That was one of his most miserable moments. But he soon made up his
mind that it was no good trying to do anything till day came with some little
light, and quite useless to go blundering about tiring himself out with no hope
of any breakfast to revive him. So he sat himself down with his back to a tree,
and not for the last time fell to thinking of his far-distant hobbit-hole with
its beautiful pantries. He was deep in thoughts of bacon and eggs and toast and
butter when he felt something touch him…
During my first three months in
India I often remembered my paternal grandmother, perhaps, at least in part,
because she died the month before we moved. I don’t know why I reminisced, but
I would mentally wander through that two-story house in New Jersey, remembering
the hours spent playing outside, or recall the delicious meals “Grammy” would
cook. That humble abode had its own unique characteristics: A rock garden,
black metal porch railing, red geraniums, a sun room; the attic with its tiny
cupboards, and a basement full of my grandfather’s Lionel toy trains. The
backyard was often festooned with clotheslines, doors and windows were adorned
with box fans, and then there was the kitchen and the cookie jar. Those walls
held many happy childhood memories. To me, that is my Bag End, my far-distant
hobbit-hole that I cannot forget. Sadly, no matter where my adventure takes me
I will never be able to return to that place at the journey’s end. It lives on
in memories only.
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