As I was making dinner last night, I learned that Brooks Robinson had died. Robinson was a career Baltimore Oriole and the greatest third baseman of all time. My son reminded me of his nickname--the "human vacuum cleaner." A ball rarely got past him.

I don't remember Robinson as a player. What I do remember is Robinson in family lore: the story told, of when my father, in his twenties, drove my grandpap, his new father-in-law, to Baltimore to see Brooks Robinson play. By the time I knew them, my dad hated to drive in cities and my grandfather barely left the confines of his farm. So the image of the two of them, road-tripping to Baltimore, is both sweet and mythical. I imagine them in my dad's old white Ford with the dark red seats. I imagine them, shy with each other, nursing their single beers, leaning forward in the bleachers, craning for a glimpse of the hero. And then the long drive home.

I suppose this is why I love baseball--these homely tales, so interwoven with the fabric of the game.

* * *

But my big news yesterday was this . . .

. . . close to ten pounds of hen-of-the-woods mushrooms, young and tender, tucked around the roots of an oak tree in Baxter Woods. I was beside myself with excitement: What a haul! a foraging miracle! the gods have smiled upon me! These mushrooms (also called maitake) are choice--a wild delicacy, tender and flavorful--and now I have bags and bags of them in the freezer, a winter's worth of delight. I feel like a million bucks.

* * *

But of course that will wear off, and I will go back to feeling like two bucks. Not that two bucks are anything to sneeze at. You can buy a teeny-tiny pumpkin for two bucks and have change left over. You can almost take a bus ride.

Today I'll hang out the wash, and I'll fix up someone else's manuscript, and I'll clean the upstairs rooms, and I'll endure my exercise regimen, and I'll read Paulette Jiles's News of the World, and it will be like almost having enough money for a bus ride . . . almost.