Big Folk doors were tall and narrow, remembers Sam, rectangles made of sharp edges and hard lines. They were heavy and hung on great hinges of iron, hard to swing open and closed. They were often barred shut, locked by great thrusts of wood or complicated mechanisms which rusted easily and needed a great deal of oil to be coaxed into moving again. Nothing like hobbit doors, great open circles made of light wood with quaint handles and cheery colors. Hobbit doors opened easily and merrily to visitors, often accompanied by the tingling of a door-bell. They were quaint and snug and brought images of home and welcome.
Frodo’s eyes had been like that, long ago before their quest. Warm, inviting circles of deepest blue with sparkling pupils that welcomed visitors. He opened up easily, laughing at small pranks and even stealing from pantries with his cousins on occasions, a past-time many considered childish for one who had entered his majority. Sam used to smile when those eyes said ‘Pass the butter’ and laugh when too much ale lit them with fiery sparks and feel something more when the irises caught the flickering of firelight and held his for long, quiet moments.
But that was then. Now the blue paint is faded and peeling, dull and flat, showing plainly the harsh signs of wear and storm-damage, the wood buckling beneath the weight of the years, the doorknob broken off and the hinges rusted shut. No one is invited or received into the dusty cobwebs of his master’s mind, no matter how insistently or loudly they knock.
Sam had thought that the happy things like Elanor and the coming of summer would be enough to give those eyes a fresh coat of paint. But the wood there has been dry and dusty for ages, and though it drinks in happiness as though dying of thirst, none of that blue cheerfulness has returned life to the depths of Frodo’s irises. Coat after coat Sam paints, and the wood drinks, but still you can see the long strips where the paint peeled off completely, revealing horrid knots and ugly twists in the grain.
Sam does not grow discouraged. He has fixed many doors in his life, the one at Bag End often. He knows how to clean hinges so that they swing clean, how to repair the intricate workings of the lock and polish the iron plate to a high sheen. And he knows that no wood, no matter how old and dry and stubborn, can withstand enough painting, and, given time and patience and the right mixture, the door will shine in the bright colors of its youth and become warm and inviting once again, swinging open to admit visitors and sunshine and clean spring air.
Sam and Rosie will keep giving Frodo fresh coats of paint, as long as it takes. Babies and summers and lazy mornings and tales told at the feet of rolling green country. They will paint and polish and tinker, and one day their Frodo will swing open with a tinkling of chimes and invite them in again.
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