Sing a Song of Sequels

The Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien
Grade: A+

In The Lord of the Rings, a hobbit named Frodo Baggins inherits the magic ring that his uncle, Bilbo, found on a journey many years previously (the story of which is told in Tolkien’s first novel, The Hobbit). The ring turns out to be more powerful and dangerous than they could have imagined, and Frodo sets out on a perilous mission to destroy it.

Though The Lord of the Rings is technically a sequel, you’d hardly know it. The difference in tone between it and The Hobbit is striking. The Hobbit is a children’s book. TLOTR is not. Each can stand on its own. Both are equally good.

I am also a fan of the recent movie adaptations of TLOTR that were directed by Peter Jackson. Reading through the reviews of the movies on Amazon.com or similar websites, you will find the occasional diatribe by a fan of the book. Those reviewers are purists, angry over every little change to the actions, words, and motivations of the characters. I don’t share their wrath, and I hold no grudges against the screenwriters. Some changes were necessary, no getting around it. Tolkien’s honest, simple way of writing makes for lovely reading, but he told stories the way he liked them himself, and he seems to have been fond of old, long-winded mythical tales. As a result, his story-telling is often slow, occasionally to the point of tediousness. The story as he told it is far too long for three movies (even three very long movies) so the action had to be pushed along. I say kudos to Jackson for turning such a slow tale into an eminently watchable, action-packed trio of movies.

So you might wonder why, after daring to use the word “tediousness” in my description of Tolkien’s story-telling, that I still give it an A+ grade. It is because TLOTR is an inventive, epic, and exciting tale. It practically spawned an entire of genre of fiction. Even now, almost 60 years later, writers are still trying to imitate it and usually, sad to say, utterly failing to capture the spirit. When you read Tolkien, you can feel the joy with which he built his fictional world and the inventiveness that produced Bilbo, Frodo, Gollum, Gandalf, Tom Bombadil, the Ents, and Aragorn, just to name a few. So many wonderful characters and creations sprang from Tolkien’s mind. Hardly anyone in the whole history of fiction has given us so much. Most authors just cannot match him, and woe to they who try and fail.

Though I myself don’t think Tolkien’s writing is perfect, I am always surprised (and often annoyed) by other peoples’ negative opinions of his work. For example, I reviewed a book about C.S. Lewis Narnia series not too long ago. It was The Magician’s Book by Laura Miller. Since Lewis and Tolkien were good friends, Miller often mentioned Tolkien. I think my opinion of her book was somewhat colored by what she said about him. Even though she claimed to like his work, she also bashed it. She said,

Tolkien’s freakishly prodigious powers of invention could not supply the book with what four years of studying English literature had led me to expect from a great novel. . . . I had read Tess of the d’Urbervilles and Absalom, Absalom! and Crime and Punishment—to name just three books with related themes—and knew they sounded depths that Tolkien never touched.

I, too, studied English literature, and I think I understand what she is saying. She’s right, and yet she’s not. There are different types of stories, and they serve different purposes. It is not always wise or instructive to compare the merits of one against the other. Apples and oranges, so to speak. I would not say that TLOTR is the greatest book I have ever read, but it is among the best I have ever read. Nothing beats it for escapist reading. I believe that’s as important in its own way as those “depths that Tolkien never reached.” There are, in fact, times when I don’t want those kinds of depths. Sometimes I just want to marvel over talking trees, or feel reassured by the strength of Frodo and Sam’s friendship, or vicariously shrink in fear from the Ringwraiths while I snuggle safely in my own bed. That’s worth an A+ to me.

Toujours Provence by Peter Mayle
Grade: A-

This is a sequel to Mayle’s A Year in Provence, which is the very humorous story of how he and his wife relocated to Provence and all the difficulties and cultural differences they encountered along the way. Though Toujours is not as good, I think it would make an excellent epilogue to the original if read directly afterward.

Artemis Fowl: The Atlantis Complex by Eoin Colfer
Grade: B-

The Artemis Fowl books are like candy. You eat them quickly, enjoy them at the time, but hardly remember the experience later except that you might say, if prompted, that they were yummy. That’s OK, because as I mentioned above in my review of TLOTR, different books serve different purposes. But even in the realms of junk food there are good candies and not-so-good candies, and I’m afraid that the Artemis Fowl books are starting to taste like that cheap Easter candy that looks like chocolate but doesn’t taste half as good. The last book of the series that I really enjoyed was The Lost Colony. The following book, The Time Paradox, was a disappointment. This one was worse, and I do not recommend it.

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Favorite Thing: Daybed

I wanted a daybed very much when I was younger, and though I remember shopping for daybeds, somehow I never got one. Years later, I needed somewhere for guests to sleep and my office was big enough to accommodate a daybed, so I finally bought one. There’s nothing inherently special about it. It is simply a bed (well, two beds, thanks to the trundle conveniently stored beneath). It’s great for guests, as planned, but it also provides a quiet place to sleep when one of us doesn’t want to be woken by the children in the morning. It’s a comfortable place to rest and read or blog. It meets my current needs and satisfies an old dream. That is enough to make it my favorite thing today, as I rest on it and type this post.

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So Far Today

After diapering and dressing the children, feeding them their breakfast and lunch, and washing the dishes and cleaning the kitchen counter, I have now officially met the bare minimum of motherly tasks for the morning and afternoon.

I also got Marshall to use the potty once and Livia to use it twice, which is pretty darned good considering that he’s uninterested and she’s preverbal.

I read to Livia and put her down for her nap.

Marshall and I watched a bunny and three chipmunks feeding themselves in the yard.

But I am tired, so tired that the most basic tasks seem confusing.

I hope my husband gets home soon so I can take a nap.

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Favorite Things: Crayons

That’s the wonderful thing about crayons. They can take you to more places than a starship.

Guinan (Star Trek: The Next Generation character)

I love crayons. I love the way they smell. They smell sort of like candles, but better than candles. Like candles with potential. I also love the versatility of crayons. You can draw lines with them or color in large areas. You can smudge them. You can even melt them.  And if you should break them or lose them, no worries. They’re nontoxic and inexpensive to replace.

Sometimes when I’m watching Marshall in the afternoon, we color together. We draw all sorts of things, from basic shapes to flowers, cats, and toys. Sometimes he asks me to draw specific things. Once he asked for a picture of a Christmas tree with a star on top, and another time he demanded a television. One day I showed him how to draw stick figures and he made me to draw “bendans” (Band-Aids) on all of them. He is fascinated by Band-Aids.

Though I have a large collection of crayons for my personal use that includes colors that you can’t even buy anymore, the crayons that I love best are Marshall’s hard-used, jaggedly-broken crayons. They are symbolic of that time spent with him, time spent just talking and having fun together. Soon Livia will be old enough to join us. I hope that crayons will help both children learn to enjoy art freely without feeling like they have to be good at it or worrying that they’ll be criticized.

I certainly don’t worry about art critics. I love making crayon art. It’s just so colorful.

This is a picture of some of my crayon art. The hand in the lower right corner is Livia's. She can't resist crayons either!

I can’t wait until the children start making crayon art for me. They get better at almost everything every day. Soon they’ll be covering our refrigerator with their colorful masterpieces. And that’s why crayons are My Favorite Things

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The Chicken or the Egg?

Until a few days ago it had been rather quiet here at Blue-Footed Musings. After years of blogging, I can authoritatively state that an absence of posts indicates one of two things: either I’m extraordinarily busy or I’m in a really bad mood. I’m rarely that busy, so silence on the blog usually means I’m feeling blue.

What I cannot tell you, though, is which comes first, the unhappiness or the silence. Do I feel blue because I’m not writing? Or do I stop writing because I’m feeling blue?

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Favorite Things: Flowering Weeds

Blooming in the yard right now are cinquefoil, bluets, mouse-ear chickweed, buttercups, common speedwell, white clover, yellow wood sorrel, lady’s thumb, and dandelions.

Most suburbanites would be horrified by that list. “What a nasty, weedy mess!” they’d exclaim. My husband certainly doesn’t care for the weeds. He plans to dump broadleaf killer on them someday and then grow a nice, boring crop of grass.

I’m going to try to talk him out of it. My reasons are simple. Every time I go outside I see one or more of the following: robins, woodpeckers, hawks, rabbits, grasshoppers, dragonflies, frogs, snakes, salamanders, bumblebees, butterflies, and even occasionally hummingbirds. Our yard is a haven. Get rid of the weeds and maybe you get rid of everything else, too.

But even for me some of the plants don’t hold much charm. I would not mind if the chickweed and speedwell went away, for example. But before we resort to chemicals I would prefer to see how the yard evolves. Most of the plants are aggressive and they’re going to have to duke it out for dominance. The violets and clover do quite well here, and if they win I will be happy. I honestly do not understand why a lawn of grass is more appealing than one of clover and violets. I’m rooting for them (and also for the bluets and buttercups, because I can’t think of anything more cheerful than they).

And that’s why I want to keep my flowering weeds and why they are among my Favorite Things.

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Assumptions

I saw this headline in my news aggregator this morning.

Royals buried in the sand with the dog

And I thought, “OMG, which royals were killed and how did their killer get away with burying their bodies in the sand?”

So of course I clicked on the headline to read the explanatory subhead. Here’s what it said.

Prince Charles watches vintage home movies of a beach vacation with his family when he was a young boy.

Wow. That’s not at all what I was expecting. Have the media taught me to assume the worst or what?

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You Go, Girl!

Dear Livia,

You are a little over 16 months now. Here’s what you’ve been up to.

  • You’re quite tall for your age. At your last checkup the doctors told us that your height is off the charts. Your tallness makes you seem older than you really are. I sometimes have to remind myself that you’re not even 18 months yet, because you look closer to two years old.
  • You’re also physically adept for your age. You can throw a ball and kick it, even occasionally catch it. Those sound like simple activities, but they’re hard for children to learn, and you probably do them better than some kids twice your age. You go, girl!
  • You just learned how to walk down the stairs. Wow!
  • Your father grinds coffee beans every morning so that he can have the freshest coffee possible. The grinder is very loud. I, your dad, and Marshall all put our hands over our ears. You try to imitate us. You put both hands on top of your head and then you beam at us, just thrilled to be part of the daily game. It is so adorable.
  • You are still the queen of air kisses. No one air kisses better than you. No one. But what’s even better is when you approach an unwary person with your mouth wide open and slap a big, wet, toothy kiss on them. There is no experience that quite compares.
  • Speaking of teeth, you like to bite. Ouch! I’ve got bruises up and down my arms. That strong bite of yours is almost certainly your superpower. I implore you to use it for good, not evil.

Love,

Mom

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And the Winner Is . . .

Not me.

Alas, I did not win NPR’s Three-Minute Fiction contest. But having read all of the featured stories and the winning one, I can say honestly that my story was nowhere near good enough to win. Many of the stories would have beat mine to a pulp in a head-to-head match.

While I’m sad that my story was not picked, at least I can share it with you now that the contest is over. Here it is in all its unedited glory.

 

Same As It Ever Was

She closed the book, placed it on the table, and finally, decided to walk through the door.

It was as disorienting as they had said it would be. “You’ll be dizzy,” the attendant had cautioned. “Close your eyes. Wait at least ten seconds, but no more. You can’t afford more than that.”

She closed her eyes and counted. An eternity of thudding heartbeats passed. She opened her eyes, hungry for the scene she had waited sixty years to see.

He sat in his rust-bucket of a Camaro outside the 7-Eleven, blasting the radio. How she had hated that car, the way he fussed over it, and the way it refused to start every time it rained. Back then she had worried that it was the only thing he cared about. It looked wonderful to her now, and so did he, exactly like his yearbook picture.

“You won’t be magically young,” they had warned. She had known it, but knowing and accepting are two different things. Only the urgency of her mission gave her the strength to limp on her old-lady legs toward the young god in the car.

She stopped before the driver’s side window. The heavy metal strains vibrated against her face, threatening to choke her if she opened her mouth. What if it were impossible to change anything? “The past takes care of itself,” they had said. Still she had to try.

She spoke his name. He could not hear her over the music. She reached for his shoulder through the open window.

“Hey, what’s your problem?” he said, jerking away in annoyance. Her veined hand drifted away in remorse, like a ghost.

She had less than a minute now.

“Tim,” she said. “I am Amy’s aunt.” It was only a small lie.

“So? What do you want with me? Is she sick or something? I’ve been waiting for her for over an hour.” He had never been so rude to young and beautiful girls.

“She’s not sick, Tim. She’s pregnant. Tonight her parents will pack her up and move her to a town called Wheeler, Oregon and you will never see her again. You must stop them. Tonight, Tim. You must help her.”

She never heard his reply. She felt an intense pain, as if a giant hand had grabbed her from behind and squeezed her. The parking lot, the Camaro, and the boy all faded to black.

She awoke in the same sterile room she had left just minutes before. She was lying on a cot. The attendant handed her a folder. “Is this you?” he asked.

She read through the dossier. Nothing in her life had changed. She closed the folder with a sigh.

The attendant tried to cheer her up. “Don’t feel badly,” he said. “The past never changes. No one would be allowed to go back if it did, you know.”

She understood, but she asked the attendant to look up Tim’s past anyway.

The attendant’s computer quickly churned out the information. “It says he died in a car crash in 1982 in Oregon.” At her look of surprise, he said, “Isn’t that what happened before?”

“Yes,” she said. “He died that year, but in Pennsylvania. He was on his way to a party.”

“Well,” said the attendant. “Maybe you’re misremembering. The past doesn’t change. Anyway, what difference would the place make?”

“None at all,” she replied, but she knew otherwise. It made all the difference in the world.

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Flying to The Moon

Dear Marshall,

We’re having some work done in the yard today. We hired someone to dig a drainage trench at the top of the hill and down the side. You must have been watching out the window as the digging machine came up the driveway, because the first thing you said to me this morning was “There’s a crane up there!” I didn’t think “crane” was quite the right word, so I grabbed your Cars book and we paged through it together until we found a picture that looked just like the machine. Now we know to call it an “excavator.”

I don’t know whether that book caused your fascination with vehicles or just fueled it, but either way, you’re totally into vehicles right now. There are some videos on Netflix about monster trucks, airplanes, etc. You love to watch those over and over again. And today you wanted so badly to go outside and look at the excavator and the dump truck that your dad took you out for a few minutes. You threw a fit when you had to come back inside. I wasn’t surprised. I bet you’d be happy to stay outside all day and watch them work.

I don’t share your enthusiasm for vehicles, but I’m glad you’re finding so many things to be interested in. And it’s so amazing to watch your imagination waking up. You’re starting to play pretend and make up stories. For example, you put two long blocks on a square block and called it a plane. Then you rearranged them and called it a train. You also managed to pull off part of the buckle on the changing pad in your room. You call this piece your rocket ship and you talk about flying to the moon.

The way technology is advancing, who knows what will be possible when you grow up. Maybe you will be able to go to the moon. And that goal is as good a place as any to start building your dreams. So I’ll encourage you in it for as long as you’re interested, because just like Big Nutbrown Hare says in Guess How Much I Love You, “I love you right up to the moon—and back.”

Love,

Mom

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