Big Old Trees

I like old, established neighborhoods.  Subdivisions that have been around for 50 years or more. Communities where every house at one time had a black and white TV in its living room, or even better, a TV-sized radio.  But I don't like them for technological nostalgia.  That's just a little romantic flavoring thrown in.  The thing I like best about old neighborhoods are all the big, old trees.

Everything about a tall, gnarled tree screams home to me.  When I was a kid I loved climbing them, sitting under them, and occasionally (maybe once) falling out of them.  I think whatever it was that I loved then has stuck with me.  Not that I climb anymore.  I guess I would if I had the opportunity.  It just never comes up.  But I love looking up into the canopy, watching the patterns of dappled sunlight play across a lawn.  I like how big trees partially obscure the view of your house from the road, lending a stately character to your front yard, and becoming almost part of the architecture.

I love the sound of wind blowing through high leaves, wind unhindered by walls and rooftops.  Its like a wind chime, with leaves of different sizes vibrating at different frequencies, accompanied by the creaking and groaning of pliant but slightly complaining branches.  This is especially true in the forest, where all the varying voices come together in a symphony of vegetation.  A chorus performing pieces composed by Mother Nature herself, with squirrels and chipmunks sitting in on bass while wizards weave their magic spells and elves and leprechauns dance together under a harvest moon.

Okay.  Trees aren't that great.  They're just big, brainless multi-cellular organisms rooted permanently to one spot, completely reliant on kismet and a dearth of chainsaws for their survival.

And they're incredibly beautiful.