26. The First of Many Parties

The next several months passed peacefully in Hobbiton. Bilbo had been furious to hear that Lotho had tormented his nephew again, although he wasn’t surprised the tweenager had stopped short of beating him; the old hobbit had no doubt that Lotho wished to avoid being skinned alive by Lobelia for antagonizing Bilbo, after he had threatened to call in all their debts last Yule. Nonetheless, Bilbo’s protective ire was aroused, and he saw to it that Lotho suffered a just punishment.

In any case, Lotho did not bother Frodo again that spring or summer. Indeed, he seemed to avoid his younger cousin whenever possible. Frodo, however, found himself quite indifferent on the matter; Hamson Gamgee had humiliated Lotho with his kindness and loyalty, and Frodo feared him no longer.

Frodo had been rather hurt to find that Fatty Bolger wouldn’t play with him anymore after that day at the fort, but Folco received this development philosophically.

“Let it be, Frodo,” he advised after Fatty had rebuffed them the second time. “As I said, Bolgers are often a bit stuffy, and Fatty’s dad is worse than most. He’s always thought your uncle a peculiar sort, and no doubt he’s influenced his son. Fatty’ll come around, or he won’t, but it’s naught to concern yourself with.” Fatty had informed them he wasn’t going to play with any Bagginses now, on account of their ‘unseemly notions.’

Nonetheless, that first summer at Bag End was remembered fondly by Frodo. The weeks were filled with long, beautiful days of warm sunshine and light breezes. Frodo soon became a familiar figure around Hobbiton; he was a quiet but cheerful little soul, kind and well-mannered. In the taverns and markets of the area, hobbits began reluctantly to admit that perhaps Mad Baggins was capable of raising a child, even if he was a bit cracked.

Frodo did not often go into town, however, except on errands. He preferred to pass the time reading in the garden, or in the woods and meadows near the Hill, and having imaginary adventures with Folco (or Sam, whenever his Gaffer would spare him), often involving the magnificent fort in the woods.

Frodo began to wish he could go on a real adventure, like the ones in Bilbo’s stories, or at least like the trips Bilbo had often taken around the Shire before Frodo’s adoption. But Bilbo maintained that he was too young for a long journey on foot, much to Frodo’s disappointment. Bilbo’s warm brown eyes always seemed to twinkle when he said that, however, which somehow gave Frodo hope for delightful things to come.

Summer drew to a close, and all over the Shire, hobbits began their annual harvest. Markets soon overflowed with food, and pantries began to fill with stores for the winter. Cured meats, jars of preserves, sacks of grain and flour and sugar, all were neatly stacked or shelved in the larders of the Shire, and Hobbit minds whirled with thoughts of food. Well, more so than usual, anyway.

In Hobbiton, September 22nd was always a major social event: Bilbo Baggins liked to throw a good party on the occasion of his birthday. But in 1392, that particular day heralded a bigger event than ever, for it was the first time Bilbo’s and Frodo’s birthdays were celebrated together. The festivity was proclaimed outstanding by one and all (with the exception of the Sackville-Bagginses, of course), for various reasons. Forefront in the guests’ minds was, naturally, the victuals. No expense was spared in that regard; food and drink were plentiful and of the finest quality to be had in Hobbiton.

For Frodo, the best part of the celebration was the happy knowledge that his favourite ‘uncle’ was there to share it with him. The tween had never attended, let alone been given, such a party, and found it rather overwhelming. He couldn’t recall ever in his life receiving so much attention, whether on his birthday or not. There had even been some talk of Saradoc and Esmeralda making the journey to Hobbiton with Merry, but in the end, Saradoc’s responsibilities had kept the Brandybucks at Brandy Hall.

On the day of the party, however, Frodo was not overly disappointed by Merry’s absence; he had more than enough to occupy him as it was. In fact, once the speeches had been given and the cake served, Frodo decided he’d had quite enough of the lively chatter, the squealing children, and most especially the seemingly endless supply of elderly relations who hardly knew him but nevertheless insisted on pinching his cheeks and exclaiming over his ‘sweetness’ in a most nauseating fashion. Frodo watched carefully for his opportunity and slipped away unnoticed from the head table as the fourth round of cake was served and the guests became absorbed with ‘filling in the corners.’

“Why, Frodo Baggins! Wherever are you going to in such a hurry, lad?”

Well, nearly unnoticed. “Good evening, Aunt Dora,” Frodo said reluctantly. “Are you enjoying the party?” He had crept stealthily around the nearest tent, the baker’s tent at the edge of the party field, only to run right into Dora Baggins, a peppery but absent-minded matron of ninety years.

“Indeed I am, young fellow,” she said, eyeing Frodo shrewdly as he shifted from foot to foot. “The cake was first-rate, and Bilbo had the decency to keep his speech short and sensible for once. Do I dare hope your presence in his home has shamed the old bird into growing some proper hobbit-sense at last?”

“Er, perhaps,” Frodo said evasively, grinning at the thought. The direction of influence was rather the reverse, if anything.

“Hm,” Dora sniffed, staring at the fidgeting blue-eyed hobbit with poorly-concealed amusement. She continued to talk for a good while, and Frodo soon realized that he would never make his escape at this rate; Dora Baggins apparently had an endless array of topics for conversation at her disposal.

“I, ah, noticed you seemed a trifle disappointed when you came out of the tent a moment ago, Aunt Dora,” Frodo said a little desperately, during a lull in the (mostly one-sided) conversation. “Were you looking for something, perhaps?”

“Why, I have mislaid my spectacles!” the venerable lady said, snapping her fingers in sudden recollection. “I thought I might have left them here in the baker’s tent, but I can’t find them anywhere.”

“I believe I saw them on your chair at table, ma’am,” Frodo supplied helpfully. He bounced on his toes and smiled sweetly, anticipating certain escape.

“Oh! You marvellous boy!” the matron exclaimed. With surprising swiftness, Dora reached forward to grasp Frodo by the cheeks, pinching the soft flesh so firmly that his mouth was stretched sideways. “What a dear you are! I must go at once and be sure no one has sat on them.” She released Frodo and hurried away at last.

As soon as Dora’s back was turned, the twenty-four-year-old hobbit ran gleefully out into the night. He slowed to a walk as he approached the edge of the party field, rubbing resentfully at his sore, over-pinched cheeks. He consoled himself with the thought that were it not for his brilliant distraction, Dora would likely have remembered to drag him back to the table with her.

It was after ten o’clock by this point, but as most hobbit festivities did, this one would last well into the night. Frodo walked around behind the tents a bit, enjoying the crisp September air and listening to the low roar made by a throng of hobbits conversing at the top of its lungs.

As Frodo passed the dishwashing tent further back, he heard a familiar childish voice singing shrilly and slightly off-key, but with great enthusiasm. Frodo grinned and stuck his head inside the tent.

“Hullo, Sam!” he said to the small figure bent industriously over one of the wash basins.

“Mr. Frodo!” Sam dropped his scrub brush in the basin and turned to beam at his master’s heir. He was alone in the tent, finishing up the last of the supper dishes. “Oughtn’t you to be out there at the party, sir?”

“I suppose so,” Frodo replied, and came to lean against the table beside Sam. “But I’d much rather be in here talking to you.”

Sam wiped his soapy hands on his trousers looked at Frodo incredulously. “Indeed, sir?”

“Most definitely,” Frodo said, blue eyes twinkling mischievously in the lantern light. “For one thing, you’re not very likely to grab me by the face and give my cheeks a pinch!”

Sam giggled at the ridiculous suggestion. The younger lad had received such treatment often enough from his Aunt Primrose, and he could feel a definite sympathy for the other boy. “I shall do me best to resist the urge, Mr. Frodo,” he said sincerely.

Sam cheerfully picked up his scrub brush again and Frodo, laughing helplessly, sat down to keep the gardener’s son company awhile longer.

“What’s it like bein’ twenty-four, Mr. Frodo?” Sam asked at length. “Do ye feel any different now?”

“Oh, it’s marvellous,” Frodo replied with a straight face. “When I awoke this morning, I found that I suddenly, er, knew all the tales recorded in Uncle Bilbo’s books!”

Sam looked astonished for a moment, but then glared at him suspiciously.

“And not only that,” Frodo continued, trying not to smile, “but I grew a whole three inches last night!” He got to his feet and strode briskly back and forth a few times, as if to demonstrate.

“You’re havin’ me on, sir,” Sam accused, but he climbed down from his stool at the washbasin and came to stand directly in front of Frodo. “Why, I still come up ta your collar, just as I did yesterday!”

“Well, so you do, Sam!” Frodo exclaimed, feigning surprise. He couldn’t seem to resist having a bit of fun with Sam tonight. “I must’ve been mistaken, I expect.”

Sam laughed, finally catching on to Frodo’s teasing, and took up his scrub brush once more. “I do wish the first part had come true though, Mr. Frodo,” the sandy-haired child said with a wistful sigh. “Then I might hope that one day I could know all o’ Master Bilbo’s stories somehow.”

Frodo could think of no reply. He knew his uncle had offered to teach Sam to read, but the Gaffer had refused to allow it. Frodo could never tell Sam all this; knowing how close he had come to learning his letters and reading those stories for himself would surely break the lad’s heart. Frodo couldn’t bear to think any further on this topic, so he asked Sam about his new little patch of vegetable garden at Bagshot Row.