On Our American Stories, we often find unexpected wisdom in the everyday, and sometimes, it comes from the most surprising places – like a classic children’s book. For author Winter Persapio, the re-appearance of Shel Silverstein’s The Giving Tree in her home wasn’t a nostalgic moment, but a catalyst for a deeply personal and candid reflection. She’ll share how this simple story of a boy and an apple tree sparked a surprising journey into the heart of what it truly means to be a giving mother.
Winter openly admits her initial dislike for the book, feeling like an unappreciated “giving tree” herself amidst the daily demands of motherhood and raising children. But through the tender moments, the laughter, and the unexpected hugs from her daughters, she began to uncover profound lessons about gratitude, true happiness, and the immense, quiet joys found in selfless parenting. Her story is a heartfelt and hopeful testament to learning to give, and how even a challenging classic can teach us invaluable truths about love, family life, and becoming the best version of ourselves.
📖 Read the Episode Transcript
Speaker 1: This is Lee Habib, and this is Our American Stories. And we tell stories about everything here on this show, and we love to tell your story. Send them to OurAmericanStories.com. There are some of our favorites. And if you like what you hear every day, the stories we tell are free to you, but they’re not free to make. And any donation possible helps our effort here. And we are a nonprofit, and you can go to OurAmericanStories.com and click the donate button. Do a little, do a lot, do your part. And thanks so much ahead of time, because we’ve gotten so much support from so many listeners. And now, on to a regular feature with author Winter Persapio. This story is about the lessons that Winter learned from the book The Giving Tree.
00:00:57
Speaker 2: I thought I had hidden it well enough. I shoved it in the back of the bookcase, and it had been successfully out of sight for nearly two years. But they have no compunction about such things at the library. These disturbing works of literature are just out on the shelves, within reach of the youngest patrons. The bright green cover seized my daughter’s attention, and before I knew it, we were checking it out. The Giving Tree was back. I have always hated The Giving Tree. This classic book by Shel Silverstein is about a little boy who grows into an old man, taking and taking and taking from an apple tree. First, he takes the apples to pick up some cash. Then he cuts down The Giving Tree’s branches for a house. Then, whack, down goes the trunk for a boat. And The Giving Tree is nothing but a stump, which he comes back later and sits on for a rest. And the misogynistic creep never once uttered a single word of gratitude. And yet, at every turn, The Giving Tree is happy. I say that is clearly a tree in need of some serious therapy, and that boy is in need of some hardcore sensitivity training. As a mother, there are many days where I feel like I am the giving tree. I spend my day running around as a demented waitress, cook, nurse, and cruise director. I referee disputes, manage egos, bite my tongue fifty times, letting only a few inappropriate things slip. I carry a child down the stairs who runs up them nightly. I rescue toys from under a bed that either daughter can crawl under without getting stuck. Halfway. I attend to the needs of this family of Leos, who spend the day roaring their demands all over the land until about 9 p.m., until at last they are all asleep. And I, I am a stump, and I am so not happy. I’m ready to pick up my roots, skida to some other orchard where I’ll be watered and fertilized, where my food will be prized. My lung branches admired, my thick trunk appreciated. I’m just not good at this giving tree thing. I thought it would come naturally as a mother, but I had no sense how much I’d need to give. My cluelessness is undoubtedly the result of a long life without children. No other generation has had so much me-time before becoming parents. Our generation has had the luxury of truly choosing the commencement of parenting. For those of us who delayed bringing a new life into the world, we now have to contend with habits and natures built on a foundation that doesn’t involve a whole lot of giving. With the exception of a few thousand Peace Corps volunteers, the rest of us have been the little boy taking from The Giving Tree, completely oblivious to its love and generosity. We focus on important things with all of our energy and resources. These things were very important B.C. (before children): cars, hobbies, designer clothes, careers, lives of complete strangers, a.k.a. celebrities. We spent weeks smulling over choices, days discussing the latest trends, and hours sharing the juiciest bits of gossip. When children arrive, all these seemingly vital activities fade from our lives until we’ve found ourselves behind the wheels of minivans or their carefully disguised equivalents, wearing anything that came out of the dryer in reasonable condition, talking on the phone about soccer schedules, and boxing up our collections to set them out for the next yard sale. Because now it’s our turn to become the giving tree. Now is when we begin coughing up the apples and branches, and soon a trunk. Some of us are better at being giving tree than others. Some of us… Okay, so I’m a rotten giving tree. I struggle more often than I like to admit with the role of relentless giver. And then it happens. My daughters, perhaps sensing the impending root rot in their giving trees, suddenly begin to transform the orchard. They make me laugh, helpful of clothes, put away dishes, and cover me with hugs and kisses. They take my spirit in their hands and toss it into the air like leaves, giggling as they catch me in their arms. They say, “Thank you, Mommy. You’re wonderful.” And even though I taught them to say that as a joke, it still feels good on those days. By 10 p.m., I don’t care if I’m a stump. I don’t even realize I’m giving. I’m just Mom, a mother of two wonderful daughters, and being a giving tree seems like the easiest thing in the world until the sun rises and it begins again. I’ve come to realize that happy for a giving tree and a mother is not about comfort and relaxation. Happy is about having my little ones run beneath my branches, sheltering them in my shade, tossing out a few apples, and in the end, giving all that I have. Slowly, I am learning to be a giving tree as I’m trying to teach my children a sense of gratitude for all the giving that surrounds us. I am learning that this level of giving is not something we know how to do the moment our children arrive. Like gratitude, giving is something we have to learn. I guess at this point I’ll dig out The Giving Tree from our bookcase. Maybe if I pencil in an occasional “Thank you! You’re wonderful!” I’ll feel just a little better, at least until I get the hang of all this giving.
00:06:49
Speaker 1: And great job on that piece, Faith, and a beautiful performance by Winter Persapio. Like gratitude, giving you something we have to learn, and you have to almost develop an appetite for it. And my goodness, Winter has. And what a beautiful piece of storytelling! We’re looking for your stories, too, about motherhood, fatherhood, because these are two things that matter so much in this country. Now more than ever, kids are starving for love. The lessons from The Giving Tree, Winter Persapio’s story here on Our American Stories. Lee Habib here, and I’d like to encourage you to subscribe to Our American Stories on Apple Podcasts, the iHeartRadio app, Spotify, or wherever you get our podcasts. Any story you missed or want to hear again can be found there daily again. Please subscribe to the Our American Stories podcast on Apple Podcasts, the iHeartRadio app, or anywhere you get your podcasts. It helps us keep these great American stories coming.
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