Mood:  a-ok

The coneflowers and the black-eyed susans have moved beyond color into the production of thistle to satisfy the finches.  Cardinals are heavy into sunflower seeds, and somebody has got to be helping the hummingbirds drain the colorful feeders in every corner of the Shire.  Bluebirds, none of whom seem attentive to Frodo's public housing projects, are in greater number than at any point in Frodo's memory.  Something, thinks Frodo, is definitely afoot, or on the wing anyway, in the gardens of the Shire.

Mr. Beau Neau McKitty seems to have taken leave from his patrol, for Frodo finds a mouse or two amongst the feeders almost every night.  It is as if the dip in temperature below 90 has hastened preparation for the days of darkness to come.  Since the forecast is for a week of return, does it not seem likely that all creatures great and small will lay low for a while?  Frodo is puzzled by the level of activity.  Perhaps they are preparing for the election mid-terms also?

This magical season, when football and baseball overlap, is reason enough for Frodo to temporarily hibernate, but it is the lure of the perfect weather and an outstanding novel, that occupy the moments not filled with the preparation for Bilbo's ceremony on Sunday to come.  Mick, the Wonder Dog, is recovering nicely from the fear he threw into the heart of the Hobbit, and, except for the arthritis, is making his way around as if nothing bad had ever happened.

Frodo received the urn today.  He talked to it all the way home in his motorcar.  Bilbo would like to have known about the bluebirds and the cardinals, but the hummingbirds wouldn't have interested her very much at all.

Frodo has been practicing his poetic interpretation of "Oh Shenandoah."  It is a process he wishes he could share with he known as the poet, sometimes.  He won't be saying anything new, just changing the placement of commas (Oh Shenandoah I long to see you and hear your rolling river.  Oh Shenandoah I long to see you away.  We're bound away across the wide Missouri. . .) 

Perhaps all that is extraordinary is merely a reflection of the changes that occur when a Hobbit begins to talk to himself, or to those who cannot answer back.

Gadfry, you don't suppose that Frodo will evolve into a Republicant?  More likely it is the Hobbit merely learning to turn the page, and to keep the feeders full.   Open windows this time of year are narcotic. 

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:56 PM EDT

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Mood:  blue

Two A.M., almost exactly twenty hours ago.

Sam answered the telephone call, that Frodo already knew was directed to him.  So did Sam.

Fiona and Mick, the Wonder Dog, both knew something was dreadfully wrong as Frodo's motorcar pulled out of the driveway of the Shire pointed toward the Houses of Healing.

The guard at the front gate informed Frodo that Bilbo had already been taken from the premises, and he told Frodo exactly what he had seen, and how the body was found.

The caregivers, of equal heart but different appearance from those who recognized Frodo when he visited during the time of the risen Sun, were quick to explain what they knew, and how much more they wished they could have done.  Frodo wanted to kiss each and every one, for they are the noblest, and the bravest, of us all.

She who manned the night shift directed Frodo to the "Family Room," where the process for what would follow was laid upon in great detail.  They were soon joined by "a member of the family," from Hospice.  Frodo quickly determined that he had no need to see Bilbo in the morgue, unless it was required, and since it was not so required, he opted to remember his Mother as she had been only eight hours before.  Having her remain one minute longer than necessary in such a place acceleraated his administrative decision-making.

The ticket-taker at the parking lot waved Frodo through, without charge.  Frodo regretted prior reference to the greed of those whose fees were never less than astronomical.

Frodo returned to Bilbo's room, retrieved her purse, and dropped into it the items she had worn when carried out.  He purposefully failed to lock the door as he went out, knowing that it would not happen, welcoming those who shared in Bilbos' final days to take anything that they might need or use.

The drive back to the Shire was the worst of moments.  Only an auto here and there in the time before dawn, and the music on the radio not being appropriate for the mood of a Hobbit with a broken heart. 

Frodo read the morning paper, and drank his coffee, and he again turned the automobile away, and proceeded to his duties at Mount Doom.  Within two hours, Sam called, frantic, that Mick, the Wonder Dog, was in seizure, and that Frodo's immediate attention was required.

Dr. Porsches met Frodo at his office, and sent Frodo away while he tended to his favorite.  The anxiety of the Wonder Dog is accentuated when suddenly he realizes that he cannor find Frodo.

The seizure was real, and it may signal an abnormal growth or a dysfunctional major organ.  In any event, this was not the news that Frodo needed to hear on this, this dreaded day.

The hour now approaches that signals finality to September Morn, and Mick, the Wonder Dog has been laid on the royal throne, so that the Hobbit-Master can reach out and touch him, and stroke his softness throughout the night.  The eyes of his friend call out for assurance, and an end to volts that occur without explanation.

Should you wander out before the Sun rises again, be not surprised to see the Hobbit carrying his friend to a suitable location for relief.

Anything, anytime, for a friend, Mother or Dog.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 10:29 PM EDT

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Mood:  surprised

Frodo is thinking about the end of summer, and how what is really trivial comes front and center.  One of the Election Campaign Chairmen for George W. Bush, and a former Chairman of the GOP itself, came out of the closet today, and it made the news.  On a whim, Frodo flipped the remote to every news channel he could, and surveyed the web locations of his favorites, and he found nary a mention of the President of the United States.  Is he still up on the Cape?  Is he en route to the City of Orleans?  Or is he writing his political epitaph?

Wanda Sykes, a bizarre sort unto herself, said recently that the thing that she holds most dear about the Presidential Election of 2008 was the fact that for the first time in American History the winner was not an "old white guy."  What concerns her now, she added, "is the fact that President Obama's hair is turning gray, and his skin is getting all wrinkly.  He's becoming an old white guy right before our eyes."

Frodo remembers, and has commented on the fact, that being alone is often a treasure for those addicted to self-speech and course correction.  Perhaps the President has found a way to take long strides along a city sidewalk wearing a funky hat and a Chicago Bears jersey while he smokes a cigarette and tries to remember what Sly Fox used to taste like.  If he talks out loud he can probably rest assured that any casual passersby will pay him little mind, and cross the street.

At least that's what they do for Frodo.

It is well-documented that Abraham Lincoln is a model for the young President, and fitting it must be for another who suffered so under the pressure of his time to be the object of analysis by he who seeks answers to so many questions today.  Hugely unpopular it apparently was for one to emancipate by proclamation, and widely misunderstood the other by the smoke, mirror, and intentional obfuscation of those who value something other than the common good.  Through that analogy, he keeps his eye on the prize, if you will, and struggles to make now the when.  His course is a good one, but the rough seas have fouled his engine, and rodents scramble down the halyard, into the darkness.

Frodo knows that to lament the mis-step makes the next footfall even more precarious.  It is true, after all, that we are only granted a finite number to take us upon our chosen route.   We know not how many that may be, for the count is different for each of us.  It is also probable that there are facts now unknown, despite the clarity offered by constant flashes of information.  That which we today know not, may change everything, real and perceived, when, and surely when will occur, it becomes true that perhaps peace afield comes home to roost or there comes an awareness of true complicity by simple-minded tasters of power. 

Doris Day, was it not?  Que sera, sera.  

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:07 PM EDT

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Mood:  irritated

"Soldier, come here now!"

"Yessir, Sergeant Frodo here, Sir."

"Sergeant, what exactly is going on over there?"

"Over where, General Sir?"

"Those men in uniform, over there, in the hallway, here in the Pentagon, they're all on their knees."

"Yessir General, those men are praying."

"Praying?  I've never seen anybody pray like that, and there are lots of Jews and Catholics in Pennsylvania, where I'm originally from."

"Those soldiers are Muslims, General Sir, and they are called to prayer five times each day."

"Muslims?  Here?  In the Pentagon?  After their brothers crashed an airplane right over there, and killed all them innocent people on 9-11.  Who allowed this travesty to occur?"

"General Sir, those are officers and enlisted men of the United States, in fact, several of their comrades were among those killed and wounded on that terrible day."

"Well, if you ask me, I think we now have some idea of how that whole thing got to take place."

"Sir?  What are you saying?"

"Well, first of all, it is insulting to those who survived the attack to have those who committed that horrible crime to even be in this building, much less putting on a display of their exhibitions.  But, dodn't you think it is likely that our security was jeopardized by them giving their fellow towelheads information about our nation's defenses?"

"Sir, I don't believe that for a minute.  I know some of those soldiers, and they are good soldiers, good Americans."

Well, soldier, now you know why you're a Sergeant, and I am a General."

"If you'll excuse me Sir, I have to return to my duties."

"Just you remember what I said.  What did you say your name was, boy?"

"Frodo Sir, Sergeant Frodo."

"Well, Sergeant Frodo, that's a pretty strange name, you're not one of them are you?"

"No Sir, I am a Hobbit."

"A Hobbit eh, is that something like a midget?"

"Sometimes Sir, when I hear uninformed people utter unimaginable drivel, I realize how small I become when I don't stand up for truth, and for justice.  I realize then that it may cost me great pain and grief, but for anyone to question the integrity of people like those soldiers over there, just because of their faith, it becomes too much for even I, the smallest and the weakest."

"You are very naive, soldier."

"Perhaps Sir."

"If I didn't know better, I'd think that. . ."

"That Sir, is your problem.  You don't know better.   Now, if you'll return my salute of the rank, I'll be on my way.  Understand, Sir, that the salute has nothing to do with you, just your rank.  And Sir, rest assured I will have a difficult time forgetting what you have said.  Especially when I see soldiers, on their knees, in prayer."

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 8:35 PM EDT

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Mood:  energetic

One does not have to know very much about baseball in order to recall that the Atlanta Braves were, for a very long time, the absolute worst team in the game.  The benefit of consistent ineptitude is that the worst teams get to select first when amateur players become eligible to sign with professional teams, but poor selections and injuries meant that the Braves were on a treadmill that offered hope, but little change.

One year however, something changed.  The Braves were torn between a pitcher from Southern California who appeared to be the revitalization of both Dizzy Dean and Christy Mathewson, and a shortstop named Larry Wayne Jones, Jr.  The pitcher, in his arrogance, stated that he had no interest in being drafted by a losing team, so he would be most pleased if the Atlanta Braves looked elsewhere.  Thus opportunity came in the name of a shortstop, known then, and now forever, as "Chipper."

Chipper suffered a torn ACL soon thereafter, but surgery, and rehabilitation restored his ability, although his speed afoot notably decreased.  The Braves management, most notable Manager Bobby Cox, asked "Chipper" if he wouldn't mind giving third base a try, a position which requires quickness, but puts a lot less demand on the knees.  It wasn't long until he became the regular third-baseman, and it seemed to miraculously occur at the same time that the guys around him started to play a whole lot better, as a team.

Today, "Chipper" is the last player on the gallant Braves regular line-up who was a regular performer on the 1995 World Champion Atlanta Braves.  During his tenure, the gallant Braves won 10 of their 14 consecutive league championships, a record unmatched by any professional sport, anywhere, ever.

Frodo fell in love with "Chipper" for a couple of reasons.  First off, the fans in New York who attended baseball games at Shea Stadium (home of the Mets) thought they were getting his goat by chanting "Larry, Larry, Larry" whenever he strode to the batter's box.  Unfortunately for them, "Larry" has hit more home runs, driven in more runs, and had the highest batting average attained by any regular opponent in Shea Stadium.  He also named one of his sons "Shea."  How cool is that?

The other reason has to do with Frodo's father, who died before Chipper ever made it to the big leagues.  Frodo's dad loved Dale Murphy, the gentle giant who tried harder than anyone but always came up smiling.  Frodo's father was very ill, but he would call Frodo and ask "What's wrong with Murphy?," seemingly every time his favorite player failed to hit three or more home runs per game.  Frodo truly wishes he could've talked about "Chipper" with his dad.  That would have been cool, too.

This past week, while leaping for a batted ball off the bat of a Houston Astro, Chipper fell to the earth upon his injured leg after throwing the baserunner out in a brilliant play.  He had the tendon of a cadaver implanted to replace the newly-torn ACL in an operation yesterday.  Recovery will take six months, so his further participation in the pennant run of the first-place gallant Braves is ended.

"Chipper" says he will come back for one more season.  He is 38 years old, and no player, at age 39, has ever come back to play again after such a debilitating injury.  In addition, the only manager he has ever had in the major leagues, the irrepressible Bobby Cox, has already announced his retirement upon the completion of this season.  The will, and the determination of the athlete, may simply not be enough, for one more year.

Shucks. 

P.S.  That pitcher from Southern California was a "coke head" and he has been in drug rehabilitation programs for more than a dozen years.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:57 PM EDT

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Mood:  suave

Frodo's Aunt Blanche will always be remembered for the phrase, "It is always 5:00 somewhere."  The magic hour closes in on Frodo this wickedly warm Saturday in August, as he culminates his labors of love in the gardens of the Shire.  Soon he will gather his favorite cocktail glass, a bottle of Roses' Lime Juice, any good bottle-contained European or Slavic Vodka, a sliced lime, about a pound of shaved or chipped ice, and a stirrer purloined from one of any number of favored bars located in well-remembered locations throughout Middle Earth.  The result, a Gimlet, is one way to truly define the Hobbit.

James Bond would say, "Shaken, not stirred." 

Frodo says, "On the rocks, if you please."

A gimlet, straight-up, is nothing more than a martini before viagra.  Absent the presence of green-tinted ice, and a solitary droplet of moisture in search of a coaster beneath, there is no romance in the refreshment that satisfies thirst, and relaxes the senses better than any this time of year.  Frodo prefers to remain seated, with a view of a setting sun clouded by flashes of lightning in the faraway lands beyond the canopy of the Shire.  There is always music, the best of friends, and Sam.

It is now 10 minutes past five o'clock. 

Time's a wastin'. 

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 5:11 PM EDT

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Mood:  quizzical

Frodo repeats himself only when he forgets that he has already told a tale or three.  That is, until now. 

The Men of Gondor spent a luncheon with a whole gaggle of West Point graduates.  The guest speaker was the man who is now the last remaining survivor of the flight of the Enola Gay; he who served as Navigator.  The tale that was told that day contained intrigue, history, comedy, and it left Frodo in awe.  He stood in silence afterwards, listening to the comments of those who approached the Navigator.  One Marine, now a bit less formidable than he was in 1945, told of his days on Okinawa, awaiting the orders to land on the Japanese mainland, and how grateful he was for the gift of life he had been given by those who ended the War before that fateful day arrived.  One, from the men of Gondor, asked about the horror that happened upon a basically civilian population, and if it was a memory that haunted the crew thereafter.  The responses were heartfelt, and honest.

Frodo never knew that the mission was potentially a suicide-run.  The amount of time available to the Enola Gay was considered not sufficient to allow the ship to out-run the enormity of the explosion.  It was truly hair-raising to listen as the Navigator spoke about the passage of time, and the uncanny skill of a pilot with only moments to spare.

Frodo has thought many times about that meeting, and he listens with an open-mind to those who have deep opinions, and great pain to share, about the events that took place and led to that day, 65 years ago.  Frodo believes that he was in the presence of the Man who has, indeed, come closest to the hand of God.  Despite the rantings of those who feel a calling to clarify what God said, it was this one Man who truly witnessed "the terrible swift sword," the ending, if you will, as opposed to the beginning. 

He works in his garden, in the town of Stone Mountain, Georgia.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:30 PM EDT

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Mood:  down

Personal and professional adversity often drive the Hobbit to Rudyard Kipling.  Considering the solace offered by his counsel, Frodo wonders how Al Gore and John Kerry handle losing to, him.  Surely the tumult and the turpidity of those subsequent years weigh heavily as guilt for not winning.  Of course, John McCain may have similar feelings, and that inspires the following as purported historical events herein prognosticated had he, indeed, been elected President.

Sarah Palin would have been impeached within two years based on her indictment for accepting illegal campaign contributions and gifts of fine clothing from top designers, most notably Sam Walton.

Joe Lieberman would have become Vice President.

Barack Obama would sign a contract with the Miami Heat.

The Dow Jones Industrial Average on the final day of McCain's first term would achieve the yearly zenith of 134.68, up 7.44 for the day.

The planet Earth would suffer a schism upon the detonation of a nuclear device on the floor of the Gulf of Mexico.

Hillary Clinton would spend more than 47 months residing in the States of Iowa, New Hampshire, and South Carolina.

Hamid Karzai would enter into an alliance with a Mexican Drug Cartel.

The cumulative assets of the former General Motors, Ford, and Chrysler organizations would be sold to the newly-pardoned investment firm run by Bernie Madoff.  The check would bounce.

The Departments of Education, Health & Human Services, Commerce, Transportation, Interior, and Labor would be combined into a single Cabinet-level (the acronym being ECHLIT) organization, employing 18 people and housed in their new headquarters in Blackwater Falls, Minnesota.

"Let's see," said Frodo, "how does it go?  Oh yes, . . .you keep your head, when those about you are losing theirs. . ." 

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 11:17 PM EDT

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Mood:  quizzical

On this, the last day of the seventh month beyond the commencement of the second decade of the twenty-first century, and the day on which Chelsea Clinton says "Bye Daddy," Frodo found himself in an evocative mood.  Over his morning coffee, he scanned the print edition of the news of the day, and discovered a happening he would not otherwise have imagined.  It seems that a Mr. John L. Carson of Atlanta passed away, and since his obituary highlighted his involvement in the founding of the Georgia Music Hall of Fame, Frodo decided to learn a little something about the man.  What follows is a direct quote from the obituary:  "In addition to his son, Carson is survived by a daughter, Cindy Donegan, a number of grandchildren, and his widow, to whom he was married for 57 years, and who asked not to be named. . ."

Pardon?

Frodo decided to pay even closer attention to the article.

The burial it seems, is private.

His son, John Junior, is quoted as saying "I will always remember how as young children he took the role of 'Mr. Mom' while our mother worked at night." 

Aha.  So, maybe the unidentified widow of a 57-year marriage was a little peeved that she worked all night while Dad was strumming his 12-string?

Frodo also learned that the departed had raised more than $2 Million in order to fund the "Special Children's Christmas Fund" and "Children with AIDS" during his tenure as founder of the Atlanta Country Music Academy in order to further provide free music classes for aspiring singers (it should be noted that none of the successful graduates of the Academy were identified in the obituary).

Frodo concludes that some people, God bless 'em, are probably more interesting in death than they were in life.

Are you listening, Mr. Cheney? 

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 8:54 PM EDT

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Mood:  d'oh

The question becomes, would you want a 22-year-old from Oklahoma making life-and-death decisions that may impact on you and yours?  If Frodo were to stray from a serious topic, he would say that anybody dumb enough to live in the tornado capital of the entire fricking universe is not capable of either sound judgment or sane conduct.  Evidence to support such a conclusion is now public knowledge, thanks largely to someone who took the law into his own hands.

Frodo remembers the Berrigan Brothers and Daniel Elsberg with fondness for courage, and Frodo is grateful for the lives that they undoubtedly helped to save, on both sides of a terrible war.  What they did, that differs from the action taken by computer-savvy, self-appointed, vagabonds of justice, was to make public the intentional effort to deceive.  For an individual to make actual military engagement available for public scrutiny, while the activity between combatants continues, does portend a threat to the safety of American and Coalition forces.

That, dear reader, could be the kid who used to deliver your newspaper.  Or the young guy (or gal) who felt his country's call to help protect her from the insanity of the 9-11 murders.  It is not right, in a nation of 300 million people, for one to act in the fervor of conscience or righteous indignation, without taking full responsibility for the consequences of such independent action.  That is why we have elections.  That is why we have ascended to the pinnacle of civilization, despite the madness of our partisan feelings toward one another.

This young man is no different than the young Californian who joined al-Qaeda, and took up arms against his fellow citizens.  Frodo is confident that he does not act imprudently when he supports a call for swift justice and an interminable sentence under the law which binds us all. 

Now, Mr. President, your most devoted of supporters asks that you again consider both the costs and the objectives of what has become an illustrated lesson in both how one nation is built, and how another is threatened beyond repair.  It is time.  Time to come home.  

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 8:37 PM EDT

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