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A Simple Question

"Daddy, is there really a Father Yule?"

My heart clenched as I heard my daughter's question. Turning from the kitchen sink, I looked down into a miniature reminder of my departed wife's face. "What did you say, my Little Rosebud?" I asked, hoping to forestall an answer I wasn't ready to give.

Rose scowled at me for using the now hated nickname. "Don’t call me that, Daddy. I'm a tweenager now," she protested as she had done for the past two months. A tweenager! I thought. Barely months into her tweens, and she already hates the childhood things she used to treasure. "I said, 'Is there really a Father Yule?'" my Little Rosebud repeated the unwanted question.

"What makes you think Father Yule isn't real all of a sudden?"

Rose dipped her head and studied her feet for a moment. All I could see was a mass of brown curls, just like her mother's. She took a quick breath and then looked up at me. "Peri told me. She said there's no such thing as Father Yule. That there's no old man dressed in gray robes with a long white beard and a pointy hat. That it's really just parents who set the toys out at Yule time. Peri also said that the toys aren't really made by elves. That there really aren't any more elves left to make toys anyway. They're all gone away." The words came out in a rush, and she gasped for breath when she was done.

Periwinkle Took! That hobbit lass is just like her ancestor -- doesn't know when to stop talking. "Peri told you that, did she?"

"Yes, Daddy." Big brown eyes so like her mother's stared into mine, begging me to deny her friend's accusations. And I wanted to very much. My mother had warned this day would come. Standing by Rose's graveside, holding our Little Rosebud in my arms, my mother told me there would come a day when the questions would start. But did it have to come so soon? I hesitated then took a deep breath of my own.

"Yes, my Little Rosebud, it's true. There is no Father Yule." My heart fell in time with her expression. I watched her gulp a few painful swallows, but as I reached out to hug her, her disappointment turned to anger.

"Why? Why did you tell me there was a Father Yule all these years? You lied to me! You lied!" Rose turned and fled from the kitchen, her feet barely sounding on the wooden floors as she ran to her bedroom. I heard the door slam from afar. Sighing, I turned back to the sink to finish washing the dishes. There is no Father Yule now, my Little Rosebud. But there once was.

After the dishes were cleaned and the kitchen cleared, I headed for the Study, to the glass cabinet that housed our most precious books. The first book I noticed was The Red Book, of course. Famous throughout the Shire, this was a copy of the genuine that was kept in The Mathom-House at Michel Delving. But The Red Book wasn't what I was looking for this time. This time, I reached for The Journal, Volume IV. Much less famous, The Journal was the true source of The Red Book's tales. The Red Book was based on the daily entries in The Journal. More importantly, not all of The Journal's entries were in The Red Book, including the ones I wanted to read to Rose tonight. The Journal in hand, I headed for Rose's bedroom stopping by my own on the way. From a chest at the end of my bed, I brought out an intricately carved small box -- a gift for Rose after tonight's story time -- then headed down the hallway to her door.

A gentle knock on her door brought a not so gentle "Go away!" in response, which I ignored. Rose was lying on her bed; her face buried in her pillow. She didn't look up as I sat on the edge of her bed, carefully placing the box behind me so that she couldn't see it yet. "I want to read you something."

"Don't care," she mumbled tearfully into her pillow.

"It's from The Journal," I coaxed. I knew she loved to hear from The Journal. Just as I expected, she sniffled a few times and then slowly she raised her head.

"Bilbo's Journal?" she asked, unnecessarily. I nodded. "I guess I'll listen," she conceded. She sat up and turned to face me while I rifled through the pages searching for the first entry I wanted. I looked up to check if Rose had settled in and smiled when I saw her sitting patiently with her eyes closed. When my eyes are closed, the words turn into pictures in my head. I remembered her explaining to me once when I asked why she always listened with her eyes closed. I can see all the people in the story, and I can imagine what they’re thinking. She had added as if the answer was the most obvious answer in the Shire. Stifling a chuckle at the memory, I found my first entry and began to read.

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Word Pictures: A Childhood Lost

"Bilbo Baggins, a father!" Gandalf the Grey muttered around the pipe stem in his mouth.

"Yes, yes," Bilbo replied with a trace of annoyance. "You don’t need to repeat it three times, you know. It’s as true now as the first time you said it. And I’m not really Frodo’s father; I’m not trying to replace Drogo. I’m just giving the lad a place to call home."

Gandalf exhaled a smoke ring and chuckled. "I’m sorry, old friend," he apologized. "It’s just that you have surprised me once again. I never expected you to raise any children whatsoever." The two long-time friends were sitting on the bench outside of Bilbo’s front door watching his new son Frodo half-heartedly play in the pile of autumn leaves in the yard. Frodo was the orphaned son of Drogo and Primula Baggins and had been raised in Brandy Hall. This year his second cousin Bilbo announced that he had adopted Frodo as his heir and brought him to live at Bag End in Hobbiton. "Why did you decide to take him in?"

Bilbo puffed on his own pipe and considered the wizard’s question. "I don’t really know," he answered honestly. "Frodo’s a good lad. He’s the only relative of mine that’s ever shown any mettle. I can’t imagine anyone else in my family going off to reclaim Lonely Mountain with the dwarves, fighting spiders in Mirkwood, or visiting the elves in Rivendell." Bilbo blew out a small smoke ring to match Gandalf’s larger one and then shrugged. "Seemed to be the right thing to do at the time," he added.

The wizard smiled at the comment. He knew all too well that the fate of Middle Earth often rested on decisions made because they seemed to be right at the time but turned out to be wrong later. "And now?" he inquired gently. "Now that you’ve had Frodo here for a few months, was it still the right thing to do?"

"Yes." Bilbo answered without hesitation. "Even more than I could have dreamed." He smiled as memories of the recent past passed through his mind. Gandalf watched his friend from the corner of his eye and was pleased to see the happiness in his face. He grew concerned; however, when Bilbo’s expression darkened.

"But?" the wizard prompted.

Bilbo sighed. "Since his parents died, I think Frodo’s forgotten how to be young. He’s too serious now, too adult. And I forgot when I took him what a lad needs around him to help him stay young and grow up properly. Take friends, for example. All of the neighbors’ children are grown and moved out. There’s no one nearby his age for him to play with." Bilbo nodded in Frodo’s direction. "And he needs things to play with, Gandalf, not just raked leaves. He’s just barely a tweenager. He needs some toys. All my toys are gone; all I have left are maps and books. Maps and books are nice, but you can’t take them out in the yard and run around with them. Maps and books won’t help Frodo become young again."

"Surely you can get new toys for him, Bilbo," Gandalf began.

"Yes, yes," the hobbit interrupted impatiently. "But special toys! Toys that have some meaning to them. Toys he will want to keep and remember long after he no longer plays with them. I don’t have any of those any more. I’ve gotten too old to raise a lad," he finished sadly. Taking a long sideways look at the hobbit, Gandalf thought that Bilbo certainly didn’t look too old to raise a son. Time’s relentless march seemed to have skipped his friend, a fact that the wizard found increasingly curious. However, before he could say so, the hobbit spoke again driving any thoughts of surprisingly youthful looks from the wizard’s mind. "I wish I could give him something special. Something to let Frodo know that he can still be young," Bilbo added.

Thinking that the solution was obvious, Gandalf asked, "Have you told him he doesn’t have to grow up so fast?"

Bilbo snorted. "Of course, I have, many times. But to have something, something special ... that he could play with. Show to his friends. That’s important at his age, you know," he added.

Gandalf laughed at the hobbit’s last comment; it reminded him of similar ones he had heard from other parents. "You’ll make a better father than you think, Bilbo Baggins, mark my words. Frodo there will grow up to be a fine, upstanding, and youthful hobbit under your care."

Bilbo accepted the compliment with a shrug. The conversation died as wizard and hobbit devoted themselves to their pipes and the sight before them. They watched silently as young Frodo raked the leaves that he had scattered back into another pile.

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Word Pictures: A Friend’s Concern

The sound of laughter overcame the clink of silverware on dinnerware as Glorfindel finished his riotous recount of his last border patrol. None present believed the elf lord had experienced all the misadventures to the extremes he reported, but the tale was too enjoyable to question closely. Gandalf was particularly taken with the story and laughed long after his elven table companions stopped. Gradually the elves began laughing again, this time at Gandalf himself. With much effort and gasping for breath, the wizard gained control of himself. "Ah, me," he sighed, wiping his eyes with a clean napkin Elladan had handed him. "Now I remember why I come to Rivendell. No one could possibly have as much amusing trouble on a simple patrol as you, my friend."

"Surely, you do not come to my house simply to hear Glorfindel’s rather fanciful stories," Elrond asked. Glorfindel looked offended at the slight but Gandalf spoke before the elf lord could protest.

"Not at all, Master Elrond, the fine table you set and the excellent wines you serve also draw me here."

"It is good to know that it is our food and wine you seek and not our companionship," the lord of Rivendell replied dryly. The gathering chuckled, knowing Elrond reserved his sarcasm for his closest friends and meant Gandalf no offense.

"How long will you be staying in Rivendell, Gandalf?" Elladan asked as he handed the wizard a serving dish.

"Trying to get me to leave already?"

"Haven’t you learned by now, brother?" Elrohir interrupted. "A wizard arrives precisely when he means to and leaves precisely when he means to," he intoned solemnly, repeating Gandalf’s often said phrase. Gandalf beamed and nodded his approval. The elves laughed again, and Elrond favored Elladan with a sympathetic smile at the teasing. "I have a better question, Gandalf," Elrond’s younger son continued. "Did you pass through the Shire on your journey here?"

"Yes, I did," Gandalf said, not at all surprised by the question. "And before you ask, yes, I did visit Bilbo." Elrohir and Bilbo had become good friends during Bilbo's first visit to Rivendell with the dwarves. In the years since, the hobbit had traveled back to Rivendell several times to see him. Likewise, Elrohir would meet Bilbo in the Shire whenever the elf’s journeys took him in that direction. "He’s doing well. He’s become a father, in fact."

The announcement took the elves by surprise. All knew the hobbit to some degree and knew that he was unmarried. Smiling at their reactions, Gandalf explained the circumstances surrounding Frodo’s move to Bag End, concluding with Bilbo’s concern that Frodo may have permanently lost some of his childhood joy. Expressions of concern and wishes for the younger hobbit's well-being followed his tale. The conversation drifted on to other lighter matters. However, Elrohir grew increasingly pensive and withdrawn as the meal progressed.

When the meal drew to a close, Elrond rose and invited his guests to accompany his family and him in the Hall of Fire for an evening of songs and merriment. Filing out with the others, Elrohir caught up with his brother and said that he would join them later in the Hall, should anyone ask where he was. Before Elladan could inquire further, Elrohir left and headed down a corridor that led to the family’s private quarters. When he entered his room, he stopped in the middle and studied the layout as if seeing it for the first time. I haven’t seen it in ages. Where would I have put it? Eliminating his frequently used storage areas, Elrohir headed for a room-sized closet that adjoined his bedroom. Stored in the back were trunks containing childhood items, most of them untouched in over two millennia. Trunk after trunk, Elrohir opened, searched, closed, and set aside. He despaired of ever finding the desired item. However, as often happens, just after resolving to substitute another item, he saw it -- a small box, lying in the bottom of the next-to-last trunk in the closet. Intricately carved with the vine patterns typical of Rivendell decorations, the box itself was a work of art. It looked exactly as Elrohir remembered. The memories provoked brought a fond smile to his face. He slowly lifted the lid, hoping the box still contained the treasure it was crafted to house. His smile widened. It’s still here. Treasure box in hand, Elrohir headed for the Hall of Fire, knowing the persons he wanted to speak to would still be enjoying the evening’s revelries.

In the Hall, Elrond, Gandalf, and Elladan sat together, enjoying the fine wine and listening to another of Glorfindel’s imaginative tales from across the room. The blond elf lord was unsuccessfully trying to convince some younger elves that he had once seen a warg fly atop a dragon. Elrond shook his head slowly; Glorfindel’s imagination never ceased to amaze and amuse him. It is no wonder my sons are so fanciful at times, considering how much time they spent with him as elflings. Speaking of my sons ... he mused. "Elladan, do you know where Elrohir is? I expected him to join us hours ago."

"Nay, Father, I do not. He only said that he would join us eventually. But he did not say when nor why he would be delayed."

"Why don’t you ask him?" Gandalf murmured, nodding towards to the doorway. The missing elf stood in the doorway, letting his eyes adjust to the Hall’s dimmer light. Elrohir spotted his family and smiled a greeting. But instead of joining them, he went to the other side of the Hall and stood by Glorfindel, waiting politely for him to finish his tale. "What’s he carrying? It looks like a box," the wizard asked. His companions shook their heads. They could see the box in Elrohir’s hand, but neither knew what it contained. Curious, they watched as Elrohir showed the box’s contents to the blond. The threesome was too far away to hear his whispered comments. At the younger elf’s words, Glorfindel smiled and nodded. Whatever Elrohir had said clearly had his approval. The three observers exchanged puzzled glances and watched with growing interest as Elrohir picked up a wine goblet then wove his way through the crowd towards them.

Elladan could contain his curiosity no longer. "What’s in the box, brother?"

"Don’t you recognize it?" Elrohir asked, bemused. Elladan shook his head. "It's something I hope Gandalf will deliver for me." Turning to the wizard, Elrohir handed him the box. "Glorfindel carved this for me when I was an elfling." Elladan's eyes widened as he suddenly recognized the box. "Will you give it to Bilbo the next time you visit him? I'm sure he will know what to do with it."

Gandalf lifted the lid and looked inside. "Yes, I'm sure he will."

Curious, Elrond peered over Gandalf's shoulder in order to see inside the box. What he saw brought nearly as many fond memories to him as it had to his son. "Well done, Elrohir," he murmured. "Well done, indeed."

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Word Pictures: A Childhood Regained

"Wake up, Frodo, my boy!" Frodo cracked his eyes open to see Bilbo heading for the curtains in the bedroom. "It’s a bright, sunny, Yuletide morning! Time to get up!" Squinting in the sudden light, Frodo muttered something unintelligible in response. "Now, now," Bilbo chided, assuming the response had been negative. "I’ll have none of that this morning. This morning’s special." With those words, Bilbo grabbed the bed covers and threw them off Frodo with a flourish. The young hobbit shivered in the morning chill. "Get up and come join me in the parlor. Don’t bother getting dressed. Put a dressing robe over your nightclothes and come on. I have a surprise for you!" He called out as he left Frodo’s room.

The youngster smiled fondly. Frodo had heard many tales of Bilbo’s oddities while at Brandy Hall but had never believed them. However, since coming to live with his cousin, he had begun to suspect most of the tales were true. Bilbo had certainly been behaving oddly for the past few days. Best to humor him Frodo thought as he climbed out of bed and grabbed his robe.

Frodo found Bilbo stoking the fire in the parlor’s fireplace when he entered the room. The fire quickly chased away the morning chill. Frodo and Bilbo had spent many hours over the past week decorating the parlor with evergreens, winter berries, brightly colored ribbons, and glass baubles in various shapes and colors. The Yuletide decorations gave a festive air to the cozy room. Bilbo sat in his favorite chair, picked up his cup of tea from the side table, and looked expectantly at the younger hobbit.

"Well? Go on. You have to find it, you know. I’m not going to tell you where it is," Bilbo said when Frodo seemed at a loss.

"Find what?"

"If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise." Best to humor him Frodo told himself again and started searching the room for something that hadn’t been there the night before. He quickly spotted a new square object nestled among the pine boughs. It was wrapped in paper that had been covered with drawings and designs. Bringing out the object -- a box, really, now that he could see it better -- Frodo looked at Bilbo. "Open it."

Frodo sat cross-legged on the floor and pulled off the paper, revealing a small box covered with carved designs unlike any that had been hobbit-crafted. The carvings looked ... elvish? Frodo had seen some of Bilbo’s things that the elves had given him. The designs on the box reminded him of those. The lid was hinged on one side, and Frodo slowly lifted it to look inside.

The box was lined with a deep blue material that caught the firelight in its velvety sheen. Nestled securely in the material was a wooden toy horse. The carving was highly detailed; even the strands of hair in the mane and tail could be seen. Key features such as the eyes, hooves, nose, and inside the ears were painted. The shading was masterful. The horse stood upright on its hind legs; its front legs were raised in defense or attack. For a moment, Frodo thought the horse would leap from the box, so lifelike did it seem. "It’s beautiful!" he exclaimed. "It looks elvish. Did the elves make it?"

Bilbo was pleased that Frodo could recognize the craftsmanship and said so. Eyes still wide with excitement, Frodo wanted to know who gave it to him.

"Who gave it to you? Why it was ..." Bilbo was about to explain that Elrohir had asked Gandalf to deliver it when he remembered the conversation from a few days earlier when Gandalf had given Bilbo the gift.

"Don’t tell Frodo that I brought this. It’s bad enough that all the Shire children expect me to produce fireworks when I visit. If they thought I also had elvish toys to hand out, I’d never get a moment’s peace here."

"What shall I tell him? He’ll ask. He’s a bright lad, you know."

"Tell him anything. Tell him it’s a gift from his father. Tell him it’s a gift for the Yule. Confound it, Bilbo, make something up!"

The words "father" and "Yule" remained in Bilbo’s mind, melded together, and came out of his mouth before he could think of the consequences of what he was saying. "... um ... Father Yule brought it for you."

"Father Yule?" Frodo repeated dubiously. "I’ve never heard of a Father Yule before."

"Never heard of Father Yule before?" Bilbo blustered, thinking fast. An explanation struck him, and he warmed to it as it grew in his head. "I’m not surprised you haven’t, living in Brandy Hall as you did. Father Yule only gives elf-made toys to very good hobbit children. Were you a very good lad when you lived at Brandy Hall?" Frodo dipped his head to hide a sheepish smile. "I thought not. You were a little rapscallion from what I’ve heard. But you’ve been especially good since living with me. Father Yule must have thought you deserved a toy this year." Bilbo waited, hoping Frodo would believe the tale. Fortunately, the toy horse drew Frodo’s attention away from the questionable story. The lad stroked the toy gently for a minute then carefully removed it from the box to examine it in the better light.

"What’s the elvish for ‘horse’?" he asked suddenly.

Bilbo thought for a moment then answered, "Roch".

"I’m going to name him Roch."

"You’re going to name your horse ‘Horse’?"

"No!" Frodo corrected, his eyes bright with excitement. "I’m going to name him the elvish for horse. No one except us will know what it really means. It’ll be our secret. Yours and mine."

A painful lump formed in Bilbo’s throat, and tears misted in his eyes. He hadn’t seen Frodo this happy and excited since he had come to Bag End, since before his parents died, in fact. Perhaps he still has some childhood left in him yet the older hobbit thought.

"Happy Yule, Frodo lad." Thank you, Elrohir. Thank you, Gandalf he added silently as Frodo hugged him.

"Happy Yule, Bilbo."

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A Complex Answer

I closed The Journal and waited for the word pictures in my Little Rosebud’s imagination to fade away. As she opened her eyes, I braced myself for the questions I knew would be asked. Little Rosebud never heard a bedtime story without asking at least one question afterwards.

"Gandalf was Father Yule?" I nodded. Rose thought for a moment. "But Gandalf went to the West. Who is Father Yule now?"

"I am. Me and all the other parents." I patted The Journal. "Bilbo wrote the next year that Frodo was looking forward to another visit by Father Yule. Not wanting to disappoint him, Bilbo found a toy to surprise him with. And the tradition was born."

"Why do all -"

"Why do all children get toys from Father Yule now?" Rose’s eyes widened when I interrupted her with her own question. I had asked the same question when I learned the truth. "From what Bilbo says in The Journal, Frodo talked about Father Yule with his friends. And his friends talked with their parents. And they talked with Bilbo. It didn’t take long for Father Yule to start delivering gifts throughout the Shire, once word got around." I laughed. "In fact, in one of the letters Meriadoc Brandybuck sent from Gondor, he wrote that he had told the tradition to King Elessar and Queen Arwen. They decided to start the tradition with their family. By now, all of the Big People’s children receive presents from Father Yule too, I reckon." Rose laughed, probably at the idea of the Big People following one of our traditions. Her laughter died slowly as a sad expression crossed her face.

"All the elves are gone; aren’t they, Daddy?"

"If there are any elves left, they are well hidden. No hobbit has seen one since before I was born." Little Rosebud loved elves and hated the idea that they had all sailed West by now. Saying they were gone hurt my heart almost as much as telling her the truth about Father Yule did.

"I guess there really aren’t any elf-made toys in the Shire at all then," she sighed.

"I think the only one was that first one." I reached behind my back and pulled out the box that had remained hidden the entire time. "This one," I whispered as I held it out for her to see. Rose gasped when she guessed what it contained.

"Is that?" she asked, unable to believe her eyes.

"Open it." With a hesitant hand, she took the box and slowly lifted the lid.

"It is! It's Roch!" Rose pulled the small horse out to see it better. Turning it over in her hand, she closely examined the toy. "It looks new," she announced with suspicious eyes.

"I thought the same thing when I first saw it. Elf magic, I suppose. But it's a real elf-made toy, Little Rosebud. You won't find any carvings like that in the Shire." Her eyes regained their wonder.

"How did you get it?"

"Frodo gave it Samwise to give to Elanor. It's been in the family ever since. My father gave it to me when he told me the truth about Father Yule." I looked at my daughter, the lovely image of my wife. "And now I'm giving it to you. Happy Yule, my Little Rosebud."

"Happy Yule, Daddy." Rose reached over and threw her arms around my neck, and I found myself pulled into a tight hug. "I love you," she whispered. "When I have children, I'm going to be the best Father Yule ever. Next to you, of course."

"I know you will be, my Little Rosebu- ... my Little Rose."

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End