I grew up outside in the woods. Not literally. I mean, our house was surrounded by woods. Actually, my first house was across the street from the Garden in the Woods, then we moved to New Hampshire to a house nestled into three acres of woods in a neighborhood surrounded by even more woods. When we moved back to Massachusetts, we lived in a town with an abundance of -- you guessed it -- woods and trees and trails.
I'm a country girl at heart, one who, despite growing up surrounded by hanging tree limbs and umbrellas of leaves, never managed to get a single tick on me, nor did I get stung by a bee until I was well into my thirties. No, I didn't wear hats or special clothing or anti-tick sprays. I got plenty of May fly bites and black fly bites and deer fly bites and horse fly bites and enough mosquito bites to have itched-over scars on my shins to prove it.
I never, ever managed to get poison ivy, oak, or sumac. Crazy, considering we often cut through the woods to get to each others' homes, to the sand pits (that we were forbidden to be at but went to anyway), to school, to the small pond, and to our grandparents' house.
Tress fascinate me. Particularly, dead ones. The ones that are weathered and gnarled and all bony on the ground and lying against other trees and rocks become campfire wood and whittling chunks and fort bases and art projects and pretend (or real) weapons. They house animals and insects and the scars of the forest dwellers who use the broken-down trees for scratching or as cabinets to be smashed open for creepy-crawly snacks.
Every one tells its own story, no matter how big or how small. Decades ago lightning took down a massive tree in our yard. Anyone seeing its remains today would think it just got too old or its roots grew too weak to uphold its height, but we know its tale. We were nearby when it happened, and it was frightening, fascinating, and impressive.
This brings me back to Charlotte, North Carolina. Charlotte does have some woodsy areas, but it is a city, an expansive one with many different facets. I meet the family in a busy urban area with outdoor brick malls and charming parking lots surrounded by smatterings of trees. There are several places to park, including a garage, and I see a fully-packed lot where I can turn around and access a different lot that may have more spaces. Just as I come up the lane, a space opens, so I park the rental SUV and hope the tall pine trees don't drop too many needles while I'm at lunch.

I exit the car, which is now parked close to a multi-lane roadway with speed limits of fifty miles per hour -- not what I would consider a country road -- and encounter a piece of dead tree. Not just any piece, though. I am looking directly at the trunk of a large tree. It is just the bottom portion of it, maybe about six feet in length, but the diameter is as wide as a garage door. The portion of tree is seriously the size of a Volkswagen Beetle.
The coolest part is that it's hollow. Yup, hollow enough that children could run through it standing straight up and never hit their foreheads.
I am fascinated with this tree. I fumble with my phone because I need to get a picture. Meanwhile, people are trying to back up all over the parking lot, and it's momentary mayhem as I maneuver around drivers and vehicles. Eventually, the world stops moving for a moment, and I am able to snap a picture.
Without anything for perspective, it just looks like a chunk of dead tree.
But, I know what I see, and I save the picture anyway, even though it looks pretty tame-sized in the snapshot. Trust me. This is an impressive piece of nature, so impressive that I am about ten minutes behind everyone else for lunch. I hope they'll forgive me. It has been a long while since this country girl has gotten a good, long look at such a tree-mendous specimen, and I have the photo to remember it.