I'm nearly 40 years old. I have two children, a great husband and a "successful" business. I spend my life doing all kinds of grownup things:
* If I don't shop, we don't eat.
* If I don't do wash, the kids go naked.
* If I don't work, the light bills don't get paid.
* If I make really bad choices at work, people are laid off and whole families don’t eat.

That's a hefty load of grownup responsibilities. So when am I going to feel like a grownup? Why do I identify more with the eight-year-old girl lying on grass, looking up at the clouds and imagining the woman she would become than the actual, real, grey-at-the-roots, but pretty decent woman that I am?

The short answer is: the eight-year-old is way more fun. The longer answer involves probing hopes and fears, inner turmoil, expectations -vs- reality and might possibly result in psychotropic drugs and facing the Real Me. If you don't mind, I'll stick with the short answer - eight-year-olds are way more fun.

Shel Silverstein, who passed away recently at 69, never forgot being a kid is way more fun. He writes from the viewpoint of that kid, lying on the grass, looking at the clouds. Like a Japanese Bullet Train, his poetry returns me to my own childhood state-of-mind. Open "Where the Sidewalk Ends" and wooooooshhhhhh! I'm there, and I'm feeling good.

You can go there too:

Remember when you were innocent enough to believe anything

HAT

Teddy said it was a hat
So I put it on.
Now Dad is saying,
"Where the heck's
the toilet plunger gone?"

Remember that summer afternoon lasting-for-days feel


STANDING

Standing on my elbow
With my finger in my ear,
Biting on a dandelion
And humming kind of queer
While I watched a yellow caterpillar
Creeping up my wrist,
I leaned on a tree
And I said to me,
"Why am I doing this?"

Remember how silly grownup's rules seemed

MA AND GOD
(just one verse of 4 verse poem)

God gave us fingers --Ma says, "Use your fork."
God gave us voices -- Ma says, "Don’t scream."
Ma says eat broccoli, cereal and carrots.
But God gave us tasteys for maple ice cream.



I'm only quoting the short poems here

The poems that I've quoted in this review are only representative of a portion of his work in this book, his short poetry. Many of Silverstein's poems are really short stories. In the beginning of "Where the Sidewalk Ends", he issues an INVITATION (his first poem in the book) - "If you are a dreamer, come in…for we have some flax-golden tales to spin."

Silverstein weaves a world where shoes fly, pants dance, and you can make hippopotamus sandwiches. You can't eat hippopotamus sandwiches (too big to bite), but making them isn't a problem. He fills his world with characters like Ridiculous Rose (who eats with her toes), Jimmy the Jet (who turned into a TV set) and Sarah Cynthia Stoute who will not take the garbage out.

His wonderful drawings don't just illustrate the poems, they most often integrate with them, sometimes providing the missing link to the poem's point or punchline. It's impossible to appreciate Silverstein's poetry thoroughly unless you read it with the pictures placed exactly as the author/illustrator intended.

Isn't this a children's book? You haven't mentioned the kids!

I've gotten this far in the review without telling you that you "Must Go Out and Buy This For Your Children Right Away" for a very good reason. You don't have to have kids to buy it. You do not have to be accompanied by a child 12 and under to enter Silverstein's world.

Be warned that some of his content is considered by some to be irreverent. Silverstein embraces the mischievous nature of children. He delights them by voicing their inner thoughts or urges. When Ridiculous Rose's mom tells her to not eat with her fingers, she eats with her toes. End of poem, with no moral provided.

Do I recommend that you buy it for your children? Yes, yes, yes. Do I recommend that you read them one of Shel Silverstein's poems, from any one of his books, every single night of their life? Absolutely, we do in our house.

Would you like one more good reason to pick up the Shel habit? If the final poem I offer fits the approach to life you'd like to pass on to your kids, run, don't walk, to "Where the Sidewalk Ends".


LISTEN TO THE MUSTN'TS

Listen to the MUSTN'TS, child,
Listen to the DON'TS
Listen to the SHOULDN'TS
The IMPOSSIBLES, the WON'TS
Listen to the NEVER HAVES
Then listen close to me --
Anything can happen, child
ANYTHING can be.




Recommended: Yes