Sunday morning I heard a toddler whooping in excitement somewhere in the neighborhood. Looking out a south-facing window I saw a child in a swing, being pushed by an adult.
The swing hangs in what my mother called "The John Tree." She and my stepfather, both dead now, once owned the house in front of my current house, as well as a very small house next door. Sadly, the small house has veen demolished and replaced by a modest starter mansion (only 2600 sf).
When I returned to Nevada in 1977 I moved into the small house and eventually acquired roommates. One of them, John, observed my mother digging up a small elm tree and volunteered to help.
He dug up the tree, then transplanted it in front of her east-facing bedroom window. Thirty some years later it stands 20 feet tall, shading that part of the house and holding a small child's swing.
Life is good.