When I was a kid, I lived on an 80-acre abandoned orchard in Michigan with mature oak woods and pine groves. The white pine trees were probably 30 years old.
They were perfect for climbing. My siblings and I would climb to the top and pretend we were in the crow’s nest of a sailing ship. As the treetops swayed, we’d hear the wind whisper through the soft needles. I’ve since read you can identify a pine species by the sound the wind makes through its needles.
Twenty-five years ago, my daughter Katy brought home a white pine seedling from school for Arbor Day. Without much thought, we planted it at the back of our lot in Naperville.
Turned out to be a good spot. The 50-foot tree now provides great privacy. I’m too old for climbing now, but I still enjoy the sound of wind through its needles.
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