Dear Diary,
This September morning the car idled by the gate, its engine murmuring in the crisp air as Mom and Dad waved goodbye. I stood on the faded path between the flowerbeds, my old knapsackstill stamped with a tiny airplanehanging from my shoulders. Yellow leaves rustled around me, slipping into my boots and catching on the heels of my trainers.
Granddad Arthur stepped onto the porch, tipped his flat cap back and flashed a grin that deepened the laugh lines around his eyes. I felt a flutter in my chest; something important was about to begin, not quite like any of the usual outings.
Helen leaned in, pressed a kiss to my crown and gave my shoulder a gentle pat.
Dont get into mischief, alright? And mind Granddad, she said.
Of course, I replied, a little embarrassed, glancing toward the windows where Grandma Margarets silhouette had just flickered.
When the car disappeared down the lane, the yard fell quiet. Granddad called me over to the shed and we chose our basketshis a sturdy wicker one a shade larger, mine a smaller, lighter one. Beside them lay an old canvas tarp and a pair of rubber boots, which Granddad inspected for any leaks after last nights drizzle. He tightened the zippers on my jacket, adjusted the hood, and checked the fit of my boots.
September is prime mushroom time, Granddad declared, as if unveiling a secret from a natural almanac. The birch boletes are hiding under the leaves, the chanterelles love the moss around the spruce, and the honey fungi have already started to appear.
I listened intently; the feeling of preparing for something real made my heart thump a little faster. The baskets creaked as we lifted them; my boots were a touch roomy, but Granddad only noddedwhat mattered was keeping my feet dry.
The yard smelled of damp earth and the faint remnants of last nights campfire smoke. Morning mist hovered over the puddles along the fence; stepping on the wet leaves made them stick to my soles, leaving dark streaks on the concrete steps.
Granddad regaled me with stories of past forays: how he and Grandma once stumbled upon a whole patch of honey fungi beside an ancient birch, and how its vital to watch not just beneath your feet but all around, because mushrooms can be right beside the trail.
The road to the woods was shorta narrow lane winding through a field of wilted grass. I walked beside Granddad; he moved at a leisurely, confident pace, the basket swinging gently at his side.
In the forest the air changed: the scent of fresh timber mingled with the sharp tang of pine moss. Underfoot, the grass gave way to a soft carpet of leaf litter; somewhere nearby a drop of dew fell from a branch onto the ground.
Look here, thats a birch bolete, Granddad said, crouching to point at a mushroom with a pale cap. See the stem? Its covered in dark scales
I knelt, brushed the cap with my fingertipit was cool and smooth.
Why is it called that? I asked.
Because it loves to grow next to birches, he smiled. Remember the spot.
We twisted the mushroom loose, sliced the stem to show its white, unspotted interior.
Further on, a tiny yellow chanterelle caught my eye.
Chanterelles always have wavy edges, Granddad explained. And they have a distinct, nutty aroma
I inhaled cautiously; the scent was indeed faintly nutty.
What about lookalikes? I queried.
The false ones are brighter or lack scent altogether, he warned. We never pick those.
Our baskets began to fill: a sturdy birch bolete here, a cluster of honey fungi peeking out of spruce moss therethin stems, small sticky caps with pale rims. Granddad showed me how to tell genuine honey fungi from the impostors: The real ones are white or cream underneath; the fakes are bright yellow or orange on the lower side.
I loved finding each mushroom myself, calling Granddad over to confirm. When I made a mistake he patiently explained again, never with impatience.
Red fly agarics dotted the pathlarge caps with white spots.
Theyre beautiful, I remarked. Why cant we take them?
Theyre poisonous, Granddad replied solemnly. Just admire them.
He steered clear of the red caps, and I understood that not everything pretty belongs in the basket.
Occasionally Granddad would ask, Do you remember the differences now? If youre unsure, leave it.
I nodded, eager to be careful, feeling the weight of responsibility for my basket and for staying alongside him.
Deeper in the woods the sunlight filtered through low branches, casting long stripes on the damp ground. It grew cooler, and my fingers sometimes went numb around the basket handle, yet the thrill of the hunt kept my hands warm. A squirrel darted past, birds chattered in the canopy, and the occasional snap of a twig hinted at a rabbit or another forager nearby. The forest felt like a living maze of trunks, moss, rustling leaves, and muffled sounds. Granddad showed me the best spots to step so my feet stayed dry. I tried to match his pace, scanning all around for hidden treasures, hoping to impress Grandma later with my haul. Though I felt like a grownup companion, there were moments when I still wanted to grab his hand for reassurance when the wind rose or the shadows deepened.
One day, between two spruce trees, I spotted a splash of orange among the moss. I moved off the trail, sat down, and examined a cluster of chanterellesexactly the kind Granddad had praised earlier. Joy surged through me; I gathered them one by one, forgetting to look around. When I finally stood, the surrounding trunks loomed silent; no familiar silhouette, no voice, only the soft rustle of leaves and an occasional crack of a twig. My heart hammered faster; for the first time I was truly alone in the vast autumn woods, even if only briefly. Fear rose, but Granddads words echoed: stay put if you lose me, shout loudlyIll hear you. I called out, my voice barely louder than my breathing.
Granddad, where are you? Hey, Im here! I shouted.
A thin veil of mist made the trees blend together, muffling sounds. From the left came a familiar, reassuring voice:
Oioi! Im here, come towards me, keep your calm.
I inhaled deeper, followed the sound, calling again, listening for my own echo. My steps steadied, the ground beneath felt familiar once more, and relief washed over me when Granddad emerged, leaning against an ancient oak, smiling warmly. The forest sounds returned to their normal chorus, and my pulse settled.
You found me! Granddad patted my shoulder, his touch free of blame, just quiet joy. I stared at his crinkled face; it felt as familiar as my own bedroom. My breath evened out, and with Granddad beside me I felt safe again.
Scared? he asked softly, lifting the basket.
I nodded, honest and brief. He crouched to my level.
I once got lost too, when I was just a bit older than you. I thought Id been wandering for hours, but it was only ten minutes. The trick is not to run blindlystop, call, and listen. You did exactly right.
I looked down at my mudsplattered boots, the bits of moss clinging to the leather. Granddads pride was tangible; the lingering nerves slipped deep into memory, no longer a threat.
Its getting dark, he said, standing and adjusting his cap. We should head back before night falls. I fell into step beside him, each crunch of leaf underfoot feeling like a familiar drumbeat. Together we made our way out.
The evening wind pushed dry leaves along the lane, and ahead I could glimpse the thatched roof of our cottage through the thin row of hawthorn. The basket handles bore dark streaks of wet grass; my palms tingled from the long walk, yet the gladness of returning warmed me more than any cup of tea could.
Home greeted us with soft lamplight and the smell of fresh bake from the kitchen. Grandma Margaret stood on the porch, a towel draped over her shoulder.
Look at you two, back so quick! she exclaimed. Show us what youve got!
She helped me slip off my boots, the soles still clinging to leaves, and accepted Granddads basket, placing it beside her own bowl for cleaning the mushrooms.
The kitchen was cozy, the stove glowing. The window panes fogged in thin streaks, letting only vague glimmers of the garden lanterns and the outline of the hedgerow beyond. I perched near the table while Grandma sorted the mushroomsbirch boletes here, chanterelles therewhile Granddad produced his little folding knife for the delicate honey fungi.
Even as dusk settled outside, the house felt snug and safe. I recounted the days finds and the moment I called out in the woods; the adults listened attentively, never interrupting. I felt a swell of pride, as if Id truly become part of our familys mushroompicking tradition. A kettle of hot tea steamed on the table, its aroma mingling with the earthy scent of the mushrooms and the sweet bake. Outside the night deepened, but inside the light remained steady, warm, and comfortingjust the way it does after a small trial conquered together.
