How Our Wreath Greens Are Harvested: Where Doory Comes From

Doory starts in a small town in western Washington. About six thousand people live there. The town is known for two things: lumber and wreaths.

The pickers. Every morning during the harvest, pickup trucks pull into the workshop yard. The drivers are neighbors and friends. Retired roofers. A man named Russ, who spent thirty years fishing in Alaska and now walks the woods in a T-shirt while everyone else is in wool.

They don't cut down trees. They take tips: the young, flexible ends of branches, two to three feet long, clipped from living trees. Thick old wood won't bend around a ring, so nobody wants it.

On public land the work runs on permits and seasons. On private land the owner sets the rules.

The scale. Each load gets weighed and looked over. Good greens get paid for by quality. Greens that are the wrong color, shape or length get set aside and don't get paid for at all. That rule does more for a wreath than any machine could.

The workshop. Rene has done this for about twenty years. His wife runs logistics. His daughter helps with shipping. His son runs the loading dock during the season. Every Doory is built by hand on a ring, by people who have done it a very long time, and checked twice before it's boxed.

The first time I visited, the smell of the place was overwhelming. I asked how he could work in it all day. He shrugged: "I don't smell it anymore." That's what twenty years does.

A customer described the same smell from the other end of the trip:

"It's the loveliest wreath I've ever had on our front door. The scent of fresh greens whisks you away into the forest."

Rosalind Y., verified buyer

That forest is roughly where it came from. Not all rainforests are tropical.

Doory, back where it started.

If you'd like to know more about where your client gifts come from, tell me a little about your list and grab fifteen minutes with me. I'll tell you about Russ.

Jonah, founder, wreath.co