In which I wish I were lying under a tree.

I was puttering on Facebook, and one of the companies I "like" there (Aveeno) posed the following question: "It's Arbor Day! What's your favorite type of tree and why?" I very nearly added this to my arsenal of "20 Questions" ideas, but then I thought that perhaps I would like to give this one a bit more thought than just a rapid-fire, quick response.

I love trees. A yard entirely devoid of them always feels vacant and lonely to me. Despite all my grousing when I lived in the apartment (let me refresh your memory: two windows in the apartment, facing directly into the trunks of mature trees, made me feel as if we were cave dwellers), I loved them too. They shaded my apartment through the long (looooong) Summer months, keeping my electric bill a little lower. They provided privacy and protection (except when I worried, during particularly violent thunder storms, that they would drop one of their hefty limbs on my roof--and subsequently my head). I loved watching the squirrels race through and around them, and catching glimpses of hawks, owls and woodpeckers perched on their branches. So many reasons to love a tree.

But to pick just one? (Have we met before? Do I ever pick just one favorite anything?)

I recently shared how I feel about the magnificent sequoias.

I've sung the praises of orange trees. In March, their sweet, white blossoms perfume my whole world with their heavenly fragrance. I am not even joking when I say that I stand in my wide-open windows or stop dead in my tracks outdoors to breathe their scent deep into myself, trying to burn it into my soul. I get this mental image like I am a cartoon and if I inhaled enough, I would suck everything around me into my head. (Which is weird, because surely that would cause some congestion, but I never claimed I was normal, so there you have it.) But they aren't my only favorite trees.

There are the stately evergreens. I love them in the winter, edged in snow. Though they quietly blended into the background most of the year, during the drab New England winter, with its muted neutral palette, they became a more obvious pop of color, but when it would snow, they would transform into the stuff of Christmas card images, the sparkling puffs of white like garland, their needles shimmering with a frosting of ice. And when the snow fell heavy, driven by icy gusts of wind, one whole side would be coated in white diamonds, looking so much like the branches Gram would flock for decorating her home.

I have long been fascinated with the cherry trees in Washington DC. One day, I would love to see them proclaiming "It's Spring!!" (I imagine them with cheerful voices, like cousins to the Easter lily.) (I am starting to wonder if I should maybe stop sharing my imagination, before you start thinking I spend my evenings pretending to be the caterpillar from Alice's Wonderland...Ahem. I don't. I swear.)

Another harbinger of spring that I always found so lovely were the dogwoods. We had one in our front yard, right next to our driveway, when I was growing up. Every spring, it would flower. Its petals were creamy, edges tinged with the softest pink, like the color inside a bunny's ears. With each gentle breeze, a shower of petals would flutter to the ground. My dad would grumble (Lord only knows what adult aggravation this may have caused, but my child's mind knew nothing of such things, so my memory remains innocent) but I still dream of planting one in my own yard.

Gram and Gramp had a pair of white birch trees in their front yard, and I was always drawn to their uniqueness. The ringed stripes. The narrow trunks. The way their soft bark would peel away in strips. The golden leaves in the autumn. But what struck me most was how, no matter the amount of snow and ice Mother Nature heaped on them, they would just bend gracefully beneath the burden. Sometimes their tops would bend all the way down to the ground, but when the wintry mix would melt, they would bounce right back up toward the sky. It amazed me that they never snapped in two or were any worse for the wear.

And then there is the more ambiguous "Autumn in New England," when I love all the trees in their symphony of color. Hues from soft brown to flaming red, golds and oranges, varying in vibrancy, the whole world on fire with warm colors. One last joyful blast before the hibernation of winter. Leaves ablaze overhead. Leaves crunching underfoot. Big old shade trees, under which I whiled away the summer afternoons, and wee-but-spunky saplings all joining in the game. One of the things I miss most about no longer living in the northeast.

Happy Arbor Day, friends. Today, I am going to be thankful for trees.