It just so happens, that for the most part, I’ve grown up with pinecones. The first house I really remember living in was surrounded on one side by a pine forest. For part of the year a blanket of pine needles would spread so thick under my swing, one could safely jump from its highest height and land softly. Now, raising a daughter the same age I was when surrounded by the wonder of a deep pine forest, once again we live among the pines. There are cones and endless needles that in California often shed more than once a year. Squirrels seem to love the pinecones. When they first bud and are green and incredibly hard, we sometimes dodge back and forth in the yard from clumsy squirrels dropping the pinecones on the way to their nest. It’s always an adventure. The surrounding pine trees seem to hold a higher pitch in the wind than the redwoods and the gusts add a tenor to the Sequoia baritone. We watch the needles fall in the wind only to sprout immediately after the last has fallen. They are a reminder of time in a season less sunny California.

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