Weeping Willows and Crying Pines

I wouldn't say that I've gotten used to things in the three years that I've been living in Italy.  In fact, it seems like I'm finding it more and more difficult to accept the cultural differences and gracefully hold my tongue.  As they say, love is blind.  In the beginning, I'm sure I didn't even notice unusual things.  Then when I started to, they passed as different and funny.  But I used to mean funny in an odd, strange sort of way.  Now it seems that every time I say, "Hmmm...isn't that funny?"  it's because it really is funny and I find myself laughing at what seems like yet another strange Northern Italian behavior.

I live in an area filled with what I refer to as crying pines.  Yards and public spaces are often very well-landscaped and pine trees seem to be a decorative favorite.  Most of them are allowed to spread their wings and become well-rounded, but very few are given the chance to grow "up". Their tops are chopped.  There's no trimming or shaping or gentle pruning. They're simply chopped and left pointless.

The pines don't die, but they don't seem to be really living either.  They just exist.  They might still serve a purpose, like providing shade or blocking the view of a neighbor's ugly house, but they'll never make it to Rockefeller Center.  Hopes of reaching for the stars are dashed.  Someone decides the trees have grown enough and they put an end to it.  And what's left in life when you're done growing?

It's too bad the pines aren't chopped in December so we could use the tops as freshly cut Christmas trees.  Instead, In Italy, if you're weird and want a real tree, you buy one growing in a 7-gallon plastic pot.  Can you imagine what a tree skirt looks like on a 7-gallon pot.?  It actually looks like a skirt.  It's even weirder when you use the same live tree again the next year after it's been in your yard in a pot.  It doesn't take long to find the good side because it's the same good side as the year before.  You'll probably even remember which branches were the best for the heavy ornaments.

When my teenage niece and nephew from America came to visit we took a walk around the top of the medieval wall of Cittadella.  It was market day in the square below.  The streets were packed and from above we smelled the fish stalls, saw the tops of the food trucks stained with soot from their stoves and photographed the overhead view of the fresh flower vendors.  But the thing that really struck us from the top of the wall (which probably doesn't strike the Italian visitors) were the butchered tops of the crying pines.

During their visit we were guests in an English class at an Italian high school.  The Italian students had questions about America.  They wanted to learn things about school, sports, fast food and vacation.  They couldn't believe there's no school on Saturday and they were surprised that not all Americans eat McDonald's every day.  Then it was our turn and we wanted to know why they chopped the tops of their pine trees.  The teacher quickly came to the rescue and said it's too dangerous to let them grow, which left us wondering why Italian pine trees are dangerous and American ones aren't.

When I was a kid my dad planted two pine trees in our front yard.  The purpose was to watch them grow.  We were supposed to remember that in the year he planted them they were as tall as he was.  I remember the "as tall as he was" part, but I've forgotten the year they were planted.  It doesn't really matter.  I know they were planted long before GoogleMaps was created and as far as I can tell they're 50-feet tall now and they both have points.  Lucky for them, my dad's not Italian.

Maybe the reason I can't help noticing every crying pine I pass is because they're calling out to me. They're a constant reminder that I've stopped growing.  Or maybe I never really started. The difference is, my lack of growth is my own fault.  I'm merely existing, with no point.  I can't be afraid of a few growing pains.

Watch out Rockefeller Center.