The golden fields of Iowa is where she first carried a gun. On a bitter November morning, her father sat back and watched as she ran after the dog hot on the trail of a wild pheasant. Here she shared a first, many holidays, and then … a last. On these sacred grounds she returned some twenty years later along side her dad, knowing there may not be day like this one. She now walked much slower and embraced the colors of the bird in her hand, trying to smell every bit of fresh air as to bottle it for a lifetime. Trying to preserve the memories, she cleaned and dried each pheasant pelt and worked endless hours creating art for the walls of the home she now raised her children in. And although her father is no longer beside her, each year during the holidays she takes out those same tail feathers and makes a tree topper in memory of where her passion for the outdoors was sparked. The bird that represents the origin of her passion is now the origin of Kanati.