That's my dad on the right

Mushroom season is upon us! Growing up with a father that lived for morel season was heaven. It meant getting out of the house, long walks in the woods and scrumptious treats for dinner. He would bring home bushels of those little morsels. My mother would dip them in eggs, then crumbs and we would be sitting at the table eagerly waiting for her to serve them up on our dinner plates, hot out of the buttery frying pan. There is no other delicacy like it in the world!

Still, each year at this time, my father heads out to where he grew up as a child and mushroom hunts. He enjoys the exercise. He loves the outdoors. He wants to relive his memories and his glory days of mushroom hunting. I was sitting with him on his front porch earlier this week when he pointed to the lilac bush next to us, informing me when that bush blooms a little more, mushrooms will be ripe for the pickings. He knows his stuff. He was raised on a farm, after all.

About two weeks ago I get a call from my cousin, Michael. He informed me that his father, my father’s brother, does not believe it is safe for my father to go mushrooming alone this year. It is true; my father’s health is slowly deteriorating. His memory is not what it used to be. The entire family fears that if my father walks out into the woods alone, he may not be able to find his way back. This fear is founded in truth, for the year before my other uncle passed, his children spent hours scavenging the woods for him, after dark, because he had not returned from mushroom hunting yet. The police were called out and they finally found him safe and sound, sleeping on a pile of leaves. Two days ago, my father could not remember who my Aunt Eleanor was married to, even though she has been married to his brother for fifty-five years. I get it, but I cannot, and I will not, stop him from something he enjoys so much. He doesn’t want his independence taken away, and damn the person that tries.

My father, eight-six years old now, calls me yesterday at 11 AM notifying me that he is heading out to his old haunts and not to worry. Thankfully, he at least let me know so if something did happen I would know where to start looking. I don’t hear back for hours. I begin calling, first around three, then four, then five… no answer. I leave a message. Six o’clock rolls around and he still isn’t home. I fear he is lost in the woods. The picture of my uncle asleep on those leaves pops into my head. I picture my father wandering aimlessly in the forest unable to find his way back to his car. I call my sisters. We make a plan. One will wait at his house so if he shows up she can call the other two on our cell phones and let us know. My other sister and I don our coats, grab our flashlights and embark on our expedition to the country. Thankfully, fifteen minutes later my phone rings. He’s pulled into his driveway. Home at long last, sadly with no mushrooms.

My father calls me again today. Again, he is going mushroom hunting only he wants to get an earlier start. He promises not to stay out as long as he did yesterday. He promises to call when he gets home. I offer to go with, he declines. But, he needs me to do one thing for him. What is that, Dad? He needs me to sit at his home and wait for his meals-on-wheels. Someone must be there to receive it. They won’t leave it otherwise. It has come to this, has it? I am given a taste of my father’s life. I’d much rather take a walk in the woods but, my heart cannot bear to watch him lose his independence. So, at the young age of fifty-five, here I sit, waiting for the meals-on-wheels lady and can only hope for a mushroom dinner later in the day.


I love you, Dad!


Not exactly the meal I received! UPDATE: I didn't get home until 11 PM tonight because I was out looking for my father. Tonight, he didn't make it back by himself. At 6:30 PM I finally called the local sheriff's department, gave them my father's name, his license plate number and the approximate location where I was hoping they could find him. It worked. As my sister and I were driving out to the country an officer called informing me they found his car parked on a country road, but they had not found him yet. I drove faster. Another call came. They found him walking in a corn field about half a mile away. By the time we arrived he was sitting in the back seat of the sheriff's car unable to understand what the ruckus was about. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. We got him my car while my sister took his keys and drove his car back to his house. On the way home I quizzed him. Where were you all day, Dad? Did you sleep in the woods? Have you eaten? Are you hungry? Are you thirsty? What is your phone number? The only correct answer I believed was his phone number. He said there were alot of speeches and it took a long time. He asked why there was a motorcycle guy with me. There wasn't. He asked why my sister was too cheap to drive her own car instead of his. He said he ate a really good dinner at a guy's house. I didn't believe him. He said his high school reunion was really nice and they get together once a month. They don't. When we arrived home he asked where the white dog was. There isn't one. He told me to be more quiet, mom was snoring in her chair. She has been dead a year now. I wanted to cry. I didn't. We got him showered and cleaned up because he was dirty, smelly, muddy and smelled of urine. He drank 3 glasses of water and fell asleep. We took the keys to his car. One of my sisters lives with him now, so my other sister and I walked out the door to our cars. We stopped in the driveway and started laughing. We couldn't stop. We laughed til we cried. I will go back at 6 am and bring him to my home, feed him and make sure he is safe for the day. To those of you who take care of elderly parents, you have my deepest respect.