There's only one that was grown with special memories held closely in hopes that these sorts of memories could be passed down: a Maple tree. I spent a good deal of my childhood up in a tree, and my favorite was the maple at the front of the property right by the little country road. It had the gas meter box right beside it which served as a stepping stool to the first branch. From there on up it was basically a spiraling ladder. I felt safe, held, hidden there. As my mom was/is schizophrenic and there was a fair amount of tension inside the home, this was my safe haven. My mom tells me now that my father would tell her to get me out of that tree (so much for hidden) but she declined, thank God.
I planted a Maple in our city back yard the year our first grandson was born. He is now 14, and sadly we do not see him or his sister. But my youngest grandson, age 7, loves the tree. He hides (but only with the intent of being found, he is much more gregarious than I was and has a far more stable home) and swings and checks the bird house for inhabitants. It is the most lovely full tree that turns a flaming scarlet earlier than most in the fall.