The author with her grandparents 1950
In 2022 I am introducing my memoir entitled The Smallest Tree in the Forest. As is often the case, a memoir may not be so much about the person who wrote it, as it is about those people who were important to the writer. This memoir seems appropriate for Dispatches From the Front as it really is a celebration of my grandparents. They were remarkable individuals who infused my life with love, principle, adventure, and an example of the right way to live a life. Although they did not know all the difficulties I faced, they were still a living example of how to conduct a life, and by their loving presence saw me through it all. This memoir is a celebration for all of us, who are now grandparents ourselves, of the difference we can make in the lives of others.
I will include the prologue to this memoir in this blog, but in the future, I will release a new chapter every other week on a separate tag within the web page. The blog will then continue as usual. Many thanks to all the readers out there.
THE SMALLEST TREE IN THE FOREST
by
Gail B. Shisler
Prologue
Growing up I always felt like the smallest tree in the forest -- a small sapling surrounded by redwoods of adults. My father was killed in the Second World War, his plane rammed by a Japanese suicide bomber while on a mission flying what was called the Hump, over the Himalayan mountains from India to China. We never met. It was a tragedy that reverberated gently through my life. As a small child I only knew it was something that might make people cry, as an older child something that set me apart. It seems remarkable now, looking back, that I never met another child whose father was killed in that war. Yet, as is so often the case, it seems that when one thing is taken away, another is granted. Although without a father, I grew up surrounded by grandparents.
I spent a childhood among those adults - - huddled at the top of the stairs, hands stuck in pajama sleeves to keep warm, listening to the adult conversation and laughter below or sitting quietly on an ottoman in the corner, letting the conversation wash over me, hoping no one would notice a small girl who was up way past her bedtime -- listening, listening, listening and watching. I was fed by not only what they said, but what they did which was as unconscious as the tree in the forest that drops its leaves, unaware that it is nourishing the growth beneath.
They were not self-conscious mentors to the young, they just lived their lives, not only including me in those lives, but making room for me there. And the fact that I can never remember a time when I felt unwanted, or in the way, speaks volumes about their generosity. Having me in their homes as a full-time resident until I was seven, and almost every summer thereafter until I went off to college, must have been intrusive. After all they had raised their children and here I was in their midst. Yet, I always felt welcome and, more importantly, as if I had something to offer.
I have in front of me my dog-eared, copy of Winnie the Pooh with its faded red cloth cover. As a child I would return again and again to the poignant story of Christopher Robin going to the enchanted place at the top of the forest to tell Pooh that he is going away. I know how Christopher Robin felt, for I did not want to leave my enchanted place with my grandparents either. And even though inexorable forces pushed me from my safe forest, its rooted presence not only sustained, but saved me.