Mushrooms on my lawn

I was looking at the mushrooms on my lawn today and it made me think of my mother. She grew up in Northern Ireland in 1920's and 30's. She passed away last January and I often think of her. Back to my lawn. Let me start by saying I don't really like to eat mushrooms but as I looked at the ones on my lawn it made me think of my mother and her father, my gradfather. I only know him from my mother's stories. She told me of how she and my grandfather would go for walks in the Northern Irish countryside. He would pick and eat wild mushrooms. My mother, as a little girl was sure he would eat the wrong kind of mushroom and die or at least get sick. He did not get sick or die from his wild mushroom picking. He really knew what he was doing. So as I looked at the mushrooms on my lawn I think of my wee Irish mother and my grandfather. They are probably again picking and eating the right mushrooms in heaven. ( Don't look to deep at the theology.)