My mother was an avid gardener her whole life. Despite working full-time, she spent countless hours tending to her perennial garden and magnolia trees.

I was born in Minnesota, you know, the land of 10,000 lakes. But along with all of those lakes are a lot of trees.

Last year when I was 8 something horrible happened and my Dad died from cancer. His cancer moved to his liver and then two days later he died. We cried a lot and a lot.

Imagine coming home one day and thinking something horrible had happened to your neighborhood.  It looked like a war zone.

My tree story begins in the summer of 1965. A wonderful park about a quarter-mile from our house, called Willow Park, was filled with beautiful willow trees.

A cottonwood tree is rarely anyone's favorite today. It is not disease resistant or strong, plus the female tree spreads fluffy seeds everywhere in the spring.

I went to you for solace.

     Eighty-nine degrees, a sweltering August day in Chicago.  No soothing breezes moved the air. The curtains hung damp with humidity.

The sticky summers of my 1950’s youth seemed more extreme than those of today. Back then we didn’t have air-conditioning in homes, cars, or even most businesses.

The elm tree on our parkway in Villa Park was my reading tree in the 1950s.

In the United Kingdom, in 1979, I moved to a rented house in a town that was designated a "New Town" a new town built from scratch and absorbing four or five small villages.

Jonathan was my first child. He was born with a rare genetic disorder called Trisomy 13.

It was the last time I would be with my mom at her home in Glen Ellyn. She was under the Horse Chestnut tree that had been so carefully planted in the parkway longer ago than I can remember.

My first trip to the Children's Garden in 2005 with grandson Adam, five years old was a delight.  As we entered this amazing garden we were given a plastic bag that contained a tiny blue s

Sometimes you might see me in a tree. What am I doing in a tree?  I might be climbing. When you see me climbing, you might see me holding onto branches.

When we bought our house in January 1982, the beech was fairly empty of leaves, covered in snow, and standing at about 20 feet tall and about 10 feet in diameter.

I grew in a quiet suburb in Burr Ridge, IL where the streets are lined with trees. Yet one tree always reminds me of home.

I love my tree in my backyard because it leaves a path in the yard. It is a tall tree that leaves shade in the path.

In 1978, my parents bought their first home. It was on Apple Street, a name about as idyllic and all-American as it gets, and perfect for two teachers starting their lives together.

After 60 years, our silver maple tree had to be cut down. It was damaged and hollow in some spots and we were afraid a high wind would cause it to fall on our house.