My three-year-old boy is getting so grown up. He has the funniest things to say, a blend of sophisticated words and clever phrases with a healthy dose of "L's" still pronounced like "W's". He's got a big-kid haircut. He's in big-boy undies after an overnight conversion to the religion of the Potty Trained. He has two skinned knees and a skinned elbow, and only a few minutes after I took this picture he managed to fall off this stump in a spectacular tumble, but stood up quickly, brushed his hands together and said "I'm Okay!"
I love three.
This sugar maple was 83 years old, if I counted the rings right. That means it was planted in 1930. It was growing before my grandparents were born. Forty years old when the house was built. There are older trees I'm sure, but this might have been the oldest tree I knew personally. It had to come down because it was cracked and threatening the house. Its sister tree, maybe older, is still standing about fifteen feet away.
I love trees.
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