It happens this time of year. It goes like this...I am driving to the shop, with a very very long long list of "very important" things I must do, and my car somehow swerves to the side of the road, and I find myself in waterlogged dressy shoes, in boggy puddles with hands full of what I call "my fall distraction". I cannot help myself. "They" beg me to visit the forest and escape the walls of the shop which have held me in all summer. Something about the dusty orange gills that somehow beckon me to check that little spot in the woods with the vibrant green moss and lure me with the exciting prospect of finding fall treasures growing along the base of ancient stumps and roots. It is "their" fault.
There is one tree that holds the polypore with the golden dye, and one beaten down spot that yields a little treasure, whose cinnamon claret gills shed spores that turn persimmon when in contact with wool and heat. It is my fall delight to swerve to the right, let my eyes peruse the mossy roadside, and then allow my feet to wander into the secret places.
Every year this happens to me. I find myself wandering into the woods, even in torrential downpours. I cannot help myself.
And then there are the many pots and jars that follow.
The handfuls of fungal treasures fill jars and buckets, and after the rituals of washing and mordanting, the excitement of dyeing begins. I am never quite sure of what I am doing other than escaping what I am supposed to be doing. But for some reason, something tells me that more than
anything else, this is what I am supposed to be doing. And, I would say, the previously white wool would agree.
After a heated bath in Cortinarius water, how the delightful tangerine becomes them.
Rain and sun, the crispness of fall, the mushrooms are here....I hear them call...now really, how could I refuse them.
They could be calling you too, if you let them...Come and see...it's a perfectly wonderful...
" fall distraction ".