Morel hunting in Iowa woodlands provided rare bond for father and son

The memory of hunting morel mushrooms with my dad in the Iowa woodlands sprouts each spring like daffodils — radiant and precious.

My dad grew up a farm boy. His mom died when he was 11; my siblings and I believe that scars from this trauma forged a quiet, reflective and slightly melancholic personality.

As a high school principal, he displayed an endless dry wit and was widely liked. He was a workaholic, throwing himself into his job 100%. As a result, us kids rarely got his full attention. He’d pop home for dinner and then head right back to school to support whatever was happening — five, sometimes six nights a week during the school year.

On the rare days he didn’t go back to school, his ritual was to change out of his suit, grab a beer from the fridge (never more than one), and plop down on the couch. As he savored the suds, stress fell from his limbs and we suddenly came into focus.