By jonasI remember the first time "The Hobbit" by J.R.R. Tolkien fell into my hands. I was in Mrs. Dewey's English class in seventh grade, the texture of the worn pages between my fingertips. There was something magical about it, the way Tolkien wove that world—every tiny Hobbit hole in Hobbiton seemed as real as the classroom I sat in. My mind wandered into Middle-earth, far from the chalk dust and the hum of fluorescent lights above.
Brian, my best friend, and I, we found refuge in that world. We'd escape to his grandparents' farm on weekends, donning cloaks stitched from our childish reveries, forging our way through fields like Bilbo and Gandalf—wizards and hobbits on adventures grander than life. Our laughter would bounce off the hills, and the cows grazing nearby became snorting, menacing orcs in our imagination.
My collection of Tolkien's works grew over the years, their spines lining my shelf like ancient tomes. The crowning jewel: a first edition of The Lord of the Rings, gifted by my wife, Catherine, for my birthday. Holding it felt like touching a portal to a past filled with picnics masked as quests and pastures turned battlefields. It was more than a book; it was a gatekeeper of memories. Now, nestled amongst the rare treasures on my shelf, these editions wait. They are silent guardians of a childhood past and a heritage for my own children. They might not walk the paths of Middle-earth as I did, but I hope they'll feel the echoes of the story—the very same that sparked a lifelong love of adventure in me. Whether they cherish the text, or just cherish the love I have for it, these books will stand testament to the wonder that once captivated a seventh-grader in Mrs. Dewey's class.