Happy Birthday, Mew1945
Jul. 18th, 2008 01:23 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dreamflowerOne of the first stories I ever read of Mews was "In Frodo's Hands". It was so delightfully gentle and domestic, and filled with wonderful sensory detail. I really loved the interactions between Frodo and little Pippin:
Da's hands are large and very strong and square-shaped, with long fingers and callouses from pony reins. Mama's hands are smaller and sort of oval-shaped, and the palms are soft as cushions, and her fingernails are longer than Da's and rubbed to a shine with a special cloth she keeps on her dressing table. To my surprise, Cousin Frodo's hands are near as small as my mama's hands, and there are no callouses on his palm, which is smooth and warm, but his hand feels strong, like Da's, and it closes around my small, sun-browned, sticky hand in a grip that is neither too lax, nor too tight, but firm and comforting.
"Gracious, Pippin, what have you been handling?" He looks down at me, his eyebrows drawing together, wrinkling his forehead. "You're as sticky as a jam pot."
I duck my head, wishing to pull my hand away, my cheeks very warm of a sudden. Mama had given me a pear in the carriage and the sweet juice had run over my hands as I ate it. I had tossed the core away at the roadside and licked the juice away, but some still remains on my fingers.
"Sorry," I whisper.
"Not to worry." My cousin looks down at me and smiles for the first time, and I think of how the sun will come out on a cloudy day and suddenly everything is bright and warm. I can feel my whole self sort of sigh, and I smile back.
"First, we must wash your hands, and mine as well," Cousin Frodo says firmly.
He leads me inside Bag End, into a small room inside the round green door, where there stands a coat rack, alongside a table piled with books at one end, with a candlestand on the other end and a flat silver dish where a letter in an envelope rests. The mat is rough and brushy as we wipe the dust from our feet, but the floor is cool and smooth when we step onto it. Sun makes pools of light beneath the round windows. There is no sound from anywhere inside the smial. I am not used to such quiet, and feel the urge to shout just to break it. I close my lips together quite tightly.
"Come along," my cousin says, tugging a bit at my hand, and I follow him down the curving corridor that leads into a rather large, sunny kitchen where a long, well-scrubbed wooden table sits in the middle, with chairs around it, and there are many cupboards lining the walls. All their doors and drawers are shut and my mind begins at once to itch with curiosity to see what is behind all those doors. I put my hands firmly behind my back.
On the table sits a yellow crockery bowl with a white cloth covering its top, and beside it sits a small pitcher and a basket that holds apples and pears, green and gold and red. The fire crackles in the black stove that squats in one corner, and another small fire burns in the fireplace beneath a humming teakettle hung on a crane. The air smells of apples and yeast.
I know about yeast. Once I put a whole jar of some brownish stuff I had found in the pantry into a bowl of water to see what would happen. Foam happened, lots of foam that bubbled over the bowl onto the table and onto the floor, and kept on foaming whilst I tried to sop it up with a dishtowel that lay on the pastry board. Cook screamed when she saw it. the scullery maidens ran to and fro, gathering all the towels and cloths they could find to mop up the mess. Mama was sad. Da was angry. I was sent to my room without supper.
"Here we are." Cousin Frodo leads me across the room, around the table, to a smaller, narrow table beneath the window, where a basin sits, and a towel is hung from a wooden bar fastened to the wall. Beside the basin is a large pitcher filled with water, I suppose, and a small brown dish that is filled with soft white soap.
Cousin Frodo releases my hand in order to fetch a small stepstool from the corner and set it in front of the table, then pours water from the pitcher into the basin. He lifts me carefully, his hands warm and strong on my waist, and stands me before him on the stool so that I can reach the basin.
"You first," he says. "Be very thorough, Pippin. It is important to be thorough in all you do. And to be strictly clean in one's kitchen."
"Yes, cousin." Everyone is always telling me to do things, and how to do things, and it becomes tiresome because I know they don't expect me to listen, or to do it right anyhow. But somehow I know that Cousin Frodo expects no less of me than he is asking. He does not speak to me as an adult Hobbit to a child, but as one Hobbit of sense to another. It makes me stand straighter and look at my sticky, grimy hands and make a face. It makes me want to earn another of his smiles.
The water is cool, but not cold. I dip my hands, then scoop up a bit of the soap with my fingers. It is cold and slippery, and smells of lavender, and it turns to white foam very quickly as I rub my hands together, washing them as thoroughly as I can, determined to give Cousin Frodo no cause for disappointment.
"That will do," he says. "Hold out your hands."
I obey and watch as he pours clean water from the pitcher over my hands, rinsing away the soap. Finished, he gives me the towel and I rub my hands dry and hold them up to inspect them. Cousin Frodo inspects them too, and nods, with another smile that makes me feel warm and happy inside.
Da's hands are large and very strong and square-shaped, with long fingers and callouses from pony reins. Mama's hands are smaller and sort of oval-shaped, and the palms are soft as cushions, and her fingernails are longer than Da's and rubbed to a shine with a special cloth she keeps on her dressing table. To my surprise, Cousin Frodo's hands are near as small as my mama's hands, and there are no callouses on his palm, which is smooth and warm, but his hand feels strong, like Da's, and it closes around my small, sun-browned, sticky hand in a grip that is neither too lax, nor too tight, but firm and comforting.
"Gracious, Pippin, what have you been handling?" He looks down at me, his eyebrows drawing together, wrinkling his forehead. "You're as sticky as a jam pot."
I duck my head, wishing to pull my hand away, my cheeks very warm of a sudden. Mama had given me a pear in the carriage and the sweet juice had run over my hands as I ate it. I had tossed the core away at the roadside and licked the juice away, but some still remains on my fingers.
"Sorry," I whisper.
"Not to worry." My cousin looks down at me and smiles for the first time, and I think of how the sun will come out on a cloudy day and suddenly everything is bright and warm. I can feel my whole self sort of sigh, and I smile back.
"First, we must wash your hands, and mine as well," Cousin Frodo says firmly.
He leads me inside Bag End, into a small room inside the round green door, where there stands a coat rack, alongside a table piled with books at one end, with a candlestand on the other end and a flat silver dish where a letter in an envelope rests. The mat is rough and brushy as we wipe the dust from our feet, but the floor is cool and smooth when we step onto it. Sun makes pools of light beneath the round windows. There is no sound from anywhere inside the smial. I am not used to such quiet, and feel the urge to shout just to break it. I close my lips together quite tightly.
"Come along," my cousin says, tugging a bit at my hand, and I follow him down the curving corridor that leads into a rather large, sunny kitchen where a long, well-scrubbed wooden table sits in the middle, with chairs around it, and there are many cupboards lining the walls. All their doors and drawers are shut and my mind begins at once to itch with curiosity to see what is behind all those doors. I put my hands firmly behind my back.
On the table sits a yellow crockery bowl with a white cloth covering its top, and beside it sits a small pitcher and a basket that holds apples and pears, green and gold and red. The fire crackles in the black stove that squats in one corner, and another small fire burns in the fireplace beneath a humming teakettle hung on a crane. The air smells of apples and yeast.
I know about yeast. Once I put a whole jar of some brownish stuff I had found in the pantry into a bowl of water to see what would happen. Foam happened, lots of foam that bubbled over the bowl onto the table and onto the floor, and kept on foaming whilst I tried to sop it up with a dishtowel that lay on the pastry board. Cook screamed when she saw it. the scullery maidens ran to and fro, gathering all the towels and cloths they could find to mop up the mess. Mama was sad. Da was angry. I was sent to my room without supper.
"Here we are." Cousin Frodo leads me across the room, around the table, to a smaller, narrow table beneath the window, where a basin sits, and a towel is hung from a wooden bar fastened to the wall. Beside the basin is a large pitcher filled with water, I suppose, and a small brown dish that is filled with soft white soap.
Cousin Frodo releases my hand in order to fetch a small stepstool from the corner and set it in front of the table, then pours water from the pitcher into the basin. He lifts me carefully, his hands warm and strong on my waist, and stands me before him on the stool so that I can reach the basin.
"You first," he says. "Be very thorough, Pippin. It is important to be thorough in all you do. And to be strictly clean in one's kitchen."
"Yes, cousin." Everyone is always telling me to do things, and how to do things, and it becomes tiresome because I know they don't expect me to listen, or to do it right anyhow. But somehow I know that Cousin Frodo expects no less of me than he is asking. He does not speak to me as an adult Hobbit to a child, but as one Hobbit of sense to another. It makes me stand straighter and look at my sticky, grimy hands and make a face. It makes me want to earn another of his smiles.
The water is cool, but not cold. I dip my hands, then scoop up a bit of the soap with my fingers. It is cold and slippery, and smells of lavender, and it turns to white foam very quickly as I rub my hands together, washing them as thoroughly as I can, determined to give Cousin Frodo no cause for disappointment.
"That will do," he says. "Hold out your hands."
I obey and watch as he pours clean water from the pitcher over my hands, rinsing away the soap. Finished, he gives me the towel and I rub my hands dry and hold them up to inspect them. Cousin Frodo inspects them too, and nods, with another smile that makes me feel warm and happy inside.