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 ".
Ah! The joy of it.