When I was five or six or seven, I loved to climb trees. It didn’t matter what kind – bushy crabapples, spacious maples or sappy pines. I lost count of how many times my mother had to cut sap out of my hair (maybe that’s
where it all went :-)
).

But one tree still stands out in my mind. It was a big, beautiful spruce. It seemed a hundred feet tall. I know
it was at least thirty, taller than the two-story beside it. At its base, its branches formed a tent, perfect for secret conversations or an experimental kiss. On top, I could see the whole neighborhood, and rock, side to side, in the crow’s nest of a great three-masted sailing schip. It terrified my mother (and the lady who lived in the house). I hope it’s still there.