Under the Evening Sky: A Father, a Son, and the Chinaberry Trees

Yesterday evening, June 11, 2025, was one of those rare moments that etch themselves into memory—a fleeting, golden hour where time slows, and the world feels right. As the sun dipped low, casting a warm glow over the foothills of the Appalachians along the Coosa River, a father and son worked side by side in the small city of Southside, Alabama. Their task: to clean up the remnants of two Chinaberry trees, one damaged, one destroyed, on a modest plot of land that carries a deep family legacy.

This land—eight acres of terra firma—is no ordinary place. It’s a patchwork of history, love, and lessons passed down through generations. My mother, who will turn 93 in four months, recently shared a story that brought the significance of those Chinaberry trees into focus. She told me of my grandfather, JS Miller, whom I called Pawpaw Miller as a child. He loved Chinaberry trees. I can still picture myself as a little boy, sitting under the sprawling Chinaberry in the backyard of the old Miller estate, tugging at the buckles of Pawpaw’s overalls as he laughed. Those moments are hazy now, but they linger like the scent of summer earth.

When Pawpaw Miller passed in 1977, my aunt and uncle, James and Elizabeth Fulks, planted two Chinaberry trees on the bridge property in his honor. Those trees stood as living tributes, their branches stretching toward the sky for decades. But as the poets often remind us, nothing lasts forever. Storms, time, and the weight of nature took their toll. One tree was shattered, the other battered, and on this humid June evening, my son and I set out to clear the debris.

The work was hard, the air thick with the sticky warmth of an Alabama summer. Yet, as we hauled branches and swept up splintered wood, there was a quiet rhythm to our labor—a shared purpose that felt like a continuation of something much larger. This land, this small plot nestled by the Coosa, has always demanded care.

A friend once told me I’ve been a poor steward of the inheritance left by Pawpaw and Uncle James. She’d say, with a nod to Gone with the Wind, “It’s about the land, Katie Scarlett, the land.” And she wasn’t wrong. These eight acres are a challenge, shaped by decisions made long before I became their caretaker. But they are also a gift, a piece of earth that holds our family’s story.

As the sunset painted the sky in hues of orange and pink, my son and I worked under the fading light, honoring the legacy of those Chinaberry trees. We weren’t just cleaning up debris; we were tending to a thread of family history, one that stretches from Pawpaw Miller’s laughter to the present moment. For a brief, beautiful evening, father and son stood together, bound by sweat, love, and the land that ties us to those who came before.

Darryl