Looking at Trees
In Western Pennsylvania where I grew up, you do not have to go out of your way to look at trees. Just on the farm my parents owned, a large blue spruce grew on one side of the driveway, and a stand of aspen on the other. In the front yard was a walnut tree, on the hill a black cherry tree, on another hill, three plum trees. Also on our thirty-five acres stood thirty-seven apple trees. (You might understand that as a child I learned to be picky about my fresh fruit. But this post is not about that. This post is about trees.) Ahem, yes. Trees. I grew up with trees everywhere. Though we had fields and pastures on the farm, they were divided by lines of trees. And the eastern half(ish) of the property was all trees. Real forest, that had been there forever–maples and oaks and elms and beeches and crabapple and choke-cherry and sassafras and– Trees. I loved them then. Now that I live in Southern Arizona, I love them more. Trees are so restful. Green and quiet, making the sunlight shimmer, home to birds and bugs and cute furry animals… I’m luckier now than I’ve been many times. I have mature, beautiful palm trees in my front yard. I have dwarf citrus trees in my back yard. I live across the street (practically) from a park with lots of big trees. That’s “lots” by Arizona standards. By Pennsylvania standards, that’s a pasture. So Sunday…