Headed for Oxford, beautiful Oxford, tomorrow.
To see, among other glorious sights, the Radcliffe Camera, which Tolkien hated–it was his imaginary basis for the temple of Sauron.
I love JRR Tolkien–but would he like me? He didn’t like modern stuff–Saruman’s dirty orc-factories. He liked hobbit yeoman farmers with loyal servants.
My own French-Canadian great-grandparents poured out of picturesque farmwork into dirty factories. Freedom, they wanted–maybe just one small chance for a better life.
And just a tiny few of them got that chance–my father’s grandfather Hugo Dubuque became a lawyer, called in his obituary “a credit to his race.”
My French-Canadian mother’s aunt Leda Charpentier didn’t go back to school on the day she turned 12 because that was the magical age to start work in “the mill.” Leda’s luck turned later, when the mill owner rented her out to some friends as a temporary maid/helper.
And my own luck began when, many years later, Leda’s orphaned niece Clothilde struck the warm-hearted fancy of maiden ladies for whom Leda was now cook-housekeeper. In time they adopted my mother and sent her to Smith. I remember those lovable maiden ladies, including “ma tante” Leda, from my own early childhood.
But back to Oxford, back to JRR Tolkien. How foolish it would be for me to try to refute Tolkien because my family history doesn’t fit in with his fantasy. I love his fantasy–reading through one page of its watered-down quotes puts tears in my eyes.
Part of growing up is re-finding the missed connections where cranky cynicism cut us loose from stuff we once loved. I’ll be looking for Tolkien’s magic next week in Oxford–even as I (maybe) drink tea next to Sauron’s temple, which Tolkien, on so many levels, would have despised.
***
Frodo: I can’t do this, Sam.
Sam: I know. It’s all wrong. By rights we shouldn’t even be here. But we are. It’s like in the great stories, Mr. Frodo. The ones that really mattered. Full of darkness and danger, they were. And sometimes you didn’t want to know the end. Because how could the end be happy? How could the world go back to the way it was when so much bad had happened? But in the end, it’s only a passing thing, this shadow. Even darkness must pass. A new day will come. And when the sun shines it will shine out the clearer. Those were the stories that stayed with you. That meant something, even if you were too small to understand why. But I think, Mr. Frodo, I do understand. I know now. Folk in those stories had lots of chances of turning back, only they didn’t. They kept going. Because they were holding on to something.
Frodo: What are we holding onto, Sam?
Sam: That there’s some good in this world, Mr. Frodo… and it’s worth fighting for.