Some stories just have to be told, probably as much for the teller�s sake as for the listener�s. I suspect that most children can�t even fathom the thought that their parents had a childhood that in so many ways paralleled the lives that came before and will follow. Lives and exploits really are the ties that bind generations together.
My decision to write my own life story came in that juncture in my life at which I could look back upon sufficient years, that point when the realization became clear, painfully so sometimes, that two-thirds of my life was probably already my past. There�s no escaping the bittersweetness of moments gone forever, of things undone and thoughts unspoken. However, this same array of years provided some of the greatest joys of a lifetime, moments that are eternally treasured and stamped in the heart.
At fifty, it suddenly occurred to me that my own children know little about me up to that point where I was someone besides that man who lived with Mommy, read them stories, and held them as often as they would permit. They know so little about my childhood, and there are some things they will never know if I can prevent it; however, other moments will always remain hallmarks in my personal journey, like bright but tiny stars that reappear when the clouds of years open briefly and the view to the past becomes clear.
Having grown up in Winfield, a tiny hamlet on the Cotton Belt Railroad about halfway between Dallas and Texarkana, I have so many memories of small town life in the 1940�s and 1950�s. My life was seldom dull; despite the lack of today�s diversions (Nintendo and MTV), I went from one adventure (or misadventure) to another. Winfield provided the roots I needed to grow and the freedom I needed to spread my wings and take to the air of my own imagination.
The remains of most of my exploits have long since gone the way of childhood haunts. A truck stop sits atop Smith Pool where I spent countless hours fishing for bream and watching the clouds form different shapes against the backdrop of a brilliant blue North Texas sky. The clubhouses, foxholes, and storm cellars have been demolished or covered over. Strip mining for coal has altered the face of my youthful ramblings, but nothing can ever erase the little adventures as I romp, even now, across the long-gone meadows in my mind.
The people have changed, many moved away in search of their own dreams. Childhood cohorts of whom I write are now, themselves, grandparents who probably spin their own yarns for their wide-eyed grandchildren.
My stories all begin in truth as best I can tell. Sometimes I�m not sure if I remember all the details or if I�ve heard them so often repeated that I think I actually was a part of them. It really doesn�t matter. The characters are real; in fact, I haven�t even changed many names to protect the innocent. I�m not sure if that�s because the real names are better than any I could invent or if there were no innocents in Winfield to protect. Though I have embellished the tales just a bit, the incidents at least bear a striking resemblance to the truth. Only a few details are outright lies, and I expect you will recognize them without any help from me.
The title, The View from the Chinaberry Tree, might seem a little odd since the chinaberry tree is seldom mentioned in the collection; however, the large chinaberry tree in the backyard where I spent so much of my childhood was the perch from which I viewed my world. I spent countless hours, sitting on the largest limb and contemplating life as only a small boy can.
These stories are dedicated to everyone who was ever a child, particularly those individuals whose childhoods in Winfield helped to make my childhood complete; to my mother and father who loved me enough to let me experience the joys (and pains) of being a child; to my brother Bill who shows up in so many of the stories and who has agreed not to sue me for what I've written about him; to Ray Johnson, a trusted friend and fellow writer, who believed in me; to Gary Ervin, Jerry Hamby, and Laurie Newman, who patiently convinced me that the computer was my friend; to Robby Castillo, whose support and proofreading were immeasurable; to Dan Mendoza, Ted Olsen, Kathleen Sydnor, and Cyndi Boyd, whose constant encouragement meant more to me than they can imagine; to Jeanie Pamplin, my newfound friend and editor, who would not rest or permit me to do so until these stories found their way into print; and finally, to Judy, my beautiful wife of thirty years, who encouraged me to put these tales in print, and to my children, Scott and Amy, who had to listen to them when they were young.
- Charles Shafer
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