May 12, 2008

Monday

SPRING REPRISE

When we sat down to eat at eight, eastern daylight time, me with sausage and warm up biscuits and Onie with cereal and banana, we had already had several cups of coffee and tea.  Outside the sun shone brightly in the forty nine degree air.

By nine the dishes had been done and put away, the land lines taken in, the jacks retracted, the Cummins warmed up and we were ready for another day on the road.  Pressing the drive button on the transmission panel and then releasing the air brake started us on another leg of our journey and adventure.

Still north on Interstate Sixty Five we rolled through the bright morning sunshine and the omnipresent headwind.   We were rolling through blue grass country, the steamy variety as well as the music variety.

Soon the Cummins and Allison had us motoring through Louisville.  Halfway through the heart of the city we had o slow precipitously for congestion.   This was no normal congestion but was caused by numerous school buses on the side of the road.  Many students stood between the buses and guard rails watching as several ambulances and police cars stood near.  Although we were forced, by traffic, to creep by we never saw EMTs administering to anyone nor did we see any damage to any of the buses.  To this day we have no idea what transpired there but feel it was strictly medical in nature and of no great consequence, to other than those involved, since it was not on the national evening news.

From Louisville to Indiana is not very far and back to speed we made short work of the distance.

In Indiana we found streams out of their banks and casual water standing in many places.  The plant life apparently was loving all the fresh drinking water as the woods were full of blooming redbud and dogwood trees.  Other trees were showing new leaf buds and the grasses beneath displayed a vibrant green new growth.

Indianapolis boasts a Flying J and we wheeled in to top off our diesel before pulling back onto the freeway to continue on to Charlotte, Michigan.  The last few miles before we got there seemed very familiar even though it had been some few years since we had last viewed the fields, trees, ponds and streams that greet one as they go this way.

Five o’clock found the coach at rest, backed into a slot, on the Spartan RV parking lot.  The only land line out was the electric as water and sewer aren’t provided.

With the travel day ending so early we decided to do a little work on the coach, me cleaning outside windows on the driver’s side and applying Rain X and Onie window cleaning on the inside.

While Onie cleaned she had the satellite dish looking for one nineteen.  It had done its job by the time we had done ours so Onie watched a little Fox news.  Outside the ladder was put up and a stroll around the parking area was taken.

Together again inside we watched the Game Show Channel while we enjoyed our salads and entrees.

Later Gary called to check on our whereabouts and our progress on reading the books on nutrition he had given us.

Still later yet we called it a day and drifted off to sleep listening to the wail of a passing train whistle.

May 13, 2008

Tuesday

A DAY IN THE SHOP

Six o’clock eastern daylight savings time comes in the middle of the night for the writer and navigator but the phone alarm roused us none the less at that hour. It was time to get the coach ready for the shop and its annual maintenance.  Usually it is done at Cummins South Plains, in Houston, but this year we opted to bring it back to its roots, the chassis manufacturer, Spartan.  They are located in Charlotte, Michigan.

Stepping out of the coach at a quarter to seven the driver was jolted fully awake by the forty two degree air which was starting to have a hint of fog.  As the day wore on it became more dense and closed visibility down to about two hundred yards.  The light breeze did nothing to dissipate it.

Inside the service center office Chris McCord greeted me.  Although a few years had passed since we last visited he remembered me.  That is a nice attribute for a service person to have, a good memory for faces and names, and very flattering to the person remembered.  We seated ourselves at his desk and completed the paperwork he had started, earlier.  Then it was time to rush back to the coach, parked a couple of hundred yards away.

At the coach Onie was having breakfast and finishing her second cup of coffee. The bed was made and everything was ready for the slides to be pulled in, the jacks retracted and the shore power disconnected.

A young tech, well, he was under fifty, came and drove the coach away at seven thirty.  Standing next to the toad we could look across the parking lot and see it roll into a work bay.  It would be his job to do a lube job, oil change, top off wheel bearings on the front wheels, adjust the ride level, service the transmission, check chassis for wear and look for oil leaks on the engine and transmission.

We drove the short distance to the customer lounge where notes were made by the writer while Onie read.

Now one would assume that everyone has, at one time or another, been in a time and place where they wanted to concentrate on the task at hand only to be interrupted and distracted by a human talking machine.  While the writer struggled trying to find a way to be entertaining, yet truthful, not always an easy job, he could see such an individual struggling to control his pent up words and perhaps even a thought or two.  Oh, it was a fearsome sight.  He fidgeted, he squirmed, he scratched his head, his jaw worked almost uncontrollably and each time I snuck a peek at him he would visibly shake in his boots.  Okay, he was wearing tennis shoes but he still shook.  For a while I thought it might be my imposing visage, beard, gray hair, brow beetled in thought, fingers hammering away at the keyboard and a general countenance that said “don’t bother me”.  It was none of that.  The fellow just could not sit quietly when there were ears to assault with his words, wisdom or no.

Soon, no longer able to contain himself, he let forth a rambling monologue meant to entertain him and anyone else in hearing distance.  The next time my eyes strayed in his direction it was all over.  He fixed me with his Yankee eyes, he was from the north, and shifted his jaw and tongue into high gear.  The writer made a few more feeble attempts at putting down his thoughts but it was no use.  The endless stream of noise coming from this babbling machine rendered constructive thought impossible.  Closing the laptop the writer joined the fray and soon had beaten the competition into submission.  The yankee sat mute knowing he had been outdone by one who can talk for hours without imparting so much as one whit of information or wisdom.  Once again assured of my volubility and loquaciousness Onie and I departed for the local eatery.  It was noon.

The little place we chose to eat was very busy and we waited for sometime for our Rueben sandwiches to arrive but when they did they were quite tasty.

Later we stopped by the local Dairy Queen for a dip cone and M&M blizzard.

No longer able to delay seeing the bill for the service we went back to the Spartan Service Center where the coach was waiting for us.  The service was complete but the bill was not.  They had been finished ten minutes but were still totaling the bill.  Now that was a scary thought.

While they were still figuring up the damages we hooked up the toad and got the coach road ready.  Onie asked if we should make a run for it but just then the tech who had worked on the coach came out to go over his findings with me.  Everything was pretty much normal, the front wheel bearing had needed a little grease and the radiator had taken a quart of coolant, evaporation you know, the drive shaft was weeping a tad at the tranny but that is normal and the oil pan has a seep leak like all 5.9 ISBs according to the tech.  We were good to go to Alaska and wherever else we could buy fuel for.

Inside the young lady at the cashier’s desk had the bill.  One has just never figured out why the guys do all the work but the women collect the money.  I was just about to ask her this seminal question when she presented the bill.  It was lower than expected so no questions were asked that might cause her to recalculate it.  I figured to send her an email later and get this burning question answered once and for all, men.     

Two thirty saw us motoring back south toward sixty nine where we would turn right and head west.

.

Soon after the turn west we got to Illinois.  There was no need to look for a sign announcing our entry into the state, the immediate bad roads told the story.  It also reminded the driver of Illinois’ history of corruption, perhaps rivaled only by Louisiana, and what that does to the state’s infrastructure.  Of course the people of the state must tolerate this behavior for it to exist for even the most rotten and corrupt politicians can be expelled from office by an informed courageous electorate.  One has to assume that the people of Illinois do not care about politicians who steal from them or else they are cowards.

To add insult to injury, regarding the bad roads, we had to pay exorbitant tolls to use these poor excuses for highways.  And guess what, the farther we got into Illinois the worse the roads got, if that is possible.

Traveling through Chicago in a motor home is something we can now say we have done twice, the first and the last.  In addition to the terrible road surfaces and horrendous tolls there is unbelievable traffic with drivers who rival the most rude we have ever experienced.  Add to that mix the fact that many drivers seem to have spent too much time at the local bar, weaving and unable to stay in a single lane, and you have a situation that is intolerable to anyone of a reasonable level of intelligence.  But, again, the people who live and drive here have exactly what they deserve since they vote, or fail to vote at all, for the politicians who are responsible for the terrible condition of the roads, the confiscatory tolls and the enforcement of traffic laws.  Having said all this there is no reason to expect Chicago or Illinois to change, given their history, so we will change our routes in the future and add Chicago and Illinois to our list of places to avoid.

Three hours after entering the mental torture chamber known as Chicago and environs traffic we exited on the west side.

We were met by increasing winds that swept over the vineyard and orchard covered hills.  Since we have never heard of Illinois wine we can only assume that all those vineyards production is consumed by the drivers we had just left behind.

A driving rain washed the hills and roadway, the runoff filling the streams and rivers to the tops of their banks.  In some cases the capacity of the stream was exceeded and we saw water washing through the surrounding trees and undergrowth flooding the homes of the small creatures that live there.

The further west we drove the stronger the winds became finally reaching the right velocity to unspool the living room slide cover.  Slowing until the next exit we drove with the emergency flashers blinking until we pulled into an outlet mall.

Next to the outlet mall was a rather large pond, made when the mall was built.  A small flock of mallards, making their way north, was resting on it.  Stepping into the now misting rain and driving wind the writer was greeted by the call of the flock as it told others, soaring above, of the resting place below.

The ladder was taken from its storage place in the basement, extended and placed against the side of the coach before the driver, screwdriver and Leatherman, a Christmas gift from Tracy, climbed up and began the job of respooling the slide cover.  That done it was secured and we thought to get back on the road, west.

It was not to be, so easy.  While the exit had been straight forward and safe the reentry was a different story.  We had to go south on a small two lane road before turning back west for a few miles and then once again north to gain reentry to the highway west.  This is related only to tell you that in the intervening ten or so miles we got experience, up close and first hand some of the better part of Illinois, the farm land.  This was crop country and the farmers had already been busy plowing and disking the fields.  Some looked as though they had already been planted and were just waiting for warm weather to spring forth into new life.  All in all the side trip was enjoyable and a pleasant relief from the highway drivers and driving.

Back on the highway we continued westward until the Flying J in Beloit hove into sight.  We exited, bought fuel and then pulled into one of the long parking places reserved for RVers.

After a brief supper we called it a night.

May 14, 2008

Wednesday

TO SEE A FRIEND

Today we were heading on to Rochester, Minnesota to see a friend.

Our day started around seven thirty when the temp was still in the forties but by nine it had climbed to fifty two.  This was when we had finished our coffee, tea and breakfast, had done the morning walk around, there were no land lines to pull in, cranked the Cummins and headed out for the highway.

There was only one mile of the torturous Illinois road left and then we were on Wisconsin pavement.  What a difference and what a relief and the farther we got away from Illinois the better the road became and the more civilized the drivers seemed.

Once again the driver could let his eyes roam the countryside, momentarily, as we climbed a hill and then drifted down the far side.

Wetlands dominated the vales while trees and farmland prevailed on the slopes.  On the slopes plowed fields full of corn stubble lay next to where trees stood, branches barely showing the beginning of red, green, yellow and brown buds that would soon be leaves.  Ducks, geese and turkey dotted the wetland areas and on the edges of the wooded plots and near the wetlands whitetail deer fed.  Where the wetlands gave way to rivers and streams they ran bank full, occasionally spilling over onto the surrounding lowlands.

When communities were passed we noticed that fuel costs were about the same as Illinois.

 A growing number of homes and businesses announced the nearness of Rochester and soon we saw the city limit sign.

The navigator directed us off the highway and into Autumn Woods RV Park where we came to a rest, two spaces removed from our friends, Billy and Shirley Sturgis, Holiday Rambler coach.  When the Cummins had turned its last revolution of the day it was two twenty.

Hooking up the land lines and showering occupied us for the next little while and then we got dressed to catch the four ten shuttle to go see Billy, hereinafter referred to as Stu,

Stu is in St. Mary’s Hospital, a part of the Mayo Clinic.  Presently he is having daily occupational and physical therapy to restore him to good health when he will, hopefully, be able to return to his home in Alaska.  Stu was as glad to see us as were to see him and Shirley.  While he didn’t seem quite the Stu we are used to seeing in Alaska, at Cast Away, on the fish grate cleaning Shirley’s catch or around the campfire making fried pies in his cast iron pie irons he still looked remarkably good for a man who has had more than his share of health problems in the past and recently.

We visited until it was time to catch the last, six thirty five, shuttle back to the park.  Shirley rode with us.  Right on time the shuttle deposited us at our coach step at seven.

At the coach we sat outside at the picnic table, snacking having a glass of wine and enjoying the cool breeze, watching the birds and seeing the sun sink in the west. 

Talk was, naturally, of Stu and his health and the rate of his recovery.  We also talked about how tiring and stressful it is for the loved ones who care for and watch those recovering from illnesses.

Onie invited Shirley to share our supper of salad, asparagus and speckled trout.  The trout came from Matagorda Bay, back in Texas, where I had fished with my brother David and son David.

After supper the ladies cleaned up the kitchen while the writer pecked away at the keyboard.  When the chores were done we talked more of Stu’s recovery and the coming summer.

It had been a long tiring day for all of us so Shirley bid us goodnight around nine thirty or perhaps a little after.

Evening pills swallowed, teeth brushed and prayers said we went to bed shortly thereafter.

May 15, 2008

Thursday

VISITATION

Today was a day set aside to visit our friend Bill (Stu) Sturgis.  Those readers who have followed us for a few years may remember that we met Stu and his wife Shirley at Cast Away RV Park in Alaska.  Stu has had some health problems in the last few years and is currently in St. Mary’s Hospital here in Rochester, Minnesota.  We briefly visited, yesterday, but went back today for a longer, more protracted visit.

Our day started around seven with the sun shining brightly through fifty two degree temps.  Trout from last evening was heated and that with an egg a piece got us started.  Of course there were generous amounts of tea and coffee.

After quick showers we caught the shuttle to St. Mary’s where Shirley was waiting outside.  Together we went up to Stu’s room where he was getting ready to go to physical therapy.  It was obvious that a good night’s sleep had brought more progress in his recovery as he was more alert and more active.

As the physical therapist wheeled him off to his morning exercises we tagged along with me pushing his IV pole.  In the therapy room we visited some with him as he began his exercises.  Rehab is a tough process for those who are trying to regain lost motor skills and muscle but Stu tackles the job with determination and it is apparent that he will soon be back on his feet.

After the therapy session Shirley, Onie and I went for a stroll around the hospital looking at several displays depicting the history of the Mayo family and hospital benefactors.  During our walk we stopped for a few minutes to listen to singing by an impromptu choral group.  Somewhere in our wanderings Onie sipped on a latte while I enjoyed a chai tea latte.

We then took a shuttle trip to another of the Mayo buildings to see thirteen chandeliers of blown glass with a total weight of six thousand pounds.  It was very impressive if for no other reason than its tremendous mass.

 

The ninety minute walk stirred our appetites so it was off to a nearby restaurant for a bite to eat before returning the see Stu before catching the shuttle back to the coach.

In the coach Onie surfed the web and chatted with Tracy while I dozed for a bit before rising to begin writing.

The sun that had shone all day began setting in the west and the temperatures dropped with it.  Shirley, who had been napping, came over to visit and have supper.  By nine thirty the meal was finished and she went back to their Holiday Rambler.

 Just a bit later Onie and I turned in.

May 16, 2008

Friday

LEAVE TAKING

Once again the alarm woke us so we could get ready to catch the shuttle to see Stu.

Coffee and tea were made while Onie surfed the web and watched Fox News.  Showers were taken and we dressed for our last visit with Stu before heading west to Sheldon to see Becky and Kurt Tatsami.

Our plan was to catch the nine ten shuttle to St. May’s but it never showed up.  A short walk to the RV park office and a visit with the receptionist got us on the schedule for the ten ten shuttle.  We did a few more chores around the coach while we waited.  Right on time the shuttle appeared and we were off to see Stu and Shirley.

The shuttle dropped us off at St. Mary’s around ten thirty.  By the time we got to Stu’s room he was just getting ready to go to another round of therapy.  His days are made up of one visit after another to therapists along with the blood work and all the other things that go with being in the hospital.  We visited for just a few minutes before the young lady took him away for more recuperative work but we did manage to exchange hugs before he left, wish him a speedy recovery, God’s speed and a safe trip to Washington State, when he is discharged.  I also whispered in his ear that I will be looking for him on the fish grate.  I told him I would catch some fish for him to clean if Shirley couldn’t get the job done.  He grinned.  Shirley is an excellent fisherman.

Hearts were heavy as he left the room and we said our “so longs” to Shirley.  Goodbyes are for those we don’t expect to see again.  Shirley walked us down to the entrance where we waited for just a few minutes before the shuttle arrived to take us back to the coach.

Back at the coach on the eleven thirty five shuttle and at the park by noon we found the fifty three degree morning temperature had given way to something in the mid sixties.  Hustling around we were able to roll out of the park by twelve twenty, check out was noon but we had told the folks at the park we would be a tad late leaving.  They had just nodded in acknowledgement.

The road west was fair as far as the surface went and would not have even been noticed as being out of the ordinary had not the strong winds been pushing us into every defect in the road.

The road rose and fell with the landscape which was hilly but not so much as to be called steep.  The rains had visited here as well as east and the creeks ran bank full.

Four o’clock saw us take a southerly turn as we headed down to Sheldon, Iowa.  The last few miles before our arrival were a newly surfaced divided roadway.  The memory of Illinois roads began to fade but most assuredly they will never be forgotten.

If the folks in Sheldon had suffered a hard winter one could not tell it from looking at the neatly trimmed yards, well maintained houses and flowers blooming in lined beds.  Kurt and Becky’s house looked just like it did last September when we left it.

As we pulled to a stop, about five, beside their house Becky came out to meet us.  Onie was out the door exchanging hugs and greetings even before the Cummins had quieted.  Soon the driver’s shoes were in place and he stepped out also.  More hugs were exchanged and then the group made its way into the house but quickly migrated back outside to the patio, to enjoy the warmth of the sun, where we were joined by Paul.

Kurt was still at the office but would be home soon.

When Kurt did arrive the group moved indoors as it was beginning to cool down.  While we were visiting, Sidney and Barbara Johnson, from Georgia, called.  They were enroute to Cast Away.  They would be arriving tomorrow afternoon for an overnight visit and then would be continuing on.   The pickup they were driving was pulling a utility trailer loaded with an eighteen cubic foot freezer as well as a full size refrigerator.  Other items they consider necessary for a comfortable summer were also in the trailer.

Kurt and Becky decided we should go out to dinner.  It was but a short drive to an unpretentious looking place.  It would fit in well in our hometown of Coldspring.  Inside we were given a large table as our group now consisted of Kurt and Becky, their daughter Crista and her fellow, Paul, their son, Christopher, and his date and me and Onie.   Kurt and I sat next to each other as did Becky and Onie so we were able to continue our visit.  Just beyond our table was a dance floor where Crista and Paul danced to a number played by the organist.  He, the organist, was white headed and stooped at the shoulders but he played the organ like he was half his apparent age.  Kurt related that, when he was but a small boy, his father had brought him to this very restaurant to eat and the organ had been played by the very man now tickling the keys.

When the meal was at an end many go boxes were stacked on the table.   The food had been delicious and the servings had been very large.  Once again Onie and I should have shared a plate.

The party split up after supper with the young folks going their way and Kurt, Becky, Onie and me going back to the house.

It wasn’t long before we were all tucked in bed, fast asleep.

May 17, 2008

Saturday

THE GREAT MUSHROOM HUNT

Few things can stir the driver to get out of bed at five o’clock in the morning.  Before someone reminds him that it is noon somewhere let him offer the fact that he isn’t and doesn’t live somewhere else.  He lives here and on local time.  But this morning he did wake at five to a gentle tap on the door, by Kurt.

A peek out the window, through slits in barely open eyelids, told one it was already getting daylight.  Since it wasn’t hunting season the writer had to wonder what he was doing awake at such an hour, then he remembered.  Kurt had promised to take him morel hunting so it was in fact hunting season.

Dressed, but moving slowly, the writer made his way to the kitchen and made a quick cup of tea.  Then he and Kurt loaded in the truck and headed out to pick up Dwight.  It was on Dwight’s farm, a short drive away, that the hunt would take place.

When we pulled into Dwight’s drive he came bounding out of the house as if it were two or three in the afternoon.  He was obviously someone who would bear watching as anyone full of that kind of energy at such an hour may not be altogether normal. 

It is true many people reach for the abnormal and for many it is not much of a reach for it seems near at hand for them.  For those who do reach for and find the really abnormal we have a curious way of dealing with them, we lock them up and try to make them “normal”.  We are not talking about violent criminals here we are talking about those who are just a bit too strange to suit us, those who think they are a dog or cat, who talk to the trees or see objects we don’t.  Now this behavior if perfectly acceptable as long as it is practiced in private and doesn’t embarrass one’s friends and relatives but once it is out in the public, HELLO!, the poor fellow needs help.  Put him or her in the rubber room, give them a few drugs, maybe shock them silly and then they will be “normal”.   Since we must move along we won’t dwell on this strange practice but simply remind the reader that when there is more of them than there is of us we will be “in” and they will be “out” for those in the majority decide what is “normal”.

Kurt is a true Texan, at heart, for the short drive turned out to be something around one hundred fifty miles.  It was a most interesting hundred and fifty miles and it disclosed an Iowa unseen and un-thought of by the writer.  That is except for the stop at the McDonalds.  One always figured that wherever three or more people congregate and eat there will be a McDonalds in their midst.

The unseen Iowa was not the corn or grain fields or the rolling countryside barren or trees but dotted with cattle.  No, it was rolling hills of native grasses, of deer in small copses of trees, of pheasant cocks preening by the roadside.  It was crystal clear streams babbling through tree filled bottoms where squirrel nests swayed high above the ground and the inhabitants scampered happily in the bottoms picking up hickory nuts along with the black walnut that flourishes there.  Here and there on a hillside, nestled in a draw, was the result of rainfall runoff, a pond.  Coasting about on most of the ponds, or feeding on adjacent grasses were mallards, pintails and bluebills along with Canadian geese.

Kurt is a McDonalds aficionado so halfway through our drive down we stopped for breakfast there. 

By nine o’clock we were at the appointed place to begin the great mushroom hunt. 

Kurt grabbed a plastic Wal-Mart bag and gave me one as well.  Dwight had a sisal onion bag which one was soon to learn was superior to the plastic one carried by the writer.  He also carried a rather formidable looking stick.  What it was for was not clear at the time.  Standing in knee high grass around the truck a hunt plan was devised, go into the woods and find morel mushrooms. A simple plan is best for simple people and this one was understood by the writer completely, but a question did remain.  What did the mushrooms we were hunting look like?  Apparently that was a difficult question to answer because the writer was told to just look for brown mushrooms that were shaped like a thimble.

The group then headed for a tree lined creek bottom but first crossed a barbed wire fence that had seen better days which made it all the easier to cross.

After crossing the fence the tyro mushroom hunter, that would be me, armed himself with a stick similar to Dwight’s.  At the time it seemed the stick would be of as much use as the glove worn by Michael Jackson

Thus equipped, plastic bag and useless stick, the writer began the steep descent down the creek bank, all the while searching for mushrooms that looked like a brown upside down thimble.  Voila!  On the down slope west side of a mostly dead elm tree were some mushrooms.  They were dark brown, had some rather light vertical striations and resembled an upside down thimble.  Could this be what we sought?   Dwight came to my assistance and congratulated me on being the first to find morel mushrooms that day.  We had been in the woods less than ten minutes. If this was all there was to hunting and finding morel mushrooms we could fill the back of Kurt’s pickup, by noon.

Dwight said I had been quite lucky to find morels growing so openly as they usually were found in grasses or browse and that is what he used the stick for, that up ‘til now, had been useless.  He demonstrated by sweeping the surrounding grasses and forbs, laying them flat as the stick swept by.  Had any mushrooms been residing there they would have been exposed.  None lived there except what had already been picked by the great mushroom hunter.  We moved on.

Now the hunt took on new intensity as the veteran hunters scouted furiously, not to be outdone by a novice.  There was no need to worry.  The novice was walking up and down the creek bank, looking hither, thither and yon, to no avail.  It was apparent that the veterans had pointed the novice in the direction of the morels as a way of enticing him into a game of Iowa snipe hunting.

For the uninitiated a snipe hunt works something like this.  A person, usually a young boy, is taken into the woods about dusk.  He is given a gunny sack and a light and placed in a place designed to be a bit unsettling after dark, say a country cemetery.  He is told to hold the light inside the bag and cry “Here snipe, here snipe” until a snipe runs into the bag at which time he closes the bag to catch the snipe. The other hunters will conduct a drive and herd the snipe in his direction.  In truth they hide and wait for dark at which time they use all their skills to scare the poor young boy half to death unless he is really disliked and then they try to scare him completely to death.

Now, while snipe do exist in Texas and other places and are considered a game bird they are shot, not caught in a gunny sack.  So, when one mentions a snipe hunt it is used to refer to finding or catching something that doesn’t exist or can’t be gotten by the method prescribed.  After toiling endlessly up and down said creek bank, the writer was beginning to think he was on a snipe hunt.  The other hunters, Kurt and Dwight, were no where to be seen nor could they be heard.  Perhaps they had gone back to McDonalds for lunch as it seemed that time was approaching.

As is often the case it is sometimes darkest just before the dawn.  While sweeping the grasses and forbs, next to another almost dead elm tree, the writer uncovered a treasure trove of morels.  There in the area of nine square feet grew fifteen or twenty of the things.

Raising my voice I called Dwight and he appeared as if materializing out of the ground.  He congratulated me and once again instructed me on the proper way to harvest the mushrooms leaving the root in the ground to spread its spores and reproduce.  Carefully picking the first one I moved to place it in my bag when much to my dismay it was discovered that the bag was shot through with holes, put there by thorns and branches of brush.  A quick check revealed that most, if not all, of the mushrooms I had found earlier were still safe in the bag.  These along with the current find were put in Dwight’s onion bag.  With this addition the bag was almost half full.  The writer’s fears of being on a “snipe hunt” were dispelled and we went back to the task at hand, finding more mushrooms.

Back in contact with Kurt the three of us wandered up and down the creek banks looking for mushrooms, jumping a deer off its bed and a turkey off its nest in the process.

It was two o’clock.  Kurt called a halt to the hunt and said we should go the farm house to visit Dwight’s brother.

At the farm house we were each offered a very large cinnamon roll.  We each took one and savored each bite as we had not eaten since about seven thirty and had walked miles looking for morels.

While we were eating the rolls, Darwin, Dwight’s brother came in.  He was a rather heavy set man dressed in overalls and a tee shirt.  He asked Dwight about our success and after hearing of our haul derided it as being unworthy of true woodsmen.  I had remarked earlier to Dwight that if we were Lakota squaws we would be drummed out of the tribe as being poor gatherers.  Some brotherly jibes passed between the two before Darwin acceded to a request to guide us on our afternoon hunt.  He agreed.

Darwin drove to a different pasture and the fence we crossed, to get to a different part of the same creek, was a good replica of the first one.

Now most folks who know their business like to show others how it is done and Darwin was no different.  After walking a few yards into the woods he called a “mushroom alert”.  As we moved toward him he cautioned us to step carefully and look very closely before moving as we were in mushroom territory.  Sure enough Kurt, Dwight and the writer all stepped cautiously and looked carefully and there before their eyes was a veritable treasure trove of morels.  With this find in the bag Darwin wandered on through the woods pausing now and then to call out “mushroom alert” or “hot mushroom alert”.  One could tell he was enjoying himself showing us how it was done.  I for one was very

thankful for his expertise and help as it felt we had walked miles earlier.  Now we walked a mile, and not for a Camel, but for as many morels as we had garnered in our previous trampings.

Morel mushrooms with next day's bountiful harvest of wild asparagus.

Back at our truck, the morning an afternoon gatherings were combined.  It appeared we had about five pounds in all.  Darwin said his sister had paid forty-two dollars a pound earlier in the season and twenty eight dollars a pound just last week.  Even at those prices it was evident that ours had not been a financial success nor would we be able to make a living as mushroom hunters but we did have enough to satisfy all so we said our goodbyes, loaded in the truck and headed for Sheldon and the house.

Six o’clock found us back in Sheldon at Kurt’s house.  Sidney and Barb were there having arrived a couple of hours earlier.

While Sidney brought us up to date on the goings on in Georgia and the trip thus far, Kurt sautéed some of the mushrooms, for appetizers.  They were enjoyed by everyone.

About eight the three couples, Kurt and Becky, Sidney and Barbara, and Onie and the driver sat down to supper.  When our appetites had been sated Becky brought out dessert.  We each had some and then sat around the table visiting until someone mentioned how tired we must all be.

Becky, Onie, Crista and Paul had all gone to a tulip festival while we hunted mushrooms.  They too had walked a lot and were equally as tired as the writer and Kurt.  Sidney and Barbara had driven one thousand fifty miles since leaving home and this was their first stop.

By now it was eleven.  We each sought our respective beds and were soon fast asleep.

May 18, 2008

Sunday

A BOUNTIFUL HARVEST

Normally Sunday would find the Tatsamis and Blomstroms in church.  The Tatsamis would be in the Methodist Church in Sheldon, Iowa and the Blomstroms in the Baptist in Coldspring, Texas..  That is except when they visit one another and then they visit one another’s church and feel right at home.  That means today we should be in the Methodist Church in Sheldon , Iowa but we aren’t.

Becky and Kurt are both very involved in the community activities in Sheldon.  That means today they will both be helping with the graduation festivities for Sheldon High School.  Already Kurt has cooked several pounds of brisket, which the writer sampled, and it was delicious, and Becky has been preparing other food, for days.  Early today they have to start bringing things together for the graduates. 

Becky was up early and sat a full breakfast on the table for her guests.  She and Kurt are not breakfast people.   After that she was off in her car on the first of many trips ferrying food to the festive site.

It was a beautiful sunny day with a cool, light breeze blowing.  It should be a day to remember for the seniors.

After breakfast Kurt, Sid and I went on another kind of hunt but first we stopped at Kurt’s office to show Sid around.  We walked the whole plant and office and looked at the hundred chickens Kurt had raised and would be bringing to Cast Away to share with the camp occupants.  There would be a lot of charcoal used grilling those birds this summer, no doubt.

The tour done we headed off on what turned out to be a bountiful harvest.  Kurt had told us that asparagus grow wild here in Sheldon.  Never the one to doubt the word of a friend the writer agreed to go along on an asparagus gathering mission but was a little doubtful about finding asparagus growing wild.  After all, on a good day asparagus cost a dollar ninety nine cents in the store at home.  On a bad day they cost four ninety nine.  While we are on this ninety nine cent business what do merchants think of the average consumer?  Are we too dumb to know that a dollar ninety nine is really just two dollars?  Then again, perhaps, psychologically, our brain doesn’t equate one ninety nine with two and we are willing to spend one ninety nine but not two.  Nonetheless the writer finds it very difficult to find something to do with just a penny besides using it for a screw driver. This morning the drive to a place to hunt/gather asparagus was way shorter than the drive to the great mushroom hunt.  As a matter of fact we just drove across the road from Kurt’s office.  Once there we got out of the truck and he showed us how to look in the tall grass for asparagus.  Would you believe it, there in the tall grass underneath a fir tree were the best looking asparagus sprouts one could imagine.  Again Kurt instructed that the tops should broken off thus allowing the roots to reproduce but we were not to harvest these tips just yet.  We were going to walk down an old fence row and then come back in the bar ditch.  Along the way we would find asparagus, gather them, and end up back at the truck where we could gather these thereby not carrying them the mile we would walk in this excursion.  Spreading out we began looking for more asparagus, oft times with Sidney in the lead, but always with Kurt locating the most.  That stood to reason.  This was his fence line and bar ditch and Sidney and I were just guests, never having seen asparagus growing wild.  In fact the author had only ever seen asparagus growing once before.  It was when he was about nine years old and living in Grove, Oklahoma.  Stay tuned for the whole story, another time.

Bags half full of freshly picked asparagus we headed back to the truck, stopping to gather the shoots under the fir tree, and then headed for another gathering place, another ditch.  A few more were plucked there before we moved on to a ditch in a corn field.  The first ditch had been between a corn field and the road, the second between a railroad track and the road and with this one we felt we had covered most of the ditch possibilities in Sheldon.

While mulling over other possible places to gather the tender shoots, Kurt’s cell phone rang.  It was Becky.  He was needed at the house to help her continue the preparations for the grads.

We headed home, stopping by the shop once more to see Kurt’s smoker.  It was a fine one indeed, trailer mounted with a rotisserie and several smoking racks.  Of course the fire box was not under any of the cooking/smoking areas which were large enough to hold a dozen briskets.

Crista and Becky were waiting for us when we returned.  They needed Kurt’s strong arms and back to load heavy platters of food and containers of brisket.  As the normal paced activity turned to a frenzied one the guests repaired to the patio where they seated themselves and began discussions on the resumption of the trip to Alaska as well as activities once everyone was there.

Later in the day, with the Tatsami family occupied with the senior activities, the Johnsons and Blomstroms fended for themselves having warm-ups for supper.

When the seniors had eaten all the food, the party came to an end and Kurt and Becky returned home.  It was seven.

The company visited until eleven when they took a break for sleep.