Amongst my ealiest memories, way back in the hazy parts of my brain where the memories are a gathering of senses rather than a sharp image, I recall my mother reading from Tolkien.

We would begin each day gathered around her, often still cuddled in a blanket, while she read from the scriptures and then from some other book–and most often that other book was either a Laura Ingalls Wilder book, or Tolkien.

As I became a lover of books in my own right, I returned to these series again and again.  I love them both.  But The Lord of the Rings has had the most significant impact.  I first read the series independently around the age of eleven or twelve, re-read them in college, again when I was expecting my son, and again just a few years ago while taking a college class in which these books were the curriculum.  Of course, I’ve also flipped through to read favorite parts, and at one point had a fair amount of the poetry memorized.  To say they have impacted my life would be a gross understatement, but it’s difficult to find better words.  I’ve never really found the words to convey the core meaning of the books, either, but I think Wolfe expresses it well in this essay.

Here’s to John Ronald Reuel Tolkien, a man in whose footsteps I aspire to follow.

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