I think some of my earliest memories of pine needles come from the little fir grove on my grandparent's farm. That grove used to seem huge to me. The tall, curiously cloaked trees constantly dropping pine cones and covering the ground with their sleek leaves. The shag carpet effect those dying needles created mesmerized me. The way the light filtered through those trees was different, but I remember loving it. It was always pretty there, no matter the time of year.
While that grove was often my go to, other places on the farm also grabbed me. The raspberry bushes, sunflowers, hammock, the back field where you could see all the land rolling out perfectly beneath you. Living on a hilltop is not something to take for granted.
