Due to one boy's interest in riddles, our offspring recently found themselves immersed in the adventures of the most excellent Mr. Bilbo Baggins. Thus our home, once occupied by a tribe of boys, now is The Shire - filled with barefoot hobbits. But these hobbits tend to unexpectedly convert into a horde of trolls, a party of elves, gory goblins or a company of bearded dwarfs on a mission in Middle-earth.
Our 80-something year old abode has worked out quite to their advantage, as the milieu is by default conducive to adventure: in January our yard became akin to Gollum’s slimy island, surrounded by dark sewage water as our ancient cardboard plumbing finally and firmly gave notice and was laid to rest next to a new PVC line. In tandem with that event, our not-so-young-anymore hot water heater became cold as the waters of Forest River, leaving hobbits and dwarfs (and a much perturbed Gandalf-in-residence) shivering on the banks of the tub. But of course the greatest adventure always involves a dragon – which was conquered in our laundry room when our Smaugy dryer exhaled several scary puffs of smoke last week… and died.
But of course it would be dull for the story to end there, so it continues: you probably knew (though I had to be informed) that hobbits are short but have no beards, while authentic dwarfs are short with beards. Well, we had only the short part of the dwarf description covered until one of our company (quite unintentionally) acquired the with beard part this weekend.
The details of the event remain murky, and the available facts are limited to:
- One bunk bed ladder
- A body-floor collision
- A gaping chin
- Lots of blood
- One hollering dwarf
|Photo and transportation-to-ER credit: Uschi Jeffcoat|
And indeed he did.
Being now a peculiar hobbit with a beard, he certainly earned his whiskers honestly. And I daresay I detect a twinkle of accomplishment in his eye (and that chin poking just a little with pride) when he passes under the admiring gaze of the four beardless hobbits sharing his hole.