Memory Lane: A Mess with Tolkien

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We were the best of friends. Allie, my tomboyish, adventuresome sister, Jeremiah, (code name Bubba), and I. Summers were spent chasing each other through our field or building Indian camps in the Alaskan midnight sun. Winter hours caught us sledding down the hill with cheeks rosy and flushed. Nothing could separate us.

            Except for “Lord of the Rings.” We grew up in a home where movies filled with magic were eyed suspiciously or were altogether titled as no-nos. “Star Wars,” “Harry Potter,” even “Sleeping Beauty” were on my mother’s hit list; therefore, Mr. Tolkien’s series never entered our VCR nor did its covers ever break open before my eyes. As I watched my friends flock to the movie theater, obsess over Legolis, and mimic a certain hunched, green creature I struggled with envy. How I hated to be left out of the cool crowd; how I despised the inside jokes my cape wearing, imaginative friends shared!

            So, when the opportunity presented itself, I took it. We were visiting a family-friend’s home and all my elfish friends decided that such a get together would not be complete without a weekly viewing of walking trees and wizards. My blood pumping, I sat down. I do not remember all that I watched, seeing that my stricken conscience only let me view fifteen minutes, but I do remember ugly, large squirrel-like creatures. I assume they were bad guys.

            The next day, being the Lord’s Day, found me in church sitting next to Nanny, one of my favorite friends. Her family’s pew lay across the building several rows away from my family’s pew; I was enjoying our time exchanging bits of gossip during the sermon until the familiar, attention-grabbin’ sound of motherly fingers snapped. Snap, snap, snap. My body jerked to attention. My head turned toward the family pew and there sat Allie, my sister, my comrade, smiling wryly as Mom looked across the church with a face of disapproval and anxiety. My secret was up; I had been caught.

            I’m not sure what my punishment was for disobeying; I only know that I haven’t watched a scene of Tolkien’s famous series since that fateful Sunday. And now, nearly ten years later, I understand my mother’s rule and concern.

            But my sister’s tattling tongue, her sly snitching, now that is another matter. 

P.S. A small note to all Frodo-loving, cape wearing, “Lord of the Rings” friends out there:

While I have not and (most likely) will not watch your beloved series, please do not take offence at this post. I was by no means meaning to tease you (unless you wear elfish ears and creep around like a hunched creature more often than not). You then, might deserve a little teasing. J