Giant Puffball Day

Liz Rog, Decorah, Iowa

September 24, 2012

It's a mighty good year for puffball mushrooms. Anywhere you go, in the woods or a yard, you are likely to catch a glimpse of a big white volleyball that someone seems to have left outside to ruin. Suddenly you realize that once again you've been tricked by a puffball. All about town there is puffball talk, puffball happiness, puffball advice. Kids point them out to adults, adults tell puffball stories to kids. I have my own puffball story to tell.

My friend Elyse's parents called me the other day to say that they had a mushroom in their back yard and to ask did I want it. This fall our household has already been very well puff-balled. A few days ago Daniel and I even had a disagreement about how much puffball I was drying for winter—imagine it! An argument about the gentle and peaceful puffball!—but since these folks had so kindly called me about their mushroom, I wanted to at least stop by to acknowledge their puffball and thank them for the call.

When I arrived and they pointed through the picture window at the white ball out in their back yard, I squinted and cocked my head, confused...it looked very odd there, in the middle of a mowed lawn, and I couldn't quite get my bearings. Could it be that it was—quite large? Extremely large?

I walked out and beheld the mushroom. As I approached, my step slowed, in awe and humility here before what I now could see was a truly god-sized mushroom, poofing out of the earth like a giant's silky white meringue. I stopped there, feeling called to kneel in reverence. And then my heart jumped up and down inside my happy chest as I pointed, laughed, circled around, and sent out gratitude to the mystery and grace of the world. From that very beginning I felt her aliveness and she became She.

Imagine picking up a mushroom that weighs much more than a newborn baby, round and smooth, 4 feet in circumference. When I gently twisted out of the ground and lifted her to my bosom, I felt my being swell with the honor of her presence. I cradled her and was cradled in the arms of this mystery. This most wild being, born of invisible spores, had somehow managed in the face of drought and backyard mowing not only to grow but to flourish. Fate had then beckoned me there, and so I was given the glad responsibility of going forth with the puffball. I was aware of the temporal nature of this gift—for within a few days she would be shape-changing again. 

I loaded her into the front seat of the car, showing her to some neighbors on the way. Back home I showed her to more neighbors and took many photos so we could share the memory with others, but photography was not feeling at all like an adequate way to share this wonder. You need to smell it, touch it, feel its weight, see its white silkiness, its leathery elephant-skin, its bulbous moonlike craters. So I sent an email invitation to about 110 people, inviting them to a Giant Puffball Party the next night, where they could come see and then eat the biggest one ever seen by anyone I knew. I would also serve kale salad, corn bread, rice and pesto, calendula cookies, and fresh mint water.

I did not tell them, for I did not yet know, that we would also create a celebratory ritual for the mushroom-being. For, good ideas don't always come to us all in one rush; sometimes we start with a simple one, like inviting people to eat together. It's after that that we're  sometimes inspired by that primal part of us that loves to play and to pray, and if we're paying attention we can find ourselves cooking up ideas of which mushrooms, people, and the very cosmos might love to be part.
 

Night came and went. I arose with a plan for the day's chores and started in on it all. The mushroom sat on the counter, in no hurry for the evening's festivities. Meanwhile there were walnuts to dry, tomatoes to pick, lunch to make, letters to write. The puffball-being kept distracting, calling me to her...I found myself stacking a smaller puffball on top of the giant one, and then She became Sheila! You haven't even seen her womanly shape yet: those two bulbous forms that are both her buttocks and her breasts. They are whiter than any human, which makes them both ghostly and angel-like; ethereal, fleeting. I dressed her in scarves and hats. I changed her to a railroad engineer, with a striped hat and a red bandana.

Was it the descendent of the Saami and of my mushroom-foraging Polish grandmother in me that wanted to embrace this puffball so? Was it the mysterious way in which mushrooms connect and remember, reminding this mother of beloved daughters who are on journeys of discovery far from home that we are always connected? Was it the coming Crone in me that loved to celebrate her aging buttocks?

It began to feel odd, playing this way alone (I know you already thought that). How could I share this with others? (And was it the daughter of the park and recreation daughter in me that had to share this play with others?) I gladly abandoned my original plans for the day and turned my attention toward town, where I knew I could find people who would enjoy her. Then thump, thump went my happy heart: this is what I was born for. To give up reasonable plans in favor of tending to my soul and the soul of the world through making connections with a humble and glorious messenger of earth.

I called the middle school to see if a teacher there would like show the mushroom to her class. Yes. I called the newspaper to see if they'd like to take a photo of a sporific entity. Yes. I wrote an email to my group list of 100+ local outdoors people, to tell them the mushroom would be on display at the co-op in the afternoon. I re-invited them all to dinner. Then I was off to town!

All through the halls of the middle school heads turned and smiles erupted as kids and adults beheld the puffball. When the elevator door opened to take me to the second floor, a student in a wheelchair and two teachers looked out at us, first in shock and then in glee. It turns out, carrying around a mushroom is very much like holding a baby, or a ukulele—it is almost impossible for passers-by to not be glad.

Before entering Mrs. Nowak's classroom I set the giant puffball outside the door, with a plan to present it with fanfare in a few minutes. I entered and waited for my turn. A student returning from the bathroom entered after I did and raised his hand with great intensity, insisting that he had something to say to the teacher. “Teacher teacher!,” he announced, pointing at the door with excitement and some trepidation, “There's something....I don't know what it is!....outside....it's big...”

Mrs. Nowak and I exchanged glances, and she assured him it was nothing to worry about, that he would learn soon enough what it was.

I had 3 minutes to make a show of her. I first presented the smaller, every-day sized fall puffball. Then I asked the students for a desk drumroll as I went out the door and fetched the motherlode.....Ta-da!... and then stacked the smaller on top of her, plopped on the railroad hat, tied the red bandana around her neck, and there she was. I did not turn her around to show the back, no I certainly didn't. The students were excited just as kids should be, and for days afterward on the street I was approached by kids and parents who had been part of or heard about those 3 minutes!

When we arrived at the co-op, Pastor Mau sitting there in the deli eating lunch saw the mushroom-woman and helped me to realize that I was presenting the least interesting side of her head—that the smooth round side could be turned in favor of the bubbly side. It looked wrong to me at first, because I was seeing her as related to a snowperson, which I pride myself in making smooth like my daddy taught me. We have a special Polish snow-smoothing technique which I'd be glad to show you. But indeed the other side of her head had a nose of sorts, adequately whimsical and imperfect. Leave it to a spiritual seeker like a pastor to come up with the idea of showing our supposedly imperfect side and calling it just-right.

I didn't intend to stand right next to her the whole time at the co-op, but if you brought your favorite great aunt into a room full of strangers, would you leave her alone to meet everyone? No. That's how I felt, and so I stayed where she was, introducing her, telling what I knew of her story. I felt I was introducing the Queen of the Autumn. I felt 2012 becoming rock-solid the Year of the Puffball. I felt love for my community, who had the eyes to see this simple beauty. Many people had puffball stories to tell. I learned from Brett Mumford that in his experience it is impossible to get dried puffball to accept moisture again, which if it is true would mean Daniel definitely was right the other day about not drying so much. I learned from Jana Klosterboer the method for freezing: fry it up first, and when you take it out to use it, add it right to your dish (don't defrost first) and also it doesn't last longer than a few months in the freezer. Many photos were taken on cellphones, some of which came to my email and others which I saw on Facebook the next day. Julie Berg-Raymond came from the newspaper and took a photo. I invited each person to that evening's puffball dinner. Then I scurried out the door to get ready for the night.

But you don't get out of our town that easily—especially if you've lived here for 32 years as I have and most especially if you are carrying around a giant mushroom. On the way to the car I saw my friend Amy Weldon standing outside the yoga studio in the perfect late-afternoon sun, waiting for yoga class with a smile on her always-radiant face. I was drawn away from my path and toward her, and as I approached it just so happened that the rest of her yoga class was also arriving from all directions, and so there we had a grand introduction in front of the studio. Was it the evening sun, or the all-woman assembly, or their yogic natures? It was brief and big: there was much joy in the air there! 

 

I needed to buy gas for the car and stopped at my favorite gas station, Bob's Standard. Dan and Jeff were in there working, so I ran the puffball in to see them—and oh good, there were a few other customers standing around the counter chatting too, so 4 more people got to see her. Little did I know, on my way in that door someone near the pumps had spotted me and my load, and now came to ask me to come show whatever this thing was to her van full of sisters. Oh yes sister would I!!! Thus began a timeless moment for learning about each other, puffball talk, and family photos taken with me and the mushroom. These women were from all over the country, visiting Decorah for a sister-reunion. Their beautiful, quiet, elderly mother was there too, and I later regretted not having taken the puffball right to her door so she could touch it. Much happiness in that meeting, the stuff world peace is made of.

Finally, home. First things first! Since there would be an unveiling during the ritual, I needed to get her covered before anyone arrived. I put a nail in the ceiling, hung a hanger from that, and a large Indian print from that. The puffball sat on a high stand, an old green wire basket from the Decorah swimming pool in the 50s, inverted with a blue and white gingham checked cloth over it. Underneath the huge hanging veil, she was in her railroad gear.

A small group gathered. Luckily I've been around enough to know that even if you invite a hundred people to what might seem like an irresistibly cool event, you shouldn't expect a lot to make it because if you do you're likely to be disappointed. People are busy and all. Call whatever comes perfect. And so indeed, the perfect number did come—we were 8 of us in all. Jason, Rowan and Saer, Hannah B, Ellen, John S, Daniel, and me. Thank goodness there were two children—for what is what we do worth, if the children aren't there to witness it?

As we waited for the last folks to arrive, we cooked: we chopped huge amounts of garlic for the Puffball, ginger for the kale. Cookies were served pre-dinner, in service to a promise I made when I was a child to the children of the future. Jason opened a big box of wine.

And then the ritual began. It was at once playful and serious. Holy and lowly. We gathered around the kitchen island, with the shrouded puffball in the center.

I named the purpose for our coming together: to offer gratitude to this giant mystery of nature that had been given us. To celebrate the simple beauty of the autumn, and our place in it. I thanked Nancy and Art Cohrs for giving it to us.

We slowly circled around the island holding hands as we sang in a round, to the tune of 'Hey ho, anybody home'

Sisters, brothers, take your time, go slowly

Listen very carefully: simple things are holy...

Then we sang “O male/O le-mama”, a call-and response song from Africa that is mother earth flirting with the humans. Our puffball was quite the flirt! As we got going on this, the unveiling began—and behold, there she was in all her glory. Hoorah and bravo! How lovely! What joy!

I asked John Snyder to read some words he recently wrote down for us, representing his spiritual practice---'Hello,'

hello sky/hello cloud/hello tear/hello fear/hello birds/hello dear/hello heartache/hello thought/hello valley/hello horses/hello clover/hello my love/hello hello

And then we made a poem like that for the mushroom and the autumn, going around the circle 3 times to give each person chances to choose things to say hello to. Hello abundance. Hello buttocks. Hello dinner. Hello wonder. Hello …....when Ellen said “Hello Fun-Gal!” we all knew it was the perfect ending to our poem.

Then I brought out a collection of scarves, belts, necklaces, and my grandma's hats, and we dressed her up. Many times. Ellen was a star at this and I wished this part would never end. John Snyder took a lot of pictures of these creations. Oh she was lovely! And so changeable, yet with that puffball spirit shining through at all times! 

We sang a call-and-response song I'd scribbled on the back of a paper bag on my way into town:

When I was young/I was a spore/flying through the air/down to the ground

When I was young/ I was invisible/no one could see/ all I would be

When I was young/ I was a small one/ shining through thte tall grass/ growin' quietly

And now I'm grown/ a giant puffball/I've come to show you/ all we can be

I am I am/ I am I am/ I am I am/ A giant puffball

I am I am/ I am I am/ I am I am/a sacred being

I am I am/ I am I am/ I am I am/A giant friend

Next, we had the official measuring and weighing. Daniel measured, Jason was notetaker. Saer was the drum roller for each measurement, with John Snyder assisting him.

Circumference: 53”.

Length: 17 ¾ “

Width: 14 ½ “

Height: 9 ½”

Weight: Well...

This part is a little embarrassing to me. I have to be perfectly honest with you. I had weighed her the day before, with a witness and assistant present, and we had come up with over 14#. This is what I reported to all people in town, and to the newspaper. I told them—and this is true—that that is ¾ of the record heaviest puffball weight recorded. And 14# is definitely what it felt like when I was lugging her around the middle school and down Water St and also holding her up for family photos.

Sadly, when we weighed her at the ceremony, we came up with only 10#. How could this be? Jason insists that she could have lost 4# overnight, what with all that surface area. I think his confidence in this theory was affected by the contents (or lack thereof) of his wine glass. I can't believe she could have lost that much moisture in 1 day. My witness for the first weighing, whom I won't name because I don't want to embarrass any more people than necessary here, can't understand it either. It remains a mystery. Please know that I have not tried to deceive or exaggerate. Her bearing and her being need no proof by measure. But as my dear husband would say, sometimes things like that just happen to storytellers.

The last song we sang was written by my friend Laurence Cole:

Oh when we come into our calling

we become bells / calling to everyone else

Oh come, come into your calling

What a good song for finishing our celebration: connecting the ability of the puffball to come so fully into her calling with our own comings-into-callings. May it be so, and always more so.

With that, we removed the head and sliced into her white perfection. Not a squiggly larvae to be found, not one bit of yellow-turning-to-inedible-green. A perfect specimen. We fried her in lots of butter in a huge cast iron skillet. We smeared fried homegrown garlic and salt on each piece, a slab as big as a portabella. We tasted and moaned in delight for she was truly fine. We reveled in being alive, here, communing with earth and each other in this way. Jason told jokes, Daniel told a few of the day's Hometown Taxi stories, I told of the day with Sheila, others told of their days. We laughed and sighed.

                       ***********

I have read that the average puffball produces 7 trillion spores, each a potential puffball. If I understand mushroom botany, this particular puffball—which surely would have produced closer to 25 trillion spores—will, since we picked it, not be spreading herself around in that way.

That's okay. There is puffball abundance this year in NE Iowa. This particular puffball, my lady-friend for a day and a night, the September 24 visitor to our town, leaves a different kind of legacy. Today we can't imagine what that legacy will look like over time, once it is mixed in with all of the other beautiful and good things to which we are giving our attention. But we know that our collective attention to this mystery has spread countless invisible spores into the soils of our lives, just as sunrises and ladybugs and fawns and dragonflies and fiery maples and clear streams always have and always will.

Maybe someday Rowan and Saer will invite my grandchildren to come see a maple sapling that they found, or a nightcrawler, or a dungbeetle. They might sing a song together and sit in silent reverence. By then they may not even recall Giant Puffball Day 2012. But they will surely remember what they were given at birth, what their very bones and soul know and what they are reminded of daily in the woods and the fields where they live:

We are family with this earth and all her beings.

We are each other's fullness.

We are kin.