Hickory Chickens

Hickory chickens—that's what we called mountain morels. They were a delicacy, and they were a delight to find and eat. The morel mushrooms were sort of a pyramid shape and had indentations around the outside. Dad would hunt for them in early spring, when they were at their best, and most easily found. The family loved hickory chickens.

I asked Dad why he called them that. He said, "Because they taste like chicken and grow near hickory trees." They were hard to find, but Dad seemed to know likely places to look for them. Following him, we walked uphill because it was easier to spot them around fallen logs and tree roots. It was a favorite activity to hunt for these morels. It was usual to run into other people also searching, but always in a friendly situation. In our part of the hills in southeastern Kentucky, we would all keep to our own chosen places to search.

Dad loved hunting for them and would go into the woods and return with a saddlebag full of the morels. Mother would clean and slice them, roll them in flour, and then fry them. When they were served with the meal they tasted almost like chicken. As so often with any normal chore, both my parents worked this process, with Dad bringing in the morels and Mama preparing them.

One time Dad brought home a large frog he had caught, and it was Mama's job to prepare it. She thought the frog was dead, but when she started to cut into it, the frog jerked. It was such a shock that she fainted!

I always enjoyed those times in the woods, whether hunting for hickory chickens or playing games. In the mountains there are certain places that feel different. There was a cove where I used to love to go because it made me feel so good. Once I stepped over a certain point, a good feeling would come over me. When I stepped into that area, there was a special energy that surrounded me, and I could feel it as long as I stayed within that certain area. I would usually go there with my mother, Aunt Betty, and Aunt Laura.

Aunt Laura was four years older than me, and she had a very inventive imagination. We picked out a certain tree that was the "doctor," and another tree was the "nurse," and the small bushes were the "children." Aunt Laura usually claimed the prettiest trees as hers, and I had to take those that were left. We played many games of make-believe among those trees.

I loved listening to Aunt Betty talk. She had a talent for tying things together. She would tell about something that happened, and then she would tell the history. "That was the year everybody got the flu," or "that was the year it flooded in the spring." That always made family history seem clear to me.

Aunt Laura had such an imagination; you never knew if she was lying about something or if it was make-believe. I don't know if there's a difference between lying and make-believe, but mother was always sure that if you talked about something that didn't happen, it was a lie.

I was always writing something and hiding the papers in the loft; they were thoughts, fantasies, daydreams, and so forth. Mama found them one day and because of her upbringing was horrified at all the lies I told; I hadn't written anything about being Christian or about Bible topics. She spoke to Dad and told him they needed to do something about this. Dad never mentioned it to me. I was distressed that she thought it was all lies, and I felt guilty for continuing to write, but I worked it out. I made a bargain with God. I promised that if he wouldn't make it a sin for me to write and read other books, I would read the Bible every day. And I did. I read completely through several times. And I kept on writing. [End Page 92...