Sometimes I'm a domestic kind of chick

This morning we channeled the birds:  they were outside eating seeds and we were inside eating the granola that I made yesterday.  It was a lively scene out there:  close to a dozen western scrub jays dominating the feeders and intimidating each other.  But, there were other more interesting birds.  I have ID'd the ubiquitous and pushy western scrub jay, the ground-scrabbling hooded junco, stripy female house finch, red-splashed male house finch, flirty juniper titmouse, adorable mountain chickadee, plus a possible pine Siskin but probable yellow male house finch. I need a guru.

Here are yesterday's haiku on the subject:

Morning feeder watch...
The usual suspects and
One stripy chipmunk.

I put out bird seed.
Now there's a fox underneath.
I feel so guilty.

C informed me that this was NOT a Peter and the Wolf scenario:  the fox was seeking seeds, not birds.  He stood in the shade of the feeder, watching the house intently, and then nuzzled on the ground.  She's probably right.  He had rusty back and head, black under-hung mouth, and white chest.  He was very foxy!  Birds continued to swirl around the feeder, but the ground feeders had disappeared.  Eventually he took off through the scrub juniper, and I watched his movements, in and out of the trees, as he went up the hill.  His gait was not fast, but was very purposeful, a fox on a mission.

I am delighted to have provided some amusement for both E and me, but I also find myself in a sort of melancholy nesting mood.  This will be the first Christmas away from any family, and it's the first holiday season spent in someone else's home.  So much of Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year's involves food, family, and festive decor.  I have my own rituals too:  re-reading Greenwillow and The Christmas Carol, listening to Nutcracker and Messiah, singing madrigal-type carols (The Boar's Head, The Wassailing Song, The Holly and the Ivy) and other more melancholy songs (In the Bleak Midwinter, Coventry Carol.)   I usually make origami tree ornaments, cards, and wreaths, using materials I have at hand.  And, of course, I bake Spritzbakkelse and make lefse and fudge.

So, I find myself doing some of these things, to E's delight ("You are always creating things!") I am less pleased with the results, but the process is enchanting.  I love scavenging the yard for scraps of juniper, pinon, dried plants, etc.  Then, I sit amongst sappy, spicy-smelling clippings, wrapping them around and around each other, tying them off with yarn or ribbon or wire, adding spots of color and texture.  I made two wreaths a few days ago, without a form.  They are hanging from the outside house lamps, and are already sagging out of shape.  Today I clipped the dried flowers from a dead vase arrangement.  Taking the moldy stalks to the compost, I discovered two year-old wreaths.  I disinterred the metal frames from the grey-brown sticky pines and brought them inside to make a wreath for the casita and a wreath for M and C.  My guess is they will fall apart within 24 hours, but such is life.

I need red ribbon.
My hands are covered in sap.
I love making wreaths.

  

The Epod is looking festive, with the wreaths, a huge poinsettia I bought from C's school, some snowflakes in the window, some vases filled with juniper and pinon.  I've decorated the make-shift trees with ear-rings and origami.  E and I have been singing carols together, and it's cozy enough.  But, I miss the things I had back in my own home.  There's no ribbon, for example.  And no Oregon grape to add a shiny dark green holly-ish texture.  And, the huge grape vine wreath is no more.  I have no idea where the cookie press is.  The little angel chimes are in with all the ornaments, which D hopefully salvaged.  The ornaments were 30 years in the collecting, and I'll likely never see them again.  One of them was a mystery:  I found it when I was still living in the milk barn, in with the fir boughs and ornaments that I taped to the open stair posts.  It was a wooden dragon, painted green and gold.  In subsequent years, it hung from the center of my biggest wreath.  I still don't know who gave it to me.  I know I didn't buy it for myself. I know it's one of my favorite ornaments.

I miss my annual musings on the subject.  

I miss making presents for stocking stuffers.  One year I knitted little balls and filled them with rice and catnip for all the family cats.  They lasted 12 hours, which was just about right.

I miss playing music with my family, and singing carols with D's family.  I miss sitting on Santa's lap (R in his father's old red velvet Santa suit), telling him I was an excellent girl last year, and receiving my present.

I miss the domesticity of the season.