The late September sun shone on the orchard. The orchard is the pride and joy of Elsa, who has planted mostly apple, and a few plum trees over the years, in a field that spreads east from the road, between the family home and her husband Gunter’s workshop.
This afternoon, Gunter walked through the orchard with his old friend Joe. The men, who have both passed 80, immigrated from Germany a long time ago.
“Joe and I shared a rooming house in Toronto,” said Gunter.
Maybe it was the harvest wind that awoke a memory in Joe, who wore hearing aids in both ears. Joe and his wife had driven up from Newmarket from the day to see their old friends.
“One time,” Joe said, “we bought a six-quart basket of peaches for 99ยข.”
“We bought them down at the Jewish market,” put in Gunter.
“Kensington,” I said. Gunter nodded.
“We brought them back to our rooming house,” recalled Joe. “His bed was here and mine was here,” he motioned, showing a space of about a metre between the beds. “We put the waste basket between us. And we sat on our beds and we ate all those peaches, all at once.”
They both smiled at the memory.
“Joe found some mushrooms,” said Gunter.
“Where?” I asked.
“I can tell you’re not a real mushroom hunter,” Joe said to Gunter. “A mushroom hunter would never tell his neighbour where he found mushrooms.”
“Remember where I put the beaver after I shot it?” asked Gunter. “Over there, behind the pond.”
I went and got a basket, and then the three of us went over there. In the grass, with frogs hopping around them, grew several dozen golden mushrooms, some with heads as big as baseballs. I picked the mushrooms and tasted one of them.
“We have a mushroom book,” said Gunter.
“There are no good mushroom books in Canada,” said Joe. “These kind of mushrooms always grow next to a larch tree,” he said. “Look, there is the larch.” He pointed to the tree, its needles just beginning to yellow.
We debated how to eat the mushrooms. I explained that I was on my way to a turkey supper at the United Church in Queensborough, and so I would not cook that evening.
“Peter is converting to Christianity just so he can get some turkey,” said Gunter.
We decided to bring the mushrooms to Elsa. I spread them out on their coffee table on their deck. Elsa went to get her book. She showed us the photo of what she thought was the same mushroom. Joe looked at it and shook his head.
“That’s not it,” he said.
I bid them farewell, and went off in search of Christ and turkey. And I left the four of them on the deck in the evening sun, so they could revert to their native German and eat their feast.
You are right, Joe. For better or worse, the neighbour now knows where to find the mushrooms.
