“He should have just sent the eagles,” I said, making the
greatest mistake of my week.
“Oh, you like the giant birds?” asked Grandpa. “I’m sure
they would have been inconspicuous flying over several hundred miles of terrain
that’s populated solely by armies, flying reptiles and the ghost of The Devil.
That couldn’t go wrong.”
“Just fly straight to Mount Doom.”
“Because they wouldn’t look there?”
“They weren’t looking for the hobbits there!”
“Because they’re not twenty feet wide and flying overhead!”
“Then send the army.”
“Which is distinctly smaller than Sauron’s and lacks the
home field.”
“They went anyway!”
“And they only won because the little boys destroyed the
ring.”
“They could still go and distract him while the eagles fly
over.”
“Again, giant birds fleeing battle to dive into one of his
most sensitive locales would draw attention. Here.” At this point Grandpa made
a circle with his index finger and thumb. He held it midway between him and his
grandson. His left hand balled into a fist and loomed like a cobra preparing to
strike over his head. “Try dropping anything into this hole while I use this
hand to punch you in the face.”
“Grandpa!” He pushed all the way to the back of his bunk. “I
didn’t know you took Lord of the Rings
so seriously.”
“I don’t. Fantasy is for nancies. But Tolkien and I both
served in the European theatre, and I’m not going to let people badmouth his
work just because they like birds.”
Counter est. March 2, 2008