Getting Pitchy During The Holidays



A centerpiece created as a silent auction donation.



     And I disappeared.  Under piles of balsam, cedar and pine is where I've been spending my time.  For the past four weeks I've been harvesting greens, making kissing balls, custom wreaths, and holiday centerpieces.  What do I love about all this?  I work from my home and as my husband puts it--part of my job is walking in the woods.  How great is that?  It's pretty great! 

Hand tied wreaths made by
yours truly.

     The best part of all this?  I keep away from the normal hustle and bustle of holiday time.  I'm also creating ephemeral art work for many to enjoy during their holidays.  And I don't have time to think about what nonsensical gift I will get for someone I love with money I don't have.  No one will have to worry about recycling or regifting an unwanted item from me.  The word MALL never crosses my lips! 

       I merrily work away listening to favorite music, newscast, or pondering thoughts and life choices.  Every day isn't perfect eutopia.  I still have deadlines and worry about whether or not I've correctly interpreted what a client wants.  There is the mess of pine pitch and needles from conifers scattered everywhere.  My studio is our dining room table, that forces us to eat off our coffee table temporarily.  But with all that said--this is a small price to pay to do something I love. 

Over 30 kissing balls have found
homes this year!

      Of course I can't remember the last time I meandered down the hill to check in on the progress of the greens in the hoophouse. Or checked the mouse trap in there.  Ick.  The chickens don't get half as much of my attention.  However, I am home most of the time so they are let out daily to roam and peck at whatever might hold their interest for a nano-second.

      We lost another bird in the time since I last blogged.  My lovely chicken, Pecker, died in her sleep.  I found her with her face buried in the shavings that thickly line the bottom of the coop.  Leaving me to guess whether or not she was up on her roost when she left this world and plummetted down to the floor in her passing.  She was a regal, kind and loving bird in her adult life.  In her youth she would peck at my exposed skin every chance she got.  Whenever I would bend down to do something in the coop, my shirt would hike up, and bam--Pecker would strike.  And I would yell, Damn PECKER!  So the name Pecker stuck.  I never though she would grow up to be a cuddly bird that really just wanted attention.  She had bright, intelligent eyes and a comb that would make you guess that she was a he.  But alas, Pecker has been buried at Chicken Hill and I will keep fond memories of her.

Pecker is the white bird on my knee. 
Good Red looks on.

      My husband Rob and I always marvel about how lucky we our.  We love our lives here in Monkton, doing what we enjoy and spending time with each other.  I hope that many feel this way.

Peace to all during this busy time of the year!
-Kathy and the nine remaining ladies at Chicken Hill