Frodo And Sam Are Homeless

When I was growing up, my dad read many books aloud to his multiplying progeny. Some of the books, while absolutely enthralling, were not the best known books of all time (I'm looking at you, Brighty of the Grand Canyon). I occasionally submitted my own requests, like Anna and the King of Siam, which were unceremoniously shot down. Our favorite books by far, enjoyed by kids and Dad alike, were The Hobbit and the entire Lord of the Rings series.

It took us over a year to read through all four books, and they made a lasting impression upon all of us. We finished the series about ten years before the movies came out, so you can only imagine our excitement at watching the whole adventure unfold onscreen. I bought myself all four books at a library book sale and read and reread the series over the years.

Most memorable, however, were the frequent Frodo and Sam sightings In The Wild.

It started with our rides. For several years, after church, we would go out for breakfast at our favorite diner, and after breakfast, we would take a ride. We'd go out in the country (the country being a mile down our street) and drive around, listen to the Hallelujah Chorus from Handel's Messiah, and look at the fields and trees and empty spaces of Pennsylvania. In general, we all loved to take rides, except when my dad insisted on taking rides on Christmas Day and Easter. Seriously.

We took one particular route every few weeks that passed over a few little streams and next to quite a few "haunted houses," which were crumbling circa-1850 farmhouses in the middle of nowhere. Near the end of the drive, there was a large grassy field that looked like it hadn't been touched by humankind since, well, ever.

When we came near the field, my dad would slow down the car to a crawl. He'd roll down the windows and point.

"Look, kids! Do you see that?"

"What is it, Dad?" We knew what was coming, but it was fun to pretend.

"I see something in the field. Kind of small, brown hair... oh wait! It's Frodo and Sam sneaking across the field!"

"Wow, there they are!" said First Sister.

"I guess they're coming from Mordor," said Second Sister.

"Guys, it's just a field. We've been through this before," muttered Second Brother. Geez, what a spoilsport.

And so it went for several years. We'd drive past the field and have Frodo and Sam sightings on Sundays. Occasionally, My dad would also spot Fred the Buffalo, but we don't talk about that.

Then the diner closed. We added a few more kids and a lot more family expenses. The rides stopped for a few years.

One day, in a magnanimous mood, my dad decided to take us out for breakfast at a new place. After breakfast, we went on our ride. Past the haunted houses, past the gun club, past the streams and the hairpin turns we went, bouncing up and down in the back two rows of our fifteen-passenger van (a van that, years later, Dan fondly nicknamed The Death Van). Then we got to the field.

We all gasped in horror.

There, smack in the middle of the Shire, right where Frodo and Sam had lived, there were houses. Lots and lots of houses. Kids, playsets, shrubs, SUVs, green lawns, the whole nine yards. The paradise of Middle Earth had fallen before the eternal march of suburbanization. Eternal night had fallen upon the Shire.

Frodo and Sam were homeless, and, presumably, continue to be homeless to this very day.