Why does the book The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein inevitably make me cry? I'd avoid reading it altogether if I could. I think the copy that resides in Annie's room must have been Brian's because I am pretty sure I wouldn't have bought it for myself, knowing what it does to me. Regardless, it's there and sometimes she wants us to read it to her.
It didn't always upset me. My mom used to read it to us when we were young and I liked it. I liked watching the boy age. I liked when he brought his galpal to the tree. I liked that the tree was anthropomorphized because I like when things that don't talk do talk. I even read it in church, once. Our grade had planned the mass and my best friend Maria and I read it, alternating pages.
Later and still, I must have felt like the ingrate that the boy becomes. I took so much from my parents and they gave so much. But it's not the same, really. No, really. I didn't leave them as stumps, for example. There were 6 of us siphening, I can't be held responsible for any lasting damage to them. Wait. I don't cry out of guilt. I got it! It's the damn beauty of it. Parents give and give and give more. There is no limit. And it's likely that their kids will never exude gratutude, nor should they. We give and give and give more and in return we want their happiness and we want them to return to us when they need to. It's one o'dem circle of life things.
So, it's the beauty. But it's still sad. Maybe because I think of my own giving tree, my dad, and how maybe even though he wouldn't have wanted it, I maybe could have exuded a little more gratitude before he died. But doing so would have outwardly acknowledged that I knew he was going to die and I am sure neither one of us wanted to go there.
I like Shel Silverstein, too. When Miss Hickey read his poetry to us in the third grade it was the first time I had been exposed to a kind of writing that was both current and funny on purpose. Even though Shel looked scary on his book jackets, he didn't scare me because he was silly.
Just as an aside, I hate a very similarly themed song, too. That stupid f-ing Cat's in the Cradle song. Manipulative and maudlin. And what is that plinging instrument between verses? Plink plink plink plink plink plink. Is that a harpsichord? Hate it.
When Annie chooses The Giving Tree as one of her storytime selections, I tell her it makes me sad ("WHY, MOM?" "I don't know, it just does") but that her dad will read it to her. As he does, I bite the inside of my mouth and watch her enjoy the talking tree and the growing boy.
It didn't always upset me. My mom used to read it to us when we were young and I liked it. I liked watching the boy age. I liked when he brought his galpal to the tree. I liked that the tree was anthropomorphized because I like when things that don't talk do talk. I even read it in church, once. Our grade had planned the mass and my best friend Maria and I read it, alternating pages.
Later and still, I must have felt like the ingrate that the boy becomes. I took so much from my parents and they gave so much. But it's not the same, really. No, really. I didn't leave them as stumps, for example. There were 6 of us siphening, I can't be held responsible for any lasting damage to them. Wait. I don't cry out of guilt. I got it! It's the damn beauty of it. Parents give and give and give more. There is no limit. And it's likely that their kids will never exude gratutude, nor should they. We give and give and give more and in return we want their happiness and we want them to return to us when they need to. It's one o'dem circle of life things.
So, it's the beauty. But it's still sad. Maybe because I think of my own giving tree, my dad, and how maybe even though he wouldn't have wanted it, I maybe could have exuded a little more gratitude before he died. But doing so would have outwardly acknowledged that I knew he was going to die and I am sure neither one of us wanted to go there.
I like Shel Silverstein, too. When Miss Hickey read his poetry to us in the third grade it was the first time I had been exposed to a kind of writing that was both current and funny on purpose. Even though Shel looked scary on his book jackets, he didn't scare me because he was silly.
Just as an aside, I hate a very similarly themed song, too. That stupid f-ing Cat's in the Cradle song. Manipulative and maudlin. And what is that plinging instrument between verses? Plink plink plink plink plink plink. Is that a harpsichord? Hate it.
When Annie chooses The Giving Tree as one of her storytime selections, I tell her it makes me sad ("WHY, MOM?" "I don't know, it just does") but that her dad will read it to her. As he does, I bite the inside of my mouth and watch her enjoy the talking tree and the growing boy.
