Mood:  celebratory

Legolas and Frodo traveled together to the Broad River Gelbvieh Farm to reunite with Boromir.  It had been many years since last the ancient warriors had stood together.  It was the first time since the passing of Boromir's Galadriel.

Upon the crest of the hill the flag held firmly to its position at half-staff.  No formal declaration was necessary, nor even common for one who served by waiting, an oversight in the system, for sure.  Wisps of clouds, like the tresses of a maiden, flowed gently behind as the backdrop to this quiet memorial for the Hostess of Broad River.

Boromir led from that spot down to the hay barn where they watched the newly-weaned bellow back-and-forth as their mothers wandered up-and-down along the dividing fence.  Following other cattle through the next pasture, the triumvirate stopped by the pond serving its refrigerant to the denizens who waded through its surface to relieve the heat of mid-day.  They stood under the oaks and the hickorys, and they talked of battles long ago fought while in service to the King.  Not much was said about opponents felled, rather it was of scars showing, inside and out, and of those with whom they had served about which much is today unknown.

Gathered they then for a cooling repast, and then to share in the bounty of that land in feast.  Words were spake about the Lady Galadriel and days to come that require not planning, nor lamentation, but a new level of normalcy.  As a tear fell, it was met by the wise and respectful silence of warriors with open ears, and hearts.

Commemorative pictures were ascribed to share with members of the Fellowship in absentia that day.  Hands were clasped, chests together, as only old warriors know how.  Promises were made as directions three led them away from their gathering.  The clouds had drawn back from the hillside and the flag waved to each traveler, in his own mind.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 7:57 PM EDT

Updated: Sunday, June 24, 2007 7:59 PM EDT

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Mood:  chillin'

The Surgeon General of the United States stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, while Dr. Frodo conducted his examination.  Gently, he massaged the index and middle fingers on both hands of the patient, then worked his way up each arm slowly feeling for muscular development all along the way.  The young girl's twin sat next to the bed across from the spot where Dr. Frodo leaned across her sister's torso.  Their mother kept her hand on the bed, for support.

"Tell me if you feel it when I pinch your arm," queried Dr. Frodo to the young patient to whom he had been introduced by the Surgeon General.  "Do you feel anything now?"

"Just a little pressure."

"How about now?"

"No, not really."

Moving his hands back down to her wrist, he asked again.  "No," she said, "just a little wetness."

Going all the way up to the triceps, Dr. Frodo pinched again and the patient jumped.  "Ouch, I sure felt that."

"Good, thank you Ms. Bush.  It was very nice meeting you."

"Well, I'm not sure I can say the same, given the circumstances."

Frodo smiled, and said, "I understand.  Now if you'll excuse me, I'd like to talk with the Surgeon General for a few minutes, and then a little talk with your Mom.  I'll be back to talk with you when we get some of the tests back later today."

"Do you have any idea what's wrong?"

"Ideas yes, science no.  We'll talk more later, I promise."  Frodo was not just good, he was damn good.  He'd won the trust of the patient, at least for the time being.

Frodo and the Surgeon General stepped out into the hall and walked toward the Nurses Station together.  The Surgeon General did not have to meet his eyes, he had his own suspicions when he called for a consult with the leading Neurosurgeon in all of Middle Earth.  "She has the typically 18 months or less, before the ALS chokes her to death, " said Frodo.  The Surgeon General merely nodded, it was as he suspicioned.  "As you know Sir, there can be no confirming diagnosis without a brain tissue biopsy, and that, of course, is usually post-mortem."

"I figured that you, of all the authorities in Middle Earth, would. . ."

"You're right, I've seen enough cases to know.  It is ALS, and the President's daughter is going to die.  I suppose it would be presumptous of me to ask what you think he's going to say?  You know the Man, and I don't.

"Well, obviously, he's going to be very upset."

"You know what I mean."

"No, I'm afraid I don't."

"You know damn well what I mean.  If it hadn't been for him and his neolithic positions on using federal funds for Stem Cell research, then he would have at least the chance of effective treatment and potential cure for the disease which is going to kill his daughter.  That is, of course, assuming he won't even pursue the other options."

"I am afraid that the President will not approach any of those countries who have been utilizing Stem Cells in order to treat neurological disorders of this nature."

"How ironic, isn't it?  Both Iran and North Korea filled the vacuum he created when he closed the door on American efforts.  Now, to save his daughter's life, he would have to go on bended knee to those members of his "Axis of Evil."

"He won't do that."

"What about Mrs. Bush?  I understand she stood him up over the drinking, and told him 'Jim Beam or me,' years ago.  Won't she force him to be a father and not an ideologue?"

The Surgeon General merely shrugged his shoulders.  "Thank you, Dr. Frodo.  Would you mind. . ."

"You don't have to ask.  All you have to do is let me know when.  I will be there to help in any way I can.  Except, of course, for one thing."

"Oh?"

"I never want to see that son-of-a-bitch." 

"

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:36 PM EDT

Updated: Wednesday, June 20, 2007 9:38 PM EDT

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Mood:  sad

Tom Bombadil is a good neighbor.  When Frodo made the slight miscalculation regarding the six large pine trees, and the amount of mulch that would be piled in his driveway, it was Tom Bombadil who came to the rescue.  Tom Bombadil found a nearby SONIC when Frodo told him about Sir Gimlet, and a long and talkative evening ensued in the Gardens of the Shire.  It was Tom Bombadil who found and adopted the lost dog Savannah, and became her caretaker when she developed paralysis in her back legs.  It is Tom Bombadil who watches the political talk shows that Frodo misses, and who fills Frodo in on the facts about the continued incompetence of the Incomparable Moron.  Tom Bombadil is a mighty man, and is a special friend to Frodo and Sam.

There are few things in life that can bring such a man to tears.  The loss of a friend is such an event.

Scooter was a dog that was being fostered for adoption when Tom Bombadil found him.  Although he was shaggier than desired, Tom was taken by his constantly seeming smile, and his severe interest in tennis balls.  Scooter had some sort of problem in the hips and walked funny, but how he walked was the real kicker.  He never stopped, he just kept walking.  Even when he peed, he just kept walking.  He would visit Frodo for a scratch behind the ear, but Frodo had to move fast, because Scooter wasn't about to stop.  Tom was thrilled that he once again had a companion for walks in the woods, given that little Savannah and her cart weren't partucularly mobile.

Scooter began to develop signs of age, and incontinence, especially when he went inside the house of Tom Bombadil.  It takes a special person to live with two dogs unable to contain themselves.  As Frodo said early on, Tom Bombadil is a very good neighbor.

Tonight, Tom Bombadil cried because he had to do what no good friend ever wants to do.  He put Scooter down.  Scooter finally collapsed on his back legs and was unable to get up on his own.  He was no longer interested in the flight of his tennis ball, because it was now out of reach.  He could not, no matter how hard he tried, keep on walking.  There was distress in his eyes, as well as pain in his heart.  Tom Bombadil could not and knew that he would not tolerate the suffering of his friend.

Tom's veterinarian will cremate Scooter and his tennis ball tomorrow.  Frodo and Sam will stand with Tom Bombadil when the ashes are tossed to the winds.  It is Scooter's time  to walk on to a place where companions never say good-bye, and tennis balls never get lost.  Frodo believes that it must be a very wonderful place. 

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:59 PM EDT

Updated: Monday, June 18, 2007 10:01 PM EDT

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Mood:  lucky

Frodo is going to try this one more time.  He has now lost four postings because this "server" receives all the data, then posts the full body of the posting as "Null."  At the same time, Frodo is receiving complaints, dear reader, that you are having difficulty posting comments because of some sort of numeralology which the "server" has used to verify your identity.  This means that Frodo will probably soon be insulting the intelligence and or competence of someone in Bangalore or Manila.  Every day Lou Dobbs makes more sense.

Frodo notes the importance of Father's Day, simply because he has often thought of the changes between the fathers borne just prior to the Great Depression, the sons that they sired just after the Great War, and those soon to be fathers.  The first were thrifty, and stubborn, and basically uncommunicative.  The next were determined to have nice things, more open-minded, and although willing, poor at communication.  The latter of three are spendthrift, intolerant of other opinions, and communicative only through a cathode ray tube.  Frodo's tale of this day, perhaps, makes some sense of the lessons each brings to the other.

Frodo was subjected to very frequent Sunday-drives in the family motorcar to visit relatives, relatives who hardly ever came to visit Frodo.  Increasingly, these forced marches, certainly no worse than the Bataan Death March to a hemi-Hobbit, were the source of growing rebellion.  Frodo became convinced that his father dictated these trips more for the opportunity it provided him to visit his favorite retail establishment, Dairy Queen, than to listen to Uncle Alvin procrastinate.  Frodo notes that Dairy Queen did produce the outstanding milkshake of the automobile age.

On one such outing, Frodo's father, as was customary, handed out change to the Hobbit and his sibling for them to purchase what that allotment would allow.  Frodo announced, upon receipt of the shiny Roosevelt dime, that he had no interest in ice cream, but that a flavored bottle of pop would meet his needs, and he was thinking exotic, like a Nehi Orange, a Grapette, or a Dr. Pepper.  Frodo's father announced that he could have anything he wanted, EXCEPT for a flavored bottle of pop.  It had, it seems, been recently announced that a 100% increase in the retail cost of said items had been enacted, and that instead of a nickel, said item now cost a whole dime.  Frodo's father knew but one way to deal with such corporate corruption.

Frodo thought this to be but one more example of parental intransigence and arbitrary policy solely designed to make him miserable.  He decided, therefore, to take matters into his own hands, and to purchase the flavored bottle of pop after all.  He decided upon the Nehi Orange, for the record. 

When Frodo removed the cold bottle of flavored pop from the machine, his father was standing behind him.   His father took the bottle from Frodo's hand and returned it into the rack of the machine.  Frodo went treatless, and he still had to go and visit relatives.

Time passed and there were no opportunities for either Frodo or his father to discuss the incident.  When next Frodo was again forced to endure the dreaded Sunday visit, he indicated no interest when the motorcar pulled into the parking lot of the Dairy Queen.  Nothing was said, bur Frodo felt that the length of the visit was stretched to the maximum, perhaps to prove a point.  Frodo did not care.  Soon, Frodo was able to build convincing cases to avoid the multitude of the visits, and not too much time passed before Frodo won his complete freedom.

Frodo and his father never discussed many things, and this incident was just one.  Frodo was a pretty dumb little Hobbit.  It is too bad that the lessons one remembers the longest, are the ones that hurt the most.

As for the next generation of fathers, how can one take anyone seriously when they go for walks in the woods with an iPod? 

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 5:28 PM EDT

Updated: Sunday, June 17, 2007 6:09 PM EDT

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Mood:  hungry

The A & W Drive-in on Route 11 in Madisonville, Tennessee, is the last of its kind.  It is the last A & W Root Beer drive-in with curb service in all of Middle Earth.  Frodo thought that was pretty cool, and absent the Memorials to the War Dead in the town square (which separated the deceased by race as late as World War I), he never really thought there was much else about Madisonville to merit his attention.  That is, until he was introduced to Allan Benton.

Benton is considered perhaps the greatest ham and bacon smoker living today.  Benton's bacon or prosciutto-style ham can be found on menus from the Highland Bar & Grill in Birmingham to the Restaurant Eugene in Atlanta.  What is even more interesting is the background of the 60 year-old who works 70 hours a week mixing salt, brown sugar, red pepper flakes, and patience into a ham before beginning the curing and smoking process.  Benton has a Master's in Psychology and was teaching High School when his pay checks weren't meeting his needs in 1973.  It was at that point that he bought the Hicks' Hams cinder-block building, and found five others to work with him in the new venture.

Touring the facility is a real hoot, and says a lot about why the South End of the Shire is the best.  "We have all the latest computer technology for the smokehouse," said Benton as he exhibited the hickory and apple wood stacked next to a small wood stove he bought in 1980 for $50 from his cousin.  "I've kept the vent tilted at the same angle for 27 years," he stated.

Making bacon started the way Allan Benton does it, before big-farm industry added nitites and nitrates to speed and cheat the process.  But moving 400-600 hams and 250-400 pork bellies a week is a lot for a small-scale organization, and none of Benton's children have any interest in taking over the family business.  Benton swears that as a "self-professed hillbilly," he'll never move or sell the business.  "It becomes who you are.  I've just been very lucky and I'm too dumb to quit." 

Frodo learned that it takes up to 15 months to "cure" a ham, and that Berkshire hogs are prized for their "marbling" and "tenderness."  Benton is not really sure if they make the best hams, but he keeps a supply "just in case they are." 

Frodo couldn't help but picture a new sign out front someday, perhaps it will read something like this "Hobbit Hams, Fit for a King."  Aragorn would love it.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 8:39 PM EDT

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Mood:  hug me

The litter of puppies had been reduced to two; one of whom was predominantly some black on white, and the other predominantly some white on black.  Frodo was undecided about his choices until he felt something perched on his foot.  He knew that he had been selected, and that the selector was rather determined not to be left in that garage, all alone with his mother.  Naming an Australian Shepherd/Border Collie mix would not be difficult since Frodo was unacquainted with anyone from that continent, except for the character Paul Hogan played in "Crocodile Dundee."  A single syllable is most appropriate for a working dog, thus the predominantly black wonder dog became "Mick."  He became the Wonder Dog when "Baby" came along.

Ten years later, Mick, the Wonder Dog, is all male canine.  He is gentle and shy, except when another dog invades his space, then he becomes extremely possessive of anything and everything.  He learned a great deal in the "dog school" conducted by his surrogate mother "Lovey," and he is extremely accomplished in service to the Hobbit as his teacher required of her successor.  His best friend in the whole world is his adopted sister "Fiona," and they share everything from supper dishes to the rear seat in Frodo's motorcar.  When the much smaller Fiona calls for his assistance, he drops everything to ensure her safety, that is, except for the Baby.

Baby was originally a furry, light-colored, squeaky toy.  After several years of service as a substitute teat, the Baby became matted, dirty, and generally disgusting.  None of those factors impacted on the affection shared when Mick, the Wonder Dog, required some quiet time.  Eventually a tear developed, and much of the Baby's stuffing disappeared.  Frodo conducted replacement surgery with a similarly constructed artificial, and the implant held perfectly.  Now however, Baby is a floppy concoction that could have been used as some sort of alien life form in the early episodes of "Star Trek."

Frodo and Mick, the Wonder Dog, share many words in common.  "Squirrel," "ball," "pee," "Vitaman" (a tasty treat mispronounced in honor of Lucille Ball), and as one might expect, "Baby."  Mick, the Wonder Dog, frantically recalls where last he left his Baby whenever Frodo calls for a game of "Boob-Boom," so that he can mouth the Baby while his Hobbit scratches his back vigorously.  The Baby shares moments of physical pleasure as well as the silent solace of dog and the now-silent squeaky toy.

Frodo watches his friend with both curiosity and amusement.  Maybe Baby is a cigarette, or a glass of beer.  Maybe Baby is the feeling of being up against his real mother when she cleaned him while he fed from her breast.  Maybe Baby is just something that is his alone.  Frodo imagines that many of the same thoughts have been in the air since that wonderful night, epochs ago when first the canine came close to the fire.  It was a wonder then, and it is a wonder now.   

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:19 PM EDT

Updated: Wednesday, June 13, 2007 9:23 PM EDT

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Mood:  special

Christmas morning for Frodo and Sam concluded with the opening of the presents.  Outside, they noticed the grandparents, the parents, and the twin newly-turned-three-year olds, Korey and Kody, in their brand new electric motorcars.  The tiny Hobbits were doing their absolute best to evade their elders and proceed at their own break-neck speed into the Shire.  From that moment, they won Frodo's heart. 

In the years that followed, Frodo noted that the halflings would magically appear whenever he had tasks to perform in his garage.  Seeking to "help," especially when it involved hammering and nails, Frodo learned to keep a list of small projects which would involve such participation.  It brought to his mind the early years of television when Don Herbert starred in "Watch Mr. Wizard," as the kindly gentleman next door who always seemed to have time to explain the wonders of electricity or magnets to curious midget onlookers.  Frodo knew that, in their minds, he was typecast.

One day, stressing their independence, the vagabonds evaded Frodo, Fiona, and Mick, the Wonder Dog, and announced their intention to construct a tree house in the woods behind their home.  Frodo listened for many minutes while the struggles were met with but limited success.  When finally the junior engineers sought his assistance, Frodo made time to help direct, and construct, a stable platform from which little Hobbits could observe the Shire, from new heights.

Marriages sometimes suffer when fathers work long and episodic hours, and young mothers grow stressed and bored.  Eventually the boys' father was displaced by another, who soon found more suitable surrounding for the halflings.  Frodo was pained much more than he could ever admit.  Not unlike a dragon, he knew that his friends would come no more, and he could only slip into his cave, in this case a garage, and wipe up green scales.

Many times Frodo and Sam have wondered about the boys, reccognizing the "at risk" nature of the circumstances into which they had fallen.  Many times Frodo has listened for the sounds of hammering and doodling in the woods behind the Shire, without success.

On Saturday evening, while Frodo was watching the gallant Braves come back against the interlopers from Chicago, there came a tapping, tapping on the front door.  Fiona, and Mick, the Wonder Dog, awoke from their slumbers and nearly killed themselves racing Frodo to answer.  On the front porch, amidst wagging tails and licks of rememberance, stood Korey and Kody.  Now 17 years old, they both weigh 120 pounds, and are rising high-school seniors.  They wrestle, and both have GPA's of 3.4 or better.  Korey is aiming for college, and Kody has decided to become a police officer. 

Frodo walked with his young friends back to the garage, where they talked about projects undone, and memories precious to all.  They looked at the proud, old pine tree and the scrap pieces of lumber still hammered into its' branches.  They each hugged Mr. Frodo, and promised to come back soon.  Frodo made a promise to come and see them compete in wrestling, just as he had done when they first played what is called "T-ball."

When they had driven away, Frodo gathered his canine contingent together for their final nightly assignation in the gardens of the Shire, and stood silently at the base of that old, pine tree.  The silence of a late spring evening was broken only by the unmistakable smile of the Hobbit.

Thank you.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 11:12 PM EDT

Updated: Sunday, June 10, 2007 11:23 AM EDT

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Mood:  accident prone

Trying Again.  Frodo is having (shudder) computer problems.  He is attempting, once again, to comment on the demise of the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, General Peter Pace.

Amid the "Breaking News" caption the head of Defense Secretary Robert Gates appeared.  He announced the terminus of the shortest reign in history for a Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, and then came the switch to LA.  Peter Pace couldn't catch a break on any of the Networks, the cables, Faux News, or even the Spanish-language stations, for suddenly all the news was about a nymphomaniac with addiction problems, named after some town in Europe, who was handcuffed and crying for her Mom as she was being returned to the pokey.  Barcelona, or whatever her name is, had become more important than the end of a distinguished career for a dedicated soldier who will forever be haunted by the ghosts of Iraq.

The Incomparable Moron happened to be in Germany, hugging a toilet bowl, or so it was reported, too ill to appear publicly where he might be asked something that would reflect on his responsibility.  Frodo believes he was actually engaging in a game of "Pontius Pilate," with his buddy, Vladimir.

Frodo was meeting with the Men of Gondor, and one happened to comment that he believed that "Scooter" Liddy should receive a Presidential Pardon.  Frodo was unable to let this one pass.  After amending the name of the miscreant for the attestor, Frodo pointed out that the "substantive" legal offense of Mr. William, Jefferson Clinton had absolutely nothing to do with the "Whitewater" investigation of Special Prosecutor Kenneth Starr.  Clinton had lied to a Federal Grand Jury about having his donkey drained by a groupie.  Libby had lied  to Federal Investigators, and was so convicted by a jury of his peers.  Libby's lies obstructed justice against anyone willfully disclosing the identity of a clandestine operative of the United States.  Frodo hoped that Libby would get to share a cell with Ted Kacynski.

The attestor simply glared at Frodo.  An empirical discussion of the facts is anathema to zealots, no matter their persuasion.

Just then it was announced that Moscow (give Frodo a break here, he has no intention of paying undue homage to anyone with more than 10 pairs of shoes) was being returned to the LA City Jail, and that she would be serving her complete sentence.  Frodo wondered if the attestor wanted her to get a Presidential Pardon, too.

Another Friday was coming to an end.  Fridays you know, dear reader, are the days when unfavorable news and announcements are released by the political realm.  In the business arena, Fridays are the days when "good, old Joe" gets a "pink slip."  Nobody is around for a couple of days and the fervor cools down.

Peter Pace, a good guy, got canned on a Friday.  The Incomparable Moron, once again like "de Tar Baby," he say nuttin'.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 1:06 PM EDT

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