This is a simple story, as I understand it from my late father, who passed last year (2017).

When I was a child back in the 40s, we had no air conditioner, so the summer nights were sometimes hot, sticky and unbearable.

I have chosen the Callery Pear that stands proudly and strongly in the plaza of the 911 Memorial in New York City. It is called the Survivor Tree.

I have a beautiful tree at my house in the front yard, but I have never climbed it yet. Maybe someday. I would never want it to break down or get struck by lightning because it is so beautiful.

My parents are gone but their little Christmas tree made its way into my home.

I laugh inside every time I hear friends or neighbors complain about cottonwood trees.  The tiny seeds floating in puffs of cotton, yes, clogging the air conditioner, are a joy to me.

When I was a boy, we had an old birch tree in our front yard. It would stand there with its papery bark peeling away and low-splitting trunks begging to be climbed on.

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.