I don't know if it's spring fever or a lack of exposure to nature or what, but I've been battling the urge to drag tree branches home and make something with them. This is where my midwestern roots and urban aesthetic come in conflict. Back home, the only reason one brought a tree branch into the house was to chop it up and poke it into the fireplace.
The consequence of this upbringing is that I can't bring myself to 'buy' a stick of wood when God makes it grow free all over the place. At the same time. I live in Brooklyn, and a distant faint warning stops me from picking up the rare branch that falls on a sidewalk or on the outside of a park fence. It's the same warning you'd hear as a kid when you're all sprawled on the lawn and one of your friends would pluck a blade of grass and stick it in his mouth and all the other kids would yell, "Ewww! What if . . .?"
Indeed, what if a dog peed on it? Around here, the statistical chances have kept my hands jammed in my pockets.
Himalayan birch poles, Nettle Hollow
Todd Merrill Antiques