The Trees My Grandfather Planted: On Family, Service, and the Roots of This Work

My Grandfather’s Trees © Erin Faith Allen

My roots run deep in Southern California. In this case, that is damn near literal.

My grandfather was born and raised in this region. He went to war, serving in Europe during World War II and then again in Korea, retiring as a Major. Then he came home, as men of his generation did when they were lucky enough to come home, and he went to work for the city.

Part of that work was planting a row of trees along a main artery just off the Pacific Coast Highway, near Laguna Beach.

He was a man who built things with his hands. He made me a wooden trunk that carried all of my childhood treasures. Out of wood, he made four bright yellow letters, E, R, I, N, with hooks between them so they could hang vertically on my wall. He made me a small wooden rocking chair, no bigger than my toddler-sized body. His best friend, who flew a B-26 over the beaches on D-Day, gave me my first cradle, also made of wood.

We came from a family that knew its fair share of chaos. My grandfather was the calm in the storm, always. As if he himself were made of oak. Roots so deep he could not be shaken, and steady enough that everything in his presence steadied too.

It is only fitting, then, that he would have planted trees.

I did not know about them until recently. It was my uncle Mark who told me where to find them. Mark served with the 1st Air Cavalry in Vietnam, and he is the spitting image of my grandfather, in more ways than one.

This last week I was back there, in LA, with my back against bark that had been growing since before I was born, grown from a seed that was once in my grandfather's calloused hands. A man who had seen what he saw in Europe, come back to the place he loved, and quietly planted trees along a road he knew.

Knowing his passion for growing things and the gift of his green thumb, I think he would love to know they are still there. Still thriving, still standing guard off the Pacific Coast Highway. I think he would love to know that his granddaughter eventually took the time to find them and sit with them for a while.

These small moments, when we find them, are the cradles our ancestors build for us, whether we know about them or not.

This is part of why I do the work I do. I understand in my body and my whole soul what it means to reach across time and find something your people left behind. When families come to me with fragments of a soldier's life, I know what they are looking for. Not just information. Something to stand inside of. Something that feels like home.