Mood:  suave

When first the Kennedy Center opened for business, Frodo and Sam bought tickets; the year was 1975.  They saw Yul Brynner, James Earl Jones, Kevin Conway, Robert Horton, Rita Moreno, Cleavon Little, and, of course, Dame Margot Fonteyn and Rudolf Nureyev.  James Earl Jones starred in "Of Mice and Men," and Frodo will never forget the dozen or so "special people" who were uncharacteristically seated after the lights had gone down and the actors appeared on stage.  Some very special person had figured out that watching James Earl Jones play the part which he did would be very, very special for some special people.  Frodo and Sam cried together watching them watch, and listen, to a giant of a man, who sounded just like them, so very special. 

The next year was 1976, and everything at the Kennedy Center was programmed to celebrate the 200th Anniversary of the founding of the Republic.  Frankly, dear reader, in Frodo's opinion, the whole program sucked.  Frodo and Sam did not re-new their subscription, and they moved on to other forms of entertainment.

The story this night is of the Hobbit who found a special appreciation for ballet.  Long before the night with Fonteyn and Nureyev, Frodo was offered a choice by Rachel A. Ames, High-School English Teacher Extraordinaire.  He could write a 50-page paper on the "American Civilization," or he could attend the performance entitled "Stars of the Bolshoi Ballet," appearing at the Uline Arena in Washington, D.C.  The tickets were cheap, in those days, since Russians were not exactly looked upon favorably, and Frodo figured that two or three hours napping while a bunch of "June Taylor Dancers" made sugar-plums on stage was far better than nights of pounding on the Selectric.

Frodo will never forget noticing the knots of muscle on the calves of the men.  Then, when these characters went air-borne, three or more feet straight up into space, Frodo's mouth fell open, and he put aside all thoughts beyond pure admiration.  Following that, these incredibly gorgeous, and lithe, women came flying into the arms of the athletes already on-stage, and they never once broke into anything resembling perspiration.  It was a life-changing moment for Frodo, which he has considered, in many respects, whenever tempted to demean persons of whom he has no knowledge, much less introduction.

It was unsurprising that Frodo's palms were wet, and that even the prima ballerina by his side was an object of lesser attention when Nureyev and Fonteyn came on stage.  Fonteyn was in her 50's, and was far beyond her prime.  Although Frodo does not know for sure, it is possible that he and Sam saw her in one of her last performances on stage.  Nureyev looked as if he had just come from a photo shoot for GQ.  In Frodo's time on our small blue planet, he can safely say that Presley and Banderas are the only males who were ever more physically appealing than was the Russian on that night .  When the dancers were done, Frodo stood, and cheered, and applauded, and did so until no one else was left in the auditorium.

Being among the last to leave, Frodo and Sam sat at the end of the traffic line, and their eyes sparkled for each other, and for the beauty and grace of that night,  Then, on Sam's side of the car, Frodo saw him, walking from the Kennedy Center, to the Watergate, dressed in a leather suit, brown it was, and wearing a beret.  Nureyev, all alone, it was.  Frodo shook Sam and they stared at the maestro as his eyes caught theirs.  Frodo, not knowing what else to do or say, simply screamed "Tovarich, Dwo Svedanya."  Nureyev smiled, and did a full-arm wave to his American fans, and repeated the words to Frodo.

Frodo had heard Charles Bronson use the same phrase in "The Great Escape."   Frodo has had an affection for the best vodka, and lime juice, ever since.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 10:00 PM EDT

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Mood:  lazy

Chris Matthews, a long time ago, worked as a speechwriter for the 39th President of the United States.  During a period of economic downturn, when all of the news seemed bad, the President decided that he would go on nationwide television and talk to the American people.  His plan was to emit a sympathetic ear, and to commiserate from a philosophical point-of-view.  Matthews was not alone amongst the President's staff, in that he argued against calling the doldrums a "malaise," feeling that something inspirational would work much better.  Jimmy Carter did not take Matthews' advice.

Frodo was reminded of this story the other day when he heard Barack Obama being quoted about the "bitter" feelings which seemed to characterize voters in the Rust Belt primary states.  It seemed to Frodo that Obama was trying to be philosophical, and to explain his approach.  Hmmph, thought Frodo, "How much better off he would have been, if he had simply read his speech at the 2004 Democratic Party Convention, even if it had no relationship to the issues"  People, Frodo supposes, sometimes want inspiration, not sympathy.

Barack Obama has said, continually, that he would tell the people "not what they want to hear, but what they need to hear."  In his best Chris Matthews imitation, Frodo says, "Don't do it."

The Democratic Party process is addled, at best.  These stupid contests go on, ad infinitum, and it is conceivable that the kids will be back in school after summer vacation, and there still won't be a "presumptive" standard-bearer for the Democrats.  What's worse, George W. Bush will still be in office, which means that absolutely nothing will be accomplished, and the current economic downturn is fraught with heretofore unknown peril.  The boys will still be dying, for nothing, except, perhaps, for the fiscal coronation of Achmed Chalabi.  One of the Bush daughters will get married (Frodo believes her gown should be red),  and John McCain will also demonstrate to every voter able to read that he has absolutely no clue about anything.

Sometimes, dear reader, Frodo thinks that our only hope is that McCain gets pissed at some female reporter and punches her lights out.  Frodo suggests Campbell Brown.

"Perhaps," says Frodo, "we should simply call it 'Spring Fever,' since it seems to be affecting us all."  Rather than tuning in, turning on, and dropping out (remember that little bit of nostalgia, do ya?), although one of those sounds awfully tempting right about now, Frodo looks hopefully to Indiana and North Carolina, with a silent prayer that the voters there put us all out of our misery. 

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 11:07 PM EDT

Updated: Friday, April 25, 2008 11:09 PM EDT

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Mood:  not sure

More than ten years ago, Frodo received a telephone call in his office from an entrepreneur with an interesting idea.  The gentleman explained that he had developed a concept for working Hobbits who found themselves increasingly isolated from each other.  "After all," he said, "as we age, we spend more and more of our time at work, and what's left mostly goes to  our familial responsibilities."  "Any time beyond that," he offered, " which we call leisure, is usually somewhat solitary.  What we lose is the locker room.  We no longer interact as team-mates, because we outgrow our abilities and they morph into our responsibilities."

What he would do is to gather a group of 15 or so businessmen, generally entrepreneurs, business owners, professionals, with achievements and education, and set-up an introductory luncheon.  Prior to the luncheon, every participant would receive a briefing book on the other members of the group.  At the luncheon, each member would stand and introduce himself for 10 or so minutes, then make himself available for questions. 

After the meeting, he would arrange for a second meeting, and that would be the last that anyone would see of him.  At the second meeting, the group would begin to establish its own dynamics, and develop its own plan for future meetings.  As a general rule, meetings seemed to usually be scheduled once-a-month and in the beginnning would be discussions over lunch.  From there, the group was entirely on its own.

Frodo has discussed many meetings of what he dubbed "The Men of Gondor."  On two occasions Frodo has white-water-rafted the Chatuge River (remember "Deliverance"?, well that's it), he has visited tourist locations often overlooked by residents (the Cyclorama, the Carter Center, the Wren's Nest), and he has been introduced to the vocational expertise of other members (waste-water treatment, architectural design, theatre production).  Frodo tried foods he'd never considered (chicken feet, sushi), but mostly he listened.  He listened attentively as one spoke of an actual visit to the Olduvai Gorge, and another about the last hours on Earth of a life's love.  Together they all discussed the changes in their world after the collapse of the Twin Towers.  All of this coming from participants who shared no commonality, other than the fact that fellowship was something they had lost, somehow, somewhere along the way.

Today, Frodo announced that he would no longer attend the lunchtime gatherings on the second Friday of every month.  He indicated that his enthusiasm had simply waned.  That was partially true, for it grows increasingly difficult to maintain spontaneity when schedules and the unforeseen continually intrude.  Like most things in life however, there is an end, and recognizing it is what we all must do, or suffer in silence.  Frodo has genuine affection for "The Men of Gondor," and he will never be able to replay the experiences in total context.  He will try, from time-to-time, to tell you, dear reader, what it is like in the locker room, and why you miss it so much. 

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:48 PM EDT

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Mood:  loud

The price of gasoline, on the average, in America, has risen 16 cents in the past two weeks.  It is true that on the day that George W. Bush took office (even then Frodo was considering a run for the border), Frodo filled his motorcar and paid 75.9 cents per gallon to do so.  Returning last night from the Atlanta Aerodrome and Security Checkpoint, Frodo once again filled his motorcar and paid $4.349 for the honor.  On the face of it, the sheer dynamics of inflation and the resultant shift of economic power in the world is a problem.  There is however, to Frodo, an immense concern herein, and so in the words that follow dear reader, assume no satire, no humor, and, above all, no agenda.

The words "alternative energy sources," are as much a part of the English lexicon in the twenty-first century as are the words "weapons of mass destruction."  Everyone knows that it is imperative that the world must wean itself off its thirst for fossil fuels, if only to preserve a habitat for humankind.  The solutions proposed have included the purely ecological to the purely economic, and most fall somewhere in-between.  The production of ethanol from agricultural plant-life has been proposed many times, but has never been a rational part of the discussion because of the cost factors.  Today however, with the inflated prices commanded by energy demand, ethanol can be produced and sold at a profit in a competitive marketplace.  The economy can also be enhanced as greater dependence on ethanol requires both more fuel and vehicle suppliers.

The problem is very basic.  With an increasing amount of agricultural plant-life production diverted to a more profitable use, i.e. into ethanol, the availability of basic food products is lessened.  At the same time, the growing worldwide population continues to demand food, and the result is both a lesser availability and a higher cost for all food products.

Before moving into the point of this faustian dialogue, Frodo feels it important to share a couple of facts,  In the developed world today, approximately 10% of all household income is dedicated to the costs of food.  In the "undeveloped world," (perhaps what we once called the "Third World"), approximately 80% of all household income is dedicated to the costs of food.  In this statistic alone it is easy to see the potential impact for increasing food costs, and who it truly hurts, as opposed to whom it "inconveniences."  Lastly, 37 nations around the world are today classified as "in famine condition," because a majority of the population is not receiving a livable sustenance; 21 of these nations are on the African Continent.

The peons of Mexico overthrew Maximillian and Carlotta in order to re-distribute the wealth.  The peasants of France beheaded Louis and Marie because their cries for "bread" were satirically answered by references to "cake."  Starving Africans are not going to be swayed by the documented generosity of comparatively wealthy Americans who helped tsunami victims in Indonesia several years ago.  It is entirely conceivable that starving people will follow any ideology that provides for their families.  The suicide bombers of tomorrow may not even be Muslim, but they will have had their hunger sated by some who may be such.

The risk we run, dear reader, to erase 16 cents from the cost of a gallon of petrol, is the same once faced by Romans who stared into the eyes of Visigoths, and who felt that someone else's son would protect them.  Today, our politicians speak to the farmers, but not of food.  And they are fools.   The votes in Iowa are about life on Earth, they have absolutely nothing to do with purported sniper fire or silly old men who stand behind altars. 

Frodo has no more patience.  The battle is at hand.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 8:54 PM EDT

Updated: Sunday, April 20, 2008 8:59 PM EDT

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Mood:  rushed

Never has the distance between Virginia and Kansas been so completely chronicled as it was by the shutterbug Frodo on his first airplane flight.  Frodo will never forget the thrill, nor will he ever be able to explain why something once so exciting is now so unbelievably mundane.  On the morrow, Frodo and Sam once again tempt their tempers as they confront the growing cancer that air travel has become.  Even the prospect of Bilbo's 90th Birthday offers little to salve the wounds that oil, at more than $100 per barrel, has cast upon those who traverse our nation's skies.

Frodo and Sam will drive more than one hour in order to arrive two hours before flight time (9 AM, or so the schedule alleges).  They will park in a satellite lot,  tip the driver, and be ferried to the boarding gate.  Their bags will be checked  through to Phoenix (at a cost of $3 per bag + another tip), and they then confront passenger screening.  Frodo dresses simply, removing almost everything, and placing all inside his carry-on.  Sam insists on wearing jewelry, shoes with bits of metal aside, and sunglasses.  Frodo usually waits while Sam's body cavities are searched.

Once the TSA stormtroopers are convinced that Sam is harmless, the Hobbits are allowed to make their way to the gate.  At this point the location of the nearest bathrooms becomes a critical determination.  Realizing, subsequently, that they are about to spend four hours in cramped, airless, quarters absent any food service whatsoever, it becomes Frodo's fate to stand in an endless line at the world's slowest Wendy's in order to overpay for a soggy, coolish biscuit.

Eventually, the Hobbits are summoned to discover the location of their seats, but only after every person in front of them first puts a carry-on, a hat, a coat, and something that appears to be breathing into the overhead compartments.  Only then does Frodo realize that he is seated next to the only infant on the entire airplane.  What Frodo learns, much to his surprise, is that this will not be the cherub's first flight.  It will be however, alleges the mother, his first in which he sleeps the entire way without disturbing anyone.  Frodo notes the first opportunity to bet large sums of money against that prospect.  There are however, no adult takers anywhere in his vicinity.

When finally off the ground, well beyond schedule, Frodo commences an assault on a "beach book," and pretends that the cramped space he occupies is his, and his alone.  Frodo has always been a very silly Hobbit.  Every passenger heading to the bathroom violates his space, and every person with a head cold or some form of typhus, coughs into his face as they pass.  Frodo considers that first vodka and tomato juice, for $5, at exactly 10 AM (well, it has to be 5 o'clock somewhere, doesn't it?).

When they arrive at Sky Harbor, Frodo and Sam will walk at least the equivalent distance between Canada and Mexico before they are in a position to retrieve their luggage.  Along the way they pass the lines of refugees waiting to be strip-searched by the TSA stormtroopers before they depart.  Knowing that the Hobbits will pass through in that direction in just a few days prevents them from feeling any solace whatsoever at the absence of such activity for arriving passengers.  Frodo does consider hiding Sam's jewelry, shoes, and sunglasses.

Luggage in tow, the Hobbits wait for the limo, and wait, and then they wait a little more.  Eventually, once the fee for the round-trip ride, including tips, is paid, they are on their way.  It is, by that time, rush hour in Phoenix.  Frodo has never figured out where all those people are going.  They should be sitting by the pool, drinking a "Dos Equis," or planning which golf course to play that day.  Instead, they all seem intent on following Frodo's route, at varying rates of motion, and blocking every effort by his driver to bring a hasty conclusion to the final phase of air travel, step one.

Frodo is convinced that passage by rail is, at last, enhanced, not by what we do to encourage it, but by the sheer dynamics of what we have done to better it.  Air travel is soaring beyond the budget of people everywhere, along with their mortgages, the cost of food, and fuel for individual transit.  It is also one of the most unpleasant ways possible to lose an entire day.   

Frodo thinks he will ask Mark the Magician (a Series 7 license and a lot of lucky guesses) what he thinks about putting a few dollars into railcars?

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:53 PM EDT

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Mood:  d'oh

Almost exactly one year ago, a few days of sub-freezing temperatures wiped out Georgia's Peach crop.  The result included the fact that Frodo had to amend his dietary intake to compensate for the loss of fresh fruit.  This physical adjustment made Frodo very grumpy for an extended period of time.  Beyond the strictly personal, all the gardens of the Shire lost their blooming flowers, with the resultant brown droppings seeming to emotionally plague the well-being of all inhabitants.  It was the grumpiest of times.

Frodo is alarmed at the weather report.  An alien frontal system, emanating from Canada, is winging its way through the midwestern US of A, and is bringing the likelihood of a repeat of last year's freeze to a crescendo of probability.  Already Frodo feels himself losing patience with the sufferings of the fools in political, journalistic, military, sports, economic, and scientific leadership roles.  If Frodo turns negative, what portends the future for those of lesser moral turpitude?

Frodo deems to look forward and offer suggestions for change.  Knowing that geographical barriers are a retardant to changes in the weather, e.g. a mountain range preventing clouds from movement beyond the pinnacle, Frodo believes that an artificial blockade on the Canadian border offers hope for the future.  Not only would such a boundary block the flow of freezing weather into the Shire, but it would also assist in reducing the access of illegals from Canada.  Digging and trucking fill-dirt from a source location in the US of A to the Canadian border would be a massive public works project, thereby creating thousands of jobs for Americans as well as needed income for struggling construction-related firms and businesses.

The obstacles to Frodo's suggestion are minor.  What better use could be made of the wasteland known as Texas than to simply dig it up, and move it to Minnesota, North Dakota, and Montana?  The vacancy created on the Mexican border would eventually fill with needed water, and establish a natural moat to replace the unnatural, and expensive, fence blockade currently under construction.  The costs of construction would be recouped by the reduction in current expense levels for border safety personnel and other Department of Homeland Insecurity requirements.

Yes, dear reader, Frodo is a great believer in the fact that no problem is insoluble.  What is most important however, to Frodo that is, is that he do something to ensure a state of systemic regularity in the months to come.  Hobbits do not prosper on Milk of Magnesia and Maalox as dietary supplements.   Frodo does not look forward to another grumpy year. 

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 10:07 AM EDT

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Mood:  celebratory

Some time ago, Frodo proclaimed that he would be proud, once again, of the American electorate when the "Approval Rating" of George W. Bush fell to 24%.  It was Frodo's assertion at the time that 24% of the American electorate, at any measured point in time, is functionally illiterate, and will support an incumbent politician no matter what facts are put in front of them.  Frodo was convinced, from the first day the Incomparable Moron ever uttered his first public statement, that George W. Bush would achieve the 24% level at some point during his incumbency, assuming that he would ever be elected.

The Associated Press reported in its' latest polling data today that 27% of polled respondents, given the dismal economic slide underway, indicated "approval" of the performance of George W. Bush.  That means, dear reader, that only 3 out of every 100 potential voters need to be convinced that George W. Bush is an absolute, and complete, failure, in order for Frodo to be declared prescient.  Here is how you can help.

It will not be hard to identify Republicans who are functionally illiterate; they still have "Bush/Cheney '04" bumper stickers on their cars or on their foreheads.  Please ignore them.  However, should you come across a person who, say, is the off-spring of four consecutive generations of Republicans, and has been supporting this clod out of sheer habit, then sit them down and talk to them as if they still have brain cells not smothered by Sean Hannitty or Rush Limbaugh.  Remember, it is not necessary to even discuss the upcoming election, just get them to recognize that this blowhard has done damage even to the Republican Party.

Frodo truly feels that it is important for all Americans to recognize that if we can survive eight full years of an absolutely abominable President, then, together, we can do anything.  Let us bring all thinking Americans to the same conclusion:  George W. Bush Sucks.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 8:37 PM EDT

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Mood:  don't ask

Every once in a while, thinks Frodo, it is not a bad thing to step back and admire the effort.  Mrs. Senator Hillary Rodham Clinton and Mr. Senator Barack Hussein Obama both distinguished themselves this day, and they did so without anybody taking a cheap shot, except, perhaps, for Frodo.  Even their fellow Senators surrendered some of their own individual political thunder in order to provide both presidential contenders with the ability to appear on the evening news shows.  Ambassador Crocker and General Petraeus be damned, this was the "Bush Surrogates" in review.  Clinton (Hillary supporters please pardon the familiarity, Frodo simply grows weary of identifying every conceivable title except "Your Highness" in order to avoid an error of judgment in sexual identification) asked an absolutely brilliant question, about the review of Bush dogma by the Iraqis, but not by the American Congress, which should someday become a reference in every meaningful history ever written about these terrible times.  Obama (see explanation above substituting the words "Highness" and "sexual" with "Honor" and "racial") underscored the obfuscation of testimony by honorable men who were simply following their orders to imitate the monkeys who neither see, hear, nor speak evil.  In this case, the word "evil" could be replaced by the word "truth."

The Incomparable Moron was, at the same time, shedding crocodile tears with the parents of the third young man to receive the Medal of Honor, posthumously, as a result of heroic action in the "George W. Bush Memorial Pre-Emptive War Against Terrorists, Insurgents, Rebels, Innocent Bystanders, Tourists, Volunteers, and Religious Pilgrims."  The needle-nosed slimeball had the unmitigated gall to allow his wimpy chin to quiver while he contemplated the fact that he was responsible for another loss of life.  Then again, he may simply have been thinking about the sad ending he imagines to the one book we know he has opened, which is, of course, "My Pet Goat."

Frodo is angry at George W. Bush, but he is proud of the as yet nameless person dragged from the proceedings who kept yelling "Bring Them Home."  Perhaps that one voice will resonate loud enough that we will all remember just how terrible War is, and how badly served we have been by those who treat it in such cavalier fashion.  How much better this day would have been if those two very caring parents had not had to go to the White House to memorialize their son, and our loss.

George W. Bush is Sauron.  May he rot in Hell.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:53 PM EDT

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Mood:  surprised

The Gardens of the Shire begin to bust out all over, and with the new growth the search begins for a spot to nest.  Frodo speaks, of course, about the rabbits, the squirrels, the chipmunks, the birds, and any others not presently visible.  Frodo has attached a variety of wooden structures to trees, fenceposts and poles, all in the effort to attract the diversity which appeals to him in both birds and human beings.  For, not unlike human beings, issues of territory, competition, and hospitality seem to play some role in whose chicks will begin life in the Shire, or in other corners of Middle Earth.

Apparently the Shire stands amid the territorial dominance of several male cardinals.  The screaming scarlet battles occur throughout the nesting season, but now that the first nesting has begun there is only the silent sentinel forever in search of food for his mate.  Frodo noted, last year, that his neighbor had a nest of cardinals near a window, while space in the Shire was taken by chickadees, titmice, wrens, nuthatches and a plethora of others.  The neighbor children seemed at the time to be forever peering into the nest, seeking parental progress.  That behavior has evidently resulted in the construction of a natural nest in the bough where stands one of Frodo's feeding spots for hummingbirds.  Frodo has not yet seen a ruby-throat in the vicinity, nor has he pointed out the new nest location to his budding base-ball playing neighbor, "Little Chipper."

Jose Cardenal was a base-ball player for many years.  Claudia Cardinale was an extremely buxom actress.  This fanciful pairing of an athlete and a starlet has been Frodo's way of properly addressing the pending parents in the Shire.  Jose and Claudia are a handsome couple who seem to recognize that they are welcome visitors, and that an unseen "Do Not Disturb" sign exists in their defense.  Frodo can ensure that neither Mr. Beau Neau nor any human interloper approach the nest now occupied full-time by Claudia.  Jose however, will have to assume responsibility for the hummingbirds.  Nature, and higher powers, will hopefully direct the red-tailed hawk toward bigger game.

Frodo never realized that being a surrogate parent was such a big deal.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 10:09 PM EDT

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Mood:  chatty

Frodo has always had a song in his heart, and a friend at his side.  Mick, the Wonder Dog, is ever present these days, but even in the time before the Fellowship, Frodo kept close to those who shared his dreams and his passion.  Too rarely do instances now occur in which paths cross for those who shared thoughts of a different world than that which molded Middle Earth.  Such an event took place this past week, and Frodo reflects back on the time spent by those whose friendship crosses boundaries, if not explanation.

Frodo had used the magic of the Internet to first find his old friend.  Frodo knew that he had matriculated at Amherst, in Massachusetts, and beyond that there was only a wilderness.  The Webmaster at Amherst graciously forwarded Frodo's message on to one of its' alumni, allowing arrangements for the demise of a 40-year absence.  Afterwards, it would be four more years before the visit just concluded.  This time, in a replay of the adolescent "I'll show you mine, if you show me yours," they brought their wives along.

Bill Kelly's father was the first pilot to safely land his fighter plane on Tarawa, in 1943.  His subsequent career carried him to the rank of Captain in the US Navy, and meant that his family would travel with him on each of his assignments around the world.  When duty brought him to the Pentagon, Bill was of high school age, and the domicile, by happenstance, was in the neighborhood of one known as Frodo.  Frodo had lived most of his life in one or two places, unlike his new-found friend, who seemingly took all the world for granted.  Bill, on the other hand, knew that he would soon be moving on, and friendships had to be quickly developed, without deep entanglements, for they were sure to soon be ended.

Bill Kelly, by the time that the junior year rolled around, was the top student in all the land.  With a perfect 4.0 average, he was the example by which Frodo was compared when admonished by his father.  Frodo took pride in his friend, and did his best to learn his habits and his insights so that he could do better himself.  Frodo did not have the discipline that had been instilled in his friend, but he did have the capacity to sometimes drag his friend away from effort and to discover play.  Perhaps this single element became the grounding of their friendship; to Bill, Frodo was boyhood fancies, and to Frodo, Bill was a view of the larger world and how to get there.

It was a truly gray day when, after that junior year, Bill Kelly was following his family on to the next assignment in someplace called Italy.  Frodo still has the yearbook where it is written that "only two or three times in one's life does a true friend come along."  It ended with the word "Ciao," which, at the time, required translation. 

It was amazing to Frodo that the words which composed the tales flowed so freely in their first reunion.  On two straight nights the bar was closed before they had completed their conversations.  All others had retired for the night while Bill and Frodo talked of families now dissolved, and mentors long absent from current events.  Saying "Farewell" then was just as difficult as it had been two score years earlier.

The convention that brought Bill to the Shire provided the current opportunity.  Louisa, whose name is pronounced to befit one who fancies flowers, architecture, and knowledge, captivated Frodo as she sought to learn more about one of whom she had heard so much.  Frodo was only too anxious to provide them both with an eye into the Shire, and to not disappoint.  Frodo, a mere Hobbit, and Samwise, effervescent and engaging, were, after all, escorting the Chairman of the Anthropology Department of Yale University and his First Ladyship.

An early and brisk spring day, with only a fraction of the flowering potential at hand,  passed too swiftly, and without opportunity to delve deeply into the poetry of life.  Frodo was struck by the fact that Bill spoke of a desire to stay, for all time, in New Haven.  He seemed to fear another relocation, to stay, perhaps, "where everybody knows your name."  Frodo, as we know, looks to the sea, and dreams of lands far away.

Shaking hands good-bye, once again, Frodo committed to an offer to visit the house where Mark Twain once lived, and to sit in the same gazebo where famous words were penned, in Connecticut.  Frodo will bring the mixings of a mint julep, to share with Louisa.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 11:26 AM EDT

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