When I look across our West Virginia hills during these leafless
wintry days, it is the conifers that alleviate the monotony of brown and black.
Scattered among their deciduous brethren, the hemlocks, pines, cedars, and spruce
stand in striking contrast against the snow—or with some
of it caught in their branches. Conifers may symbolize the holidays in December,
but they are far more the rest of the year. Their density provides protective
habitat for birds, while furry creatures live below—or build nests among the
branches. Their needles and scales (many arborvitae/cedars don’t have needles) add
texture to my pots, and their cones embrace the seeds that keep new trees
coming. Conifers don’t grow everywhere. I returned to North America only once during
the four years we lived in Hawaii. The first thing I did on the University of
Utah campus was spontaneously hug a small fir tree just standing there waiting
to be appreciated. Yes, it was a somewhat prickly encounter, but if you grew up
in the north woods, palm trees and Norfolk Island “pines” aren’t everything!
My most recent mobiles (aka windchimes) feature conifers in
all their textured greens, sometimes with forest
animals, sometimes alone. I’ve
started embellishing the backs of my figutes so that they can be glazed in the indentations.
Some conifer cut-outs have snowflakes on their backs, others have conifer
sprigs. Of course, every mobile involves beads too—a lot of them. How did I get
into these? I especially love making larger pots, but when you load those into
the kiln, there is wasted space between them. They can’t touch each other or
the glaze with melt together. Any number of small things can inhabit that unused
space between the pots. Over the years, trinkets evolved into windchimes or
mobiles. Originally tested on neighbors, I learned to drill the Chesapeake Bay
driftwood that my friend Suzie collects for me, to string beads and figures
together, to epoxy knots so the wind does not untie them, and to encourage
people to hang them in relatively protected places—but, if you like windchimes,
where you can hear them.
When I look across our West Virginia hills during these leafless
wintry days, it is the conifers that alleviate the monotony of brown and black.
Scattered among their deciduous brethren, the hemlocks, pines, cedars, and spruce stand in striking contrast against the snow—or with some
of it caught in their branches. Conifers may symbolize the holidays in December,
but they are far more the rest of the year. Their density provides protective
habitat for birds, while furry creatures live below—or build nests among the
branches. Their needles and scales (many arborvitae/cedars don’t have needles) add
texture to my pots, and their cones embrace the seeds that keep new trees
coming. Conifers don’t grow everywhere. I returned to North America only once during
the four years we lived in Hawaii. The first thing I did on the University of
Utah campus was spontaneously hug a small fir tree just standing there waiting
to be appreciated. Yes, it was a somewhat prickly encounter, but if you grew up
in the north woods, palm trees and Norfolk Island “pines” aren’t everything! 
animals, sometimes alone. I’ve
started embellishing the backs of my figutes so that they can be glazed in the indentations.
Some conifer cut-outs have snowflakes on their backs, others have conifer
sprigs. Of course, every mobile involves beads too—a lot of them. How did I get
into these? I especially love making larger pots, but when you load those into
the kiln, there is wasted space between them. They can’t touch each other or
the glaze with melt together. Any number of small things can inhabit that unused
space between the pots. Over the years, trinkets evolved into windchimes or
mobiles. Originally tested on neighbors, I learned to drill the Chesapeake Bay
driftwood that my friend Suzie collects for me, to string beads and figures
together, to epoxy knots so the wind does not untie them, and to encourage
people to hang them in relatively protected places—but, if you like windchimes,
where you can hear them. 
