The parasitic plant has a short shelf life, though, so Underwood will wait to harvest it a few days before Christmas with the help of her fourteen-year-old son, George, who will drop it with shotgun blasts. “Look at all that mistletoe,” she says, pointing up at clusters of green aloft in an oak.

Armed with shears, loppers, and a kitchen spatula, Underwood is after more subtle quarry, the kinds of things that go unnoticed by a casual visitor like me-wild holly, white pine, viburnum and Russian olive branches, sweet-gum pods, sculptural clusters of dried pecan husks.