiting her and being taken – albeit reluctantly – mushrooming.  I could not see the mushrooms unless she pointed them out.  I generally came back with wildflowers that wilted before we reached the house, pretty rocks or maybe a turtle.  She once wrote in to a my newspaper column, The Corner, telling the readers about my mushrooming prowess.  "The only way she could find a mushroom was if I gently bent her over and placed her hand on one…  I used to have a favorite spot where morels grew in outrageous abundance.  One trip with Donna and the patch disappeared never to grow again." 

The wild mushrooms are taken immediately to the house, roots cut off, sliced in half, and placed in a big pot of salted water.  Soaking brings to the surface any bugs  that might have been residing therein. After soaking, they are lifted into a colander and rinsed thoroughly (or not, depending on how hungry we are).  Dredged in flour, they are fried in a mixture of oil and butter until golden brown.  The best meal is fried potatoes and scrambled eggs with the mushrooms.  The potatoes and eggs are included mainly to fill up the spaces left by finishing the morels.

The season of the mighty morel lasts just long enough to make us hungry for the next.  Generally after two or three 'messes' our tummies rebel at all the gustatorial festivities and we're ready to move on to strawberries. 

But that's another story.

The old man’s hands were gnarled and scarred from the slip of chisel and knife. Faded blue eyes in a time-weathered face took measure of people and life.

He ran a sure hand down the curve of a neck; felt the softness of wood he had shaped. And the fragrance of woodchips gave notice to all the carver was back in his place.

The pattern had given a shape to each block, proportion and form were just right. But the hands of the carver must furnish the skill to bring one more pony to life.

Sure strokes of the blade brought forth a proud head; formed swirls of forelock and mane. Each hoof was exquisitely wrought by a hand familiar with texture and grain.

Now lovingly formed, the horse stood complete; but far from finished was he. For his hide was still rough and no glassy bright eyes had been placed in this firey steed.

So smoothing to velvet the wood he had hewn, the carver seemed almost to bless; as he brought forth the softness from deep in the wood, inviting each touch and caress.

The flashing brown eyes were set and secured, and suddenly springing to life; the pony seemed now to be gazing away to a carousel dreamy and bright.

The carver’s hands are gnarled and scarred from the slip of chisel and knife. But no other hands can take a Linn tree and bring such a creature to life!

Donna Swanson from REFLECTIONS ON THE CAROUSEL

Pete didn’t see the rider on a small black horse galloping down the road. he didn’t see her waving him back. He didn’t hear her yelling, “Lead him home!” he almost didnt’ see her when King careened around the corner of the pasture and and onto the blacktop. Lois missed the grab she made for King’s bridle and Pete and King passed Lois and Magic in a blur of brown, tan and strawberry roan.
Molly ran down the stairs, through the living room and out the door as fast as she could. She arrived on the porch just in time to see King jump the shallow ditch into the yard. He pounded over the lawn to the house and, just as Mary had taught him, reared and pirouetted in front of the waiting group. Pete, face the color of cold ashes, slid off King’s backside and landed once again on the grass.
Mary looked up just long enough to see that Pete was alive, then doubled over again, holding her stomach and laughing helplessly. Jackie and Gladys, even Charlene, were likewise occupied. Lois had joined the crowd and was working to calm Magic who didn’t care to be involved in such loud hilarity. Pete picked himself up declining help from a still giggling Mary.
Charlene struggled for composure and a measure of sympathy for her city friend. Jackie put an arm around Charlene’s shoulders, “Cos, you can be proud of that one. That’s the first time I ever saw a boyfriend get back on King and stay on all the way home!”
Pete looked at the Smith girls. He saw Mrs. Smith come clucking and scolding from the house, her red cheeks and wet, twinkling eyes vived evidence that she had been watching from the kitchen window. He looked at King nibbling peacefully from a low-hanging branch of elm leaves. Molly appeared especially guilty as she leaned against a porch pillar trying unsucessfully to hide the field glasses.
“You all did this on purpose?” he asked in amazement. “You put me on a half-wild horse and didn’t tell me he would try to break my neck?”
“He’s not wild,” said Mary. “He just likes to run. Are you OK?”
Pete poked his shirtail back into his grass-stained pants and surveyed his scratched wingtips. “I guess I’ll live,” he muttered, “but next time could we just go a couple of rounds bare-fisted?” He noted the still unsaddled horses. “Well, are we going to ride or not?”
Charlene, face now composed, said soothingly, “We don’t have to ride this afternoon, honey. We could play dominoes or bake cookies.” She looked at her cousins, “Would that be all right?”
“No way!” interrupted Pete. “I want to know the trick of controlling this horse. And then, we’re all going to ride to the slough and back!”
“Good enough,” Mary responded. The others threw saddles on their horses while Mary instructed Pete. “The only thing you have to remember is that King has been trained to run flat out every time he’s turned towards home. If you don’t want him to do it, you have to keep a hard rein and his head up as soon as you turn him. Otherwise, he’ll get the bit in his teeth. If he does that, the only way to stop him is to pull his head around as far as it will go and make him run in circles. He gets tired of that pretty quick. You still want to ride him, or would you prefer one of the others?”
“I’ll ride King if that’s OK with you.” Pete said. He flexed his fingers. King looked sleepy. “Does he have any other little quirks you forgot to mention?”
“No, except he doesn’t like to jump fences. But then, you know that already.” Mary couldn’t quite suppress another giggle.
All the horses were ready now. Pete mounted King for the third time. Loisi was on Magic and Charlene had been given Lady. Gladys rode behind Jackie on Lil and Mary decided to stay behind and keep Molly company until the second round.
“I could ride behind Charlene,” Molly said hopefully. “Can’t I go, this time?”
Mary ruffled Molly’s bangs and scolded her gently, “You had better get those glasses back int heir case and on Dad’s desk before he finds out you were using them. He’ll warm your backside for sure! Besides, you can ride with me on King when we go out again.”
Molly knew better than to press the issue and contented herself with watching the party ride down the lane. Before she stepped back inside, she turned for another look. “You know, Sis, for a city slicker, Pete sure is tough. He’ just might last!”

Charlene came from the house just then to claim Pete and Molly was sent to the garden to pull green onions for lunch. The meal was a casual one with bacon and lettuce sandwiches on homemade bread, green beans with new potatoes, the onions and sweet, red tomatoes. Mr. Smith and the two boys, nineteen-year-old Charles and Molly’s twin, Dan, came in from the hayfield smelling of fresh-cut alfalfa and tractor fumes. Conversation, interrupted only by full mouths or bursts of laughter, filled the big kitchen.
When the four-tier strawberry shortcake made of sweet biscuit dough had been eaten and digested, the Smith men returned to their work and the others divided ranks. Charlene and Gladys stayed to help with the dishes and Mary, Lois and Jackie went to bring up the horses. Molly commandeered Pete to help haul saddles from the houe.
The ‘wranglers’ arrived in a flurry of halter ropes, swishing tails and the clip clop of hooves on the drive. Lois led her two horses, Magic and Lil, Jackie led her hunter, Lady, and Mary rought up the rear with an already-saddled King.
While Jackie and Lois dawdled at getting gear on their horses, Mary put on King’s bridle and suggested casually to Pete, “Why don’t you take King for a canter and get used to him before we start out?” She pointed east. “You can ride to that group of trees at the top of the hill, or you can turn off onto the mud road at the corner of the pasture and ride to the slough and back.”
“Are you sure it’s OK?” Pete smoothed his shirt, hitched up his pants and looked toward the house for Charlene.
“Sure. It’ll take us a while to get all these horses saddled. Just loosen the reins when you want him to go faster and pull back when you want him to slow down or stop. OK?” Mary was the picture of polite helpfulness in her black jodhpurs, white shirt and gray Stetson. She gave Pete a step up by holding her interlocked hands like a ladder rung. When he was settled atop a bored-looking King, she handed him the reins. “Happy trails!” she called, and gave King a slap on the rump to get him going down the lane.
Molly had been sitting on the porch steps, but now she slipped inside, meeting Gladys and Charlene on their way out. She took her father’s powerful binoculars off the living room desk and hurried upstairs to the east bedroom window. By the time she had the glasses uncased and adjusted to her eyes, Pete and King were almost to the corner of the pasture. “Better not take the mud road, Pete,” Molly giggled under her breath. But, as if determined to seal his own fate, Pete turned King and took the road that lay between pasture and field, leading to a line of brush a quarter mile off that marked the narrow, water-filled ditch commonly referred to as the slough.
Molly kept the binoculars trained on the two and saw Pete experiment by pulling back on the reins. King obliged and Pete loosened his hold, urging the horse to a trot. Molly smiled as Pete bounced higher and higher in response to the bone-jarring gait. He managed to tighten his hold again and King slowed to a walk. When they reached the stream, Pete turned the horse and headed back to the house.
This was what Molly and her sisters were waiting for. King was a perfect gentleman when his head was pointed away from home. However, the return trip was a totally different proposition. Now King quickened his pace. Molly could see Pete tugging on the reins as King accelerated to a trot. But the bit was clalmped firmly in King’s teeth and the reins were useless to the white-faced city man. King’s stride lengthened to a gallop and veered off into the field. Pete sawed on the reins trying to pull King’s head around to the west again. Suddenly the horse gave in to the pull and thundered toward the fence.
Pete pulled back with all his might on the leather straps as he saw where they were headed. Molly could see the exact expression on his face as King arrived at the pasture fence. Instead of jumping, King put on the brakes, planted both feet and sent Pete flying between his ears. Molly cold almost hear the muffled thud as the man landed on the thick turf.
For a few seconds Pete lay still. King, with reins trailing, stood obediently at ‘ground tie’ and looked questioningly at his rider. Pete sat up and looked around. Then he stood and looked toward the house. Molly cold see Pete’s lips forming words as he dusted his pants and climbed the woven-wire fence. Holding awkwardly to the post, he put one foot on the top wire and jumped to the other side.
“Better walk him home, Pete,” advised Molly silently from her vantage point. But a look of stubborn determination was playing over Pete’s face. he gathered up the reins, grabbed the horn and struggled back into the saddle. King, true to his training, stood gentle as a plow horse while being mounted.
(to be continued)