About the Shortage of Grain in Hertfordshire

by worninshoes

 

“Every one of them knew that as time went by they’d

Get a little bit older and a little bit slower but

It’s all the same thing, in this case manufactured by

Someone who’s always umpteen”

 

Not that it’s a secret. Nobody pays attention. There are more Hobbits in Chelsea than there are in Middle Earth. At least not any that I know, at present, which is to say, at the moment.

    The moment is all there is. Why do so many people want to be somewhere else instead? Waste of perfectly good skin if you asked me.

“You’re thinking out loud again,” said the young Hobbit. “How many do you know, anyway?”

“How many what?”

“Hobbits,” she said, querulously.

“Just the one,” I quipped. “At the moment.”

“I know you aren’t exactly social,” she remarked.

“Nobody ever accused me of being sociable, either.” I could feel her eyes glaring at my knees, arms crossed atop her chest, biting her lip, scowling with twinkling eyes and a dimple where a smile was hiding in plain sight. She threw out her arms and off we walked along the same path that lay before us in the same moment.

 

***

 

She’s right, of course. I’m a poster child introvert. I think extroverted humans wonder whether I’m unhappy or just shy. I’m neither. I don’t believe in happy. That’s something that television invented; a concept designed to make people be like everybody else and want lots of stuff that will make them feel in conformity with the rest of their herd, and make the shepherds wealthy. Happiness is a myth. Contentment, now that’s something worthwhile.

The thing about being a contented introvert is some people think you’re unhappy and want to help. The Widow Black for example, to name names, who lives across the street from me, is always trying to bring me out of myself. She once had a notion that there should be an organization for people like me. We could get together once a month, play cards, go to ballgames, have a potluck, fly balsa wood gliders down at the field – anything to get us socializing and out in world of the living.

“You need to mingle with other people.” She is as stubbornly persistent as she is wrong.

“Too much commotion,” I told her.

“Nonsense!” she’d insisted. She offered to bake pies and send out invitations – a get-to-know-each-other soirée sort of thing, at her home if the community center was already booked. Knowing the Widow as I do, you can bet it would already be reserved for a wedding or something.  It wouldn’t surprise me at all if the she knows every introvert in the neighborhood – which accounts for nearly a third of all neighborhoods in any given county – and keeps tabs on the comings and goings of each and every one of us.

“Chester Wentworth tried that once,” I reminded her. “Had ribs and burgers cooking on the barbecue, fine smelling smoke it was, too, until somebody called the fire department.” She’d held that against me for two months. She’d been behind the whole thing, of course.

Who shows up to a party for introverts?

“You should at least know who’s who, be neighborly.”

“We all know each other.”

“How? You never talk to each other!”

“We nod in passing, or when we’re out mowing the lawn. We acknowledge each other’s existence, that’s all. It’s plenty enough. You don’t understand. You can’t. It’s not just me; we all know that.”

I could tell she was taken aback by that. Which was fine. She’d leave me alone for three or four days, peeking out from behind her curtains.

 

***

 

“I really worry about the people I know who live alone,” Hobbit said as though reading my thoughts. We’d gone on nearly a mile with only hidden creatures and the wind listening.

“Why?”

She stopped short, brows knit, chin resting on her thumb, thinking. It’s one of the many endearing qualities of Hobbits: They consider answers to important questions, unlike humans that blurt out platitudes or expound baseless opinions.

A ribbon snake approached at the edge of the path, stood up on its neck in curiosity. We acknowledged one another’s presence with sidelong glances. A snake’s tongue is the brightest color of red there is, I thought, while together we waited for the Hobbit to arrive at her conclusion.

“Where are you going?” the snake asked.

“Fishing,” I guessed.

“You don’t have poles.”

“We’re going fishing,” Hobbit interjected. “Not catching.”

The snake, pleased enough with the explanation, took its opportunity to slither across the path without distracting the Hobbit, and disappeared into the grass.

“I worry they might be lonely,” Hobbit said. “Being all alone so much.”

“There’s a difference between being alone and being lonely,” I began to say, realizing at once she already knew that. “You worry they might be out of bread, or short on eggs, or want for a little company, don’t you? You’re worried they might be afraid.”

She nodded.

“I love you, too, Hobbit.”

She reached out her little hand and, at least for the moment, we were on our way to the next turn in the trail for the umpteenth time.

“Did you ever notice how red their tongues are?” one of us said to the other. “It’s such a marvelous color of red, don’t you think?”