When I was a child, I lived in the trees. Or I would have, if my mother hadn't made me come down for supper.
It's easy to take trees for granted. There they are, rising above the houses, making shade, blocking the view, hosting birds and squirrels, making us sneeze. They're part of the scenery, generally relegated to the backdrop, because trees in the foreground would block the action. There's no actual drama in the tree itself. Nobody actually sees trees.
I see trees. I'm quite taken with them. They draw my eye wherever I go. I have the pictures to prove it. I'll show you some this month.
The Mabel Dodge Luhan house in Taos, New Mexico, is surrounded by cottonwood trees. The cottonwood welcomed immigrants from all directions to the American West. Resistant to both flood and fire, cottonwoods stood when nothing else remained.
Here they are a backdrop to a bank of martin houses.
But get up close and personal, and they tell their own story.
