When I was a young girl, my family lived for one winter with my father's sister and her family, and in the countryside in Florida. A row of pine trees edged the property, and my cousin (also a girl) and I (we were the same age) each claimed a pine tree and climbed up into the branches, each pronouncing it as our house. We had husbands and kids. We played house in our trees. Since there was no real room to move around in, we had no table and chairs, or anything "real". It was all make-believe, but so enjoyable to tell each other our stories. The stories fulfilled us, and the trees were nurturing us, in a way that I remember now with gratitude. In those days, it was all natural and unquestioned. Trees were to live in.

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