As we walked into the woods, I stayed close to my dad, always following his lead. It was early December in the late ’80s, and the first frost had already come. As we traversed our family’s land — hundreds of acres acquired over several generations; none of us can say exactly how large the plot is for sure — my eyes roamed everywhere, on the hunt for wild beauty. I knew that whatever I found on our walk — holly berries, pine cones, running cedar — Daddy would help me fashion it into a one-of-a-kind wreath to use as a holiday decoration for our home, just like he’d done as a child.

The author (right); her father, Truett Haywood; and her daughter, Peyton, head to the woods around their homeplace to find natural materials for wreath making. photograph by Stacey Van Berkel

As we maneuvered through the forest, he identified trees by their leaves — maple, sweet gum, poplar, oak. He pointed out animal tracks along the paths, too. I often wondered: Could those be from bobcats or something bigger? Looking back now, I think Daddy knew all along that the prints belonged to raccoons, possums, or other harmless animals, but he allowed my imagination to wander, sharing wide-eyed looks with me over just what mysterious creatures might have resided in our woods.

When I was a child, these walks with my dad seemed like a wild adventure into the unknown. Without the aid of a map or compass — and long before cell phones — he always knew where we were going, no matter which direction we headed. He made sure to keep me grounded, reminding me to observe my surroundings, avoid tripping over roots, and beware of stump holes. He knew where to search for vines we could fashion into a door hanging, what was worth taking home, and what should be left behind. He was my guide, my teacher, and my protector every day, and especially when we walked through the woods together.

• • •

Our family has lived in rural Montgomery County for generations. The Haywoods have been here longer than anyone alive can remember. My great-grandfather ran Haywood Grocery, a country store that’s no longer in operation but still stands. Just up the hill, our family cemetery has graves so old that they’re marked only with rocks — no names or dates to identify those buried there. Besides running the store, our ancestors survived by growing whatever they needed. The land that wasn’t farmed or built on was left wild.

My dad and his cousin Terry, who lived nearby, began walking in the woods in the autumns and winters of his childhood. The young boys would wander off looking for holly or whatever else they could find to make cheerful decorations for their mothers. The land and everything that it provides — food, timber, entertainment, and even decor — have become a part of our family, things to be revered.

The writer and her father, Truett Haywood, scour the family’s property for treasures from nature. photograph by Stacey Van Berkel

As a child, I became my father’s trusty scavenging partner. I took pride in returning home with items I had discovered. Throughout the fall, we would bring back our “treasures” — unusual-looking rocks, acorns, and stones that the Pee Dee people of Town Creek had used to sharpen arrowheads along the banks of the Little River. My dad taught me to be observant, to take everything in.

As Christmas approached, our hunts took on a new purpose. We pulled vines from trees and running cedar from mossy banks. Greenery like magnolia leaves, pine branches, grapevines, and holly sprigs with berries were our prizes.

Once we had gathered our materials, my dad would take out his Case pocketknife and cut the vines into manageable lengths, leaving me to do whatever I wanted with them. He wasn’t into the actual creative process — for him, the thrill was in the hunt, not the spoils — but he was always there to offer a gentle smile, nodding his head in approval as I bent and twisted the vines into some semblance of a circle.

It’s a tradition that — like Truett’s and his father’s pocketknives — has been handed down through generations, including Truett’s parents, Rankin and Lannie Haywood (inset). photograph by Stacey Van Berkel

In the woods, I looked to my father for guidance, but when it came to crafting, I had to learn my own lessons. I found that thick, pliable vines worked best for a wreath base — but if they’re too dry, they’ll break. The more running cedar, the better. I’d wrap the greenery around the base until it was covered. Evergreen sprigs, preferably with miniature cones attached, were perfect filler for the gaps between the vines, and glossy magnolia leaves added a touch of class.

Whenever I needed anything extra, my dad would step in. He knew the best places to find materials — a field of straw, a hill with plenty of running cedar, a grove of holly bushes.

Once I was satisfied that I had used all my resources to the best of my preteen ability, I would present the finished product to Mama, head held high, and she would display it on the door for everyone to see. No matter how crude my creations were, both of my parents were quick to praise my work.

• • •

After I grew up and moved out — though never too far, as is the Haywood way — our scavenger hunts gradually changed. My father still helps me locate the running cedar and vines, but he struggles with the uneven terrain. The walking sticks that we once carried for fun have a more important purpose today, as he is less sure-footed than he used to be. I’m not sure which one of us this hurts more. But we’ve adapted. Instead of walking to the woods from our home, we sometimes take the Blue Goose, my grandfather’s 1971 Chevrolet pickup, partway.

Now, I’m the one reminding everyone to pay attention to our surroundings, be careful not to trip on roots, and look out for stump holes. And we have a new partner in our adventures: my 12-year-old daughter, Peyton. After our hunts, I take a step back and let her create, offering gentle smiles and nods of encouragement, like my dad did for me. But no one is ready to turn over the reins just yet. For one, I can’t be trusted with a pocketknife. And if anything is missing, my dad is still the one we call. Whatever we need, he knows where to look.

The tailgate of the Blue Goose, a ’71 Chevy pickup, becomes a workspace for the writer to weave vines and greenery into a wreath. photograph by Stacey Van Berkel

Wild Wreaths

For a rustic holiday look at home, try your hand at making your own wreath this Christmas.

1. Gather vines from trees and other natural areas. Any kind, like grapevines, honeysuckle, willow, or wisteria, will work. If the vines are stiff, soak them in water to make them more pliable. Wrap several yards of vines in a circular coil to form whatever size wreath you desire. As you wrap, clip side branches or work them into the wreath.

2. Gather enough running cedar, or ground cedar, to wrap around the wreath so that it’s covered in green, concealing the base completely. Running cedar makes for a nostalgic, homespun look, but be mindful: It’s slow-growing. When you harvest some for decorating, be sure to leave plenty behind for regrowth.

3. Fill in with other foraged greenery, like pine needles and other evergreens. Glossy magnolia leaves provide a sophisticated look.

4. Add a pop of color to brighten the wreath. Red holly berries are eye-catching and plentiful in many areas across the state.

5. Vary textures. Pine cones can easily be lodged into the frame to fill in gaps. For contrast, add some pieces of broomstraw.

6. Keep your natural wreath fresh by spritzing with water daily.

Make your own wild wreath and share it with us by tagging @ourstatemag in your social media posts.