Finally, at the age of 94, Marjorie Martin was able to walk out into her yard one spring day in southern Illinois and pick all of the morel mushrooms she wanted. The American elm tree her husband had planted more than 60 years ago in their yard was now dead.

She’d been told to expect good things when the tree died. Morel mushrooms, she learned, might appear around the elm after it died.

It’s what people told her. Years passed.

Her husband who planted the tree eventually passed.

But the elm tree remained hale and hearty.

There was no end in sight. Then a furious storm one spring day ripped the hearty elm to pieces, and in the following spring, Martin went out into her yard and saw, finally, that absolutely no morel mushrooms were growing by the dead elm.

But over by the row of peonies, where nobody had predicted it, there stood more than 30 big morels.

This was her moment. She retrieved from the kitchen a long carving knife. These were very big morels. A large knife was appropriate.

Also, somebody told her once there should always be a sharp knife displayed while standing on property where morels can be found.

Chapter 2

Morels on Their Doorstep