Making Gifts by

Making Gifts

Read Making Gifts

It was said in Hobbiton, often with a derisive sniff, that Drogo Baggins had gone to live in Buckland instead of bringing his bride home to Bywater, because of his father-in-law ’s table. (No one liked to think the queer folks in Buckland were better in the kitchen than proper folk in the Shire proper.) But while Drogo would certainly never turn down a good meal, what had really drawn him to Buckland was the craft. Even before he’d met Primula, he’d known that the best clay in the Shire was to be found on the banks of the Brandywine, and there was nothing quite so satisfying as throwing a good quality lump of clay onto a wheel and spinning it ‘round to transform it into something useful.

Brandy Hall was a veritable warren, and there were many workshops and smithies and outbuildings attached to it. Drogo was always happy to have the potters ’ workshop to himself on a quiet afternoon. His bowls and pots weren’t quite as nice as some of his wife’s relations, but they got the job done and that was all anyone really asked for. There was something very satisfying about the process, of slapping the clay onto the wheel and setting it spinning, watching it fan out or contract, rise and fall, all according to the movement of his hands. Primula liked his wobbly-looking vases. She insisted that he fire them as they were, and then she painted them with the bright-colored glazes that her cousins made. They were scattered about their rooms, filled with fresh flowers in spring and summer, and with dried flowers and branches in the fall and winter.

Drogo ’s favorites, though, were the pair platters that he made just after Frodo was born. He’d pressed Frodo’s tiny palms into the bottoms of one, and his tiny feet into the other. Primula rarely used them, and usually to set out pastries for parties; mostly they sat proudly displayed up on a shelf.

On this afternoon Drogo was not at the wheel. His birthday was coming up and he wanted to make some clay pipes for his cousins in Hobbiton. Not for Bilbo, of course, who preferred the longer wooden ones. Bilbo was a hard hobbit to find presents for. Dora was simpler; Drogo had bought a new crystal inkwell for her off a passing dwarf. It would hold her favorite blue ink very nicely, and sparkle in the sunshine through her window.

He hummed as he worked, smoothing the clay into shape with his thumbs. The creak of the door heralded a small visitor, and Drogo looked over with a smile. “Hello there, Frodo lad! Would you like to help your old dad make presents!”

“Yeah!” Frodo’s whole face lit up at the prospect of playing about with clay, and he darted over to climb onto the stool next to Drogo. A small lump of clay was found for him, and he immediately squished it between his fingers, giggling at the feel of it.

As they worked, Drogo asked about Frodo ’s morning, and Frodo happily chattered about the games he had played with his cousins, and the set of wooden blocks with letters carved into them that Cousin Bilbo had sent so that Frodo could begin to learn. He could already recite the first ten letters, and beamed with pride when Drogo told him how clever he was. And Frodo really was clever. He already had a mind for stories, and asked questions about everything—and remembered most of the answers, too.

By supper time, Drogo had finished two pipes and had helped Frodo make a simple little coil bowl that he could give to Primula in a few months ’ time for his own birthday. A very fine afternoon, indeed.