37. Snow

The first snow falls as we reach Near Water. With Gandalf and Faeglin’s help, I get the paintings for the Big House hung. These are much larger and naturally higher up, and beyond my ability to hang myself. I make mulled cider and we chat or read as the snowstorm continues through the day. I settle my guests for the night and go back to the smial via the tunnel rather than risk the steep path outside. 

Once tucked in bed, I pull out Frodo’s journal and flip to the end. I’d kept my promise to Robin, jotting down memoirs as they occur to me. Most of the stories are from my children’s youths, and a few are from the Quest, including how we turned Rivendell upside down. I recount births, deaths, courtships, travels, and the various antics of myself, Merry, Pippin and Frodo in our misspent and carefree youths. 

I probably should be writing more about the Quest and the defeat of Sauron, but that tale’s been written and these folk here know far more about the full story than I ever will. They don’t know so much about the Shire or Hobbits, and that I can maybe teach them something about if anyone reads this.

Tonight I write of the snow that fell the year Rose and I were married. We’d gone out in the early morning to walk atop the fresh snow and ended up on top the Hill beneath the oak, looking out over Hobbiton. The wounds from Saruman’s nasty work were gone and the young trees were growing swiftly. The mallorn stood tall above the rest and smoke rose from the stacks of New Row. 

“A new beginning for a new adventure,” I end with a flourish. What will be my next adventure, I wonder.

GF 11/1/12

To be continued...