Once upon a time I was a dyer of wool.
A collection of old enamel pots of various sizes and shapes were selected and filled with plants or nuts gathered in the fields and the woods, or maybe grown in my herb garden, and set on an open fire outside. A wooden spoon stirred the simmering mixtures, all pungent with their earthy smells.
A collection of old enamel pots of various sizes and shapes were selected and filled with plants or nuts gathered in the fields and the woods, or maybe grown in my herb garden, and set on an open fire outside. A wooden spoon stirred the simmering mixtures, all pungent with their earthy smells.
Through a path in the woods I strolled this morning to gather flowering goldenrod. I snipped the yellow blooms and green leaves and stems to place in a stainless steel pot. The smell wafted throughout my kitchen and out the open windows as it simmered on my kitchen's stove top.A small skein of wool sheared from my past flock of Romneys was carefully lowered into the dye bath.
The creamy white wool is now a sedate shade of yellow, not unlike some of the colors of autumn.
And on this beautiful Saturday in October I was a dyer with natural things once again, and I loved it as much as I love the word dye bath.
And on this beautiful Saturday in October I was a dyer with natural things once again, and I loved it as much as I love the word dye bath.
