somebody really brilliant—maybe one of those astrophysicists at NASA—launches into space some genius invention that eliminates greenhouse gases and sprinkles us with everlasting, atmospheric relief. Nor will it happen during the promising lifetimes of those


yet-to-be-born grandchildren we always tout, or grandchildren now in diapers. Not even if they turn out to be—as we are convinced they must be—really smart and those kids will figure it all out someday because kids in the coming years will be, you know, really, really smart by then. And then it will be fixed. I’m sorry. It will not be then. When your grandkids are


adults, it will also be too late. Te fact is, in a relatively few years Earth’s climate as we


know it will be beyond anyone’s ability to save it. And we will all be guilty of leaving those children a toxic world in which they never had a chance. How many terrified motorists racing through hellish


infernos do we have to witness before it finally clicks? How many “thousand-year” flood victims do we have to watch being plucked by helicopter from rooftops in ceaseless downpours before it really dawns on us? How many charred survivors sifting through neighborhoods of ashes do we need to feel bad for, how many drenched humans do we have to watch as they wade, chest-deep, holding aloft all they could salvage from a life on Earth that no longer exists? Tis is the most critical moment humankind has ever faced. And what, I ask, are you doing about it? Arguing about imaginary enemies picking your mushrooms?


Biodegradable Continued from page 25.


And I scan the ground near the hole its roots tore, with just a little more care than I’d been scanning, and damned if I didn’t just find my first-ever pine morel! And shortly thereafter my 2nd through 9th, all around that one tree. How very like the little shits to show themselves, and make me want to check every dead, dying, and downed pine in a several-mile radius when I have absolutely no time to do so. Having traded my cargo shorts for a skirt and my boots


for a pair of Mary Janes, I drive to the cemetery. Te weather continues breezy and perfidious, occasionally spitting some light rain at the assembling friends and family, taunting us with intermittent rays of sunshine. I could park on the lane and walk in, or drive, the man attending the cemetery entrance tells me. I opt to park and walk in, passing a stationary queue of vehicles, stopping to talk with people I recognize. Te queue takes a right turn at the south end of the cemetery where the gravel track is edged by a row of old white pines, some living, some dead, some struggling to survive after being topped by frequent wind storms. Between snippets of vapid and mostly easy conversation with an acquaintance (easy because this particular woman speaks mostly out of habit, hardly leaving room for an edgewise response), I can’t help but start scanning, especially at the bases of trees that look like they’re in trouble. Te woman’s monologue draws to a pause; I bid a pleasant adieu, and walk on. I position strategically between the next two cars, as if I’m in line with them, and as casually as possible, look to the right and study the ground. It takes a few iterations of this behavior before I spot it, walking from one car to the next, talking with people I know,


finding comfortable anonymity standing in front of a car whose occupants I don’t recognize. I’m enjoying both the conversations and the covert indulgence of today’s obsession, to be honest. Working from home, I haven’t seen some of these people in over a year, and it’s good to catch up. I allow, in my soul, for both behaviors to be ok, even though mushroom hunting under these circumstances is doubtless in very poor taste. I try not to stare at it, the way polite young men refrain from staring at a pretty girl. If I walked over there right now, pulled out my pen knife and pocketed the mushroom, the social costs would be large, probably more than I can afford. Yes, extremely poor taste. Te thought makes me a little giddy, and my impulse is to laugh, and I stifle it, find my shoulders trembling a little, and tears surprise me, and this is fine, because this is a funeral, a particularly tragic one, at that. Still, the hand in my rain jacket pocket fingers the small pen knife on its tether. I seek out and express condolences to the parents, my former


next-door neighbors. I seek out my friend who had been walking daily with the young woman throughout COVID, and whose daughter was the deceased’s best friend. I seek out my friend’s daughter and she looks distraught beyond approach at the moment, inconsolable, silently howling. And I don’t know her well, so I leave her alone. I edge my way into the semicircle forming around the canopy that covers the grave and a row of benches where the family is seated. Te casket hovers over a dug grave on chrome supports. Te minister does his best to convince the parents that


even now, Jesus cares. I hope this helps them, although it has never worked for me, and surely does not suddenly become applicable when someone I love dies. But the parents are believers, and cling to the offered hope, and to the minister’s outstretched hand. While he preaches, rain slacks off, the sun shows itself a little, wind dries some wetness on my cheeks, and I appreciate the reality of its caress. I’ve walked past this cemetery hundreds of times between home and work, and this is the first time I’ve been here when they’re planting someone. Mostly, when passing this way on my pedestrian commute, I would find myself dismayed at the tangles of faded polyester, plastic-coated wire, and florist foam in the hedge that separates the cemetery from the road to its east. A sign by the gate reads “Flowers on the ground must be removed 10 days after holiday. No flowers or shrubs to be planted.” It’s a mysterious directive. ”Flowers.” No distinction made between actual flowers and non-biodegradable representations of flowers, although ostensibly they mean the latter; what harm would a withered bouquet of roses do when it was time to mow? Plants that would actually grow are clearly verboten, and that’s understandable from a groundskeeper’s point of view. But from the volume of trash in the juniper hedge, I’d guess the groundskeepers mainly use the sign to transfer the blame away from themselves for running the “flowers” left on the ground through the mower deck. “Holiday” is equally mysterious to me; apparently, I was not raised right, or I would know what was meant by that. While the difference between biodegradable and not biodegradable is something I internalized as a young person, apparently an awareness of that distinction can lead to rebellious thoughts. Like the idea that life is perpetuated by eating itself. Like the idea that our bodies rotting can feed other life after we die if we don’t embalm


Fall 2021 FUNGI Volume 14:4 29


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