“Darn,” I thought. “The raccoons have been in the trash cans again. There are paper plates all over the yard!”
But no. On closer inspection, what first brought scowls, then smiles, was a congregation of plate-sized mushrooms that had sprung up, courtesy of a gentle rainfall, and now turned faces heavenward to bask in the setting sun.
I never saw this type of mushroom before. My friend John, a connoisseur of all things home-grown, would have been out there with a knife and fork. In contrast, I-having read horror stories about wretched campers who vomit their stomachs inside out after tasting just one green-spored Lepioda-settle for a few photos.
I think back to an earlier time when, over and over again, we would borrow “Mushroom In The Rain” from the local library. “And what,” I would ask, “does a mushroom do in the rain?” The children, giggling at the rabbit and the frog and the other animals squeezed under the broad mushroom cap, would shout, “IT GROWS!”
And I thank God for the wonders of His creation. Snowy mushrooms and giggling children, and all the rest of it.
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I have a ring of mushrooms around the bird feeder! At the farm we used to go looking for puff balls, and bring them in for Mom to slice and fry.