The great guru of dyeing (NOT dying) is coming to Billings: the lady from Lorna's Lace, of course (remember: names do not roll easily from my tongue--I am not a knitting name dropper.) All the somebodies will join for a dip into dye on next Saturday, and of course, they will wax eloquently about all the colorway possibilities before they do so.
Design a yarn that will rival Bear-n-Berries--and certainly take its place as the "oohoo" and "ahhh" skein in the bags and baskets of the lucky few? I can, and now all alliteratives aside, I will speak the word "chinook" and all the color memories it evokes. I will remember a tattered Montana history book where I learned that the chinook tugs and wrestles the ice from the frozen earth in only two places: Iceland and Montana. I will remember the frost blue of ice, polished by the summery gusts. I will remember the hints of chocolate, of earth however briefly reborn. I will remember the soft gold of the January sun (a whole season away from its meridian) and the winter white and storm grey of the clouds that promise that this installation of spring is, alas, but a temporary respite. These are the colors of Montana in true sock season.
So. . . Lorna's Lace lady, take the palest blue from your Edgewater as well as its brown, search out your gold, white, and grey, and mix them in goodly quantities; stand back in awe and breathe the name--Chinook.