Gravel Dust

By Larry W. Mongar

Sometimes what you are desperately searching for is right under your nose. That's the lesson of this fascinating memoir from a character that has grown up in what seems the least dramatic place in the country: small town Iowa. Yet, even in a small farming town, life can bring harsh blows and many crazy turns. Follow the journey of one man from childhood trauma to drug addiction to settling down into a rewarding family life while gaining the respect of the man he always wanted to please but was n

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Feb 7, 2014
• ISBN: 9781628382365

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GRAVEL DUST

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Larry W. Mongar

Copyright © 2013 Larry W. Mongar

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

New York, NY

First originally published by Page Publishing, Inc. 2013

ISBN 978-1-62838-235-8 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-62838-236-5 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

I would like to dedicate this book to a kitten named Pawblo,

or Pawble Dawbles. Thank you for resting on my shoulder and chewing my ear in approval. May you rest in peace.

Three, what a weak number. Especially when you count the number of times, and hours I’ve spent with this once-a-year hobby. The newspapers, the Internet, word of mouth, all are full of stories of bags full--more than any one family, let alone one person could ever consume safely before they are well beyond a safe expiration date. Experience has fully convinced me to not even ask, or to try to buy so much as just a few of these mysterious shadows of the elm, the fungus of a rotted tree. But they might as well be gold: the coveted morel mushroom. Quite a subject to write about, considering the brief excitement that is brought on only once a year for about a two-week period.

But every so often, when the will is there, and the craving is strong enough, you say, what the hell and try to find them one more time. What a pain in the ass. So I drive the countryside, thinking I know what to look for: downed trees, short, green underbrush. I try a grater ditch here, a ravine there. Not a damned thing. Follow a gravel road around a curve and down a long steep hill. I come to a tee in the road. To the left: more gravel. Turn right, to a dirt road. Looks abandoned, very little travel on the dirt.

Awesome; a chance. After about a quarter-mile of very slow, observant driving, I find my spot, the one I’ve been searching for. I stop my truck and just stare out my window. This is it. I have found the place where I would leave a rich man. I count the bags I’ve brought. Three is a good number. Three is the amount of them I’ve found in the past. A good sign. Where I left off.

My excitement grows as I open the door to get out. My truck lunges forward. Dumbass. Ever heard of putting it in park and shutting it off? Yea, Yea, Yea. Can you blame me? The anticipation has obviously taken over. I will not regret this search, I know it. I shut off the truck and get out, cross the ditch and go through the fence. Not much of a fence at all. Two strands of rusty barbed wire on posts that might as well be flat on the ground. Good start.

I catch my pant leg on a mulberry bush and rip my favorite pair of Wranglers, the pair that convinced me that the brand I wore for the best part of 35 years could be one-upped, still one heck of a good pair of jeans. More where that came from, I thought. The no pain theory. A couple more yanks and I free myself from the thorny devil and off I go. Shit! I have no stick! You must have a proper piece of a tree limb trimmed to spec just for this purpose. Waste of time otherwise. Luckily I am in the perfect area to find one. Again, good sign. An old hickory tree is about twenty feet to the left of me, leaning at a forty-five-degree angle and a serious looking burn towards its top. Obviously, a lightning strike, bad for the tree, good for me. It doesn’t take long and I am set with the most perfect searching utensil, now back to business. The better part of at least three hours went by, as I must have looked under all but the dirt itself for as much as fifty square yards. My excitement gives in to exhaustion.

Unbelievable. Not one dag darn mushroom. Just my luck. I am done. No more. I will never sucker myself into this trap again! With the most disappointed gut-dropping feeling, I head back to the truck. Mt. Everest would have been an easier challenge to climb than the worn-out effort to make it back to my start. Quite an exaggeration, I am sure, but you get the idea.

It’s back down the road I go, empty handed and headed for home. Not the first time, I guess. So sure it’s the last. As I collect my thoughts so my position and mental map home would become clear, I come across a car that sure looked stalled on the side of the road. Hey, I know that car. An 86 Trans Am, jacked up in the back with fifties on the rear, almost silly looking. Clayton. The man with the most incredible knack to sniff out even the smallest example of a morel. I know what he’s up to. Screw it. Jealousy sets in and I drive right on past his car, of course revving it a couple times to let him know I’m on to him and his secret spot. Still jealous, though.

About 100 yards beyond his vehicle I spot him in my mirror, carrying two potato sacks, obviously put to the test of their maximum capacity. What a son of a gun. Oh well, moving on to home. Still jealous, still empty handed. I’m done looking, done hunting, for the deceitful devil. Or so I think. The heat of the day had really taken on a strong effect on the previously rain-soaked gravel roads. Driving along, windows down, jamming my worn-out Pioneer stereo to the best of its ability, I light a smoke.

The smell of a fresh-lit cigarette has always been a favorite. As I puff away at this life-draining pleasure stick, I come to a tee in the road and slow down to turn. I make a left and ended up driving into my own cloud of dust. My mouth fills with the gritty grime of it. Aw, what taste it has.

Nothing else quite like it. I’ve lived a lot of years, and every time this happens, it produces a rewind in my mind like no other. You see, I grew up in a small town in Iowa and lived only two miles from it. During my school years I rode a school bus. My ride on it each morning and afternoon could not have been all that long. Wrong. The one road between town and ours was the unfortunate beginning of the route. My brother, two sisters and me got on