November Autumn – A Yarn Colorway Story From West Virginia

Sit on a porch near Blackwater Falls and meet a knitter who knows where the true, secret colors of a West Virginia autumn are.

The midmorning air in Davis, West Virginia, had the kind of sharp, clean bite that made Margaret’s knuckles ache and her spirit sing all at once. Cooler weather was on its way. As she sat on her porch rocker, deeply breathing in the crisp autumn air, the rhythmic click-clack of her wooden needles was like a steady heartbeat against the quiet of the hollow.  She loved this time of the year.  The unbearable heat of summer was slowly becoming a distant memory, and the comfortable warmth of the fire would be welcome against the cold in the coming weeks.

As she settled into her seat, somewhere in the woods, a Bluejay and a squirrel called out warnings that alerted anyone in the vicinity that her cat was out prowling.

Her granddaughter had asked for a scarf, and the yarn she chose—a colorful representation of the season—spilled from a basket at her feet. Deftly it flowed through Margaret's fingers as she worked, its texture soft and warm, like the touch of a loved one’s hand.  She knew the deep jewel tones of the yarn would look beautiful against her granddaughter’s complexion.  It was the perfect choice.

As she worked, a minivan with Ohio plates slowed down on the road below and then cautiously turned into her gravel driveway. A moment later, a couple appeared, one holding a phone and the other with a camera hanging around their neck. They walked up the drive, their steps uncertain, crunching softly on the fallen leaves. The man paused at the bottom of her porch steps, while the woman took one step up, her hand resting on the railing. They had come to West Virginia in search of the perfect autumn view, a quest that had led them to Margaret’s doorstep.

“Excuse me, please,” the man began, his voice hushed, as if not to disturb the peace. “We hope we’re not bothering you. The fella at the gas station said you’ve lived here forever and might be able to help. We’re trying to find the best view of Blackwater Falls, but the main overlook is just… so crowded.”

Margaret’s needles slowed. She looked from the man’s earnest face to the woman’s hopeful one, and a slow smile spread across her own. “Lived here forever...?” she chuckled. “Feels like it some days. Come on up, don’t stand there in the wind.”

They gratefully climbed the remaining steps and stood near the edge of the porch. “The best view?” Margaret mused. “Well, that depends on what you’re looking to see.” Margaret held up her knitting, a half-finished scarf. As she did so, she let the yarn drape over her hand, the deep burgundy and reddish-purple strands catching the morning light. “You see this color? That’s the color of the blueberry and huckleberry bushes over in the bogs right now. They’re past their summer green and have settled into this deep, wine-colored blush. It’s a quiet kind of beautiful, don’t you think?”

The woman leaned in slightly, her eyes fixed on the yarn, then lifted her gaze to the distant hills, mentally seeing the connection. “Oh, it is. It truly is.”

Margaret resumed her work, letting the yarn slide through her fingers. A moody blue and a rich, coffee-like brown began to appear. “And this,” she continued, her voice dropping a little, “that’s the Blackwater River itself. The water’s stained dark, almost like tea, from all the fallen hemlock and spruce needles. A fella once told me they call it ‘tannin-stained.’ When the sun hits it just right, you get these deep, swirling blues and browns that seem to hold all the secrets of the mountain.”

She worked a few more stitches, her movements economical and sure. A surprising flash of brilliant gold suddenly appeared on her needle.

Margaret chuckled, a soft, rustling sound like the leaves themselves. “And that,” she said, motioning with a needle toward a stand of trees at the edge of her property, “is the last of the birch leaves, holding on for dear life. After a rain, they turn pure gold and fire-orange right before they let go. That’s the flash and sparkle of the canyon before it settles in for the winter.”

The couple stood in hushed stillness, the weight of the moment enveloping them. The man shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his eyes scanning the serene landscape around them. In the distance, the plaintive warning call of a BlueJay punctuated the air, its vibrant song weaving through the trees. The pursuit of capturing a perfect postcard image had given way to something deeper and more contemplative —a connection to the tranquil beauty surrounding them, inviting reflection rather than mere observation.

“So the best view,” the woman said softly, more to herself than to Margaret, “isn’t just the waterfall.”

Margaret’s needles began to click again without ever breaking their gaze. “The waterfall is the heart,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “But the colors… the colors are the soul of the season. The secret to November is that it doesn’t have to shout. It’s a year’s story winding down, full of moody blues, a last flash of golden glory, and the promise of a cozy fire just around the corner.”

The man gazed warmly at his wife, their eyes locking in a shared moment filled with understanding and affection, a playful smile dancing between them like a secret only they knew. He then shifted his attention back to Margaret, his expression earnest as he tipped his head in gratitude. “Ma’am, thank you,” he said, his voice carrying the weight of sincerity. “This experience has etched itself into my memory far more vividly than any scenic overlook ever could.”

As the couple made their way back down the driveway, Margaret couldn’t help but study the yarn in her hands. Its colorway resembled a map of this month, weaving together the tale of a season—an ideal November autumn, and it had been crafted right here in the heart of the Appalachian Mountains.

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I hope you enjoyed the story! This special, limited-run handspun yarn, HS-862 November Autumn, will be available on my website at 6 PM EST on Friday, November 14th, 2025. I can’t wait for you to hold this story in your own hands.

Warmly,

Kelly