My brother, Don, moved in with me and soon began gardening in his bedroom. He believed in fresh, moist, rich, ocean air, and circulation so opened both bedroom windows and forbid their closure. As an attempt at interior decor he heaped dirty clothes and guy stuff in mounds that were higher in the four corners of the room than elsewhere. It was on these mounds that I found big healthy toadstools!
This was not new to me nor a surprise, although I wasn’t particularly happy. I remember helping Mom make dinner (I was about fifteen, Don thirteen) and he walked in from fly casting in the middle our Orange County dul-de-sec (he didn’t need water) and heard Mom tell me about cleaning out his bedroom closet.
“You can’t do that!” he screamed, making us jump.
“You could have died!” We stopped, food goo on our hands and stared at Don all decked out in his fly fishing gear and holding his long limber rod.
“You didn’t touch the piety dishes in my closet did you?”                                                “Yea,”  my Mom said.                                                                                                               “I was growing deadly spores in there!   You could have died!” He was telling the truth. nancymauerman.com