Much to my mother’s chagrin, I loved blue jeans and climbing trees when I was a girl. I’d shimmy up the trunk of a tall pine the neighborhood boy couldn’t reach without standing on his bicycle. My trees were forts, castles in the clouds, and hothouses for daydreaming. My arms and legs no longer scale trees or swing from branches. But I still feel the magic when I peek through leafy limbs. Our kitchen sits over our garage. Continue Reading