We lived in trees

Branches spaced like the rungs of a ladder

H has been asking for a climbing tree since he could talk. We’ve yet to find one on our farm, but we test out any tree that looks remotely climbable, just in case. While we wait, I tell him this story.

For a large part of our childhood, we lived in trees.

Our house was an average ranch in a quiet neighborhood, but it had the unusual feature of having a row of spruce trees that lined the boundary between our yard and the neighbor’s. They were unlike any other tree in the neighborhood—twice as tall as the pecan tree in the front yard and the oak tree in the backyard. There were stories of them having been imported from Japan by previous owners, of surviving and thriving by some sort of magic, seeing how our climate (hot, muggy) and soil (dense, red clay) was the exact opposite of what a towering fir tree was supposed to need. It was not unusual for a car to slow on the road in front of our house, the inhabitants pointing and craning their necks to see the top.

They were thickly needled, impenetrably so, except for a child-sized gap at ground level in the first tree. Inside was the most perfect climbing tree anyone could ever hope for. The branches were spaced like the rungs of a ladder, smooth beneath our palms, entirely clear of smaller branches (some of them stripped by us). We climbed up and down, of course, but we mostly sat, each of us on our favorite branches, and talked.

I heard the new owners cut them all down, but I’ve told myself that it’s just a rumor. I’m careful not to drive past, just in case.