Tolkien's Angel

I was at my desk wrestling with the problem of finding something original to say in an upcoming TV interview. I had written a book called

about spiritual childhood experiences, and the producers of the show wanted me to talk about parenting and spirituality. But I couldn't think of anything fresh and stimulating. As I stared out at an uninspiring world of brown grass and bare trees, my 12-year old son, Jeremy, burst in asking, "Dad, what’s a hobbit?"

I looked at him and felt a smile of unexpected delight spread across my face. I hadn't thought about the little people called hobbits in many years.

"My English teacher gave us a list of books. We 're supposed to pick one to read over winter break. Ever hear of The Hobbit?"

I thought back to when I was a teenager in the late sixties and had first discovered J.R.R. Tolkien and his wondrous fantasy tales of a place called Middle-Earth, which ostensibly resembled Old England, but was populated by people and strange, talking creatures who had incredible adventures. The Hobbit, as well as Tolkien's celebrated trilogy, The Lord of the Rings, remained firmly impressed on my imagination, and I was delighted to know that my son was about to discover the same pleasures.

Jeremy looked at me expectantly. I pushed aside my notes and turned to him. "Hobbits," I explained, "are furry-footed beings who make their homes underground. They like to smoke pipes and are extraordinarily brave."

He raised his eyebrows. "So, you've read it, huh? Great! Then may I come to for help if I get stuck, especially when I have to write the essay assignment?"

For a second I considered my looming deadlines. How would I find time to reread Tolkien? But Jeremy was counting on me, and lately I had spent an awful lot of time buried in my work. "All right," I said, giving his shoulder squeeze. "Sounds like fun."

Continued on page 2: Everything looked bright, until World War I began... »