How I met Sam from the LOTR trilogy


Who would have thought the son of Patty Duke and Gomez Adams would ever show up in the "buckle on the Bible belt"---namely, Springfield, Ohio? Well, boys and girls, listen well and I will tell...When The Return of the King had won Best Picture, when I was still but a girl-child in college, when the shouts for war were still drowning out softer voices for something else, when fear was so close it became as natural as any other limb, this is when something happened.

Seriously: Who hadn't seen the Lord of the Rings trilogy? I, along with a devout throng, had waited with an equal measure of patience and skepticism for the screen adaptation of our most beloved text. My first "real" book was The Hobbit, which my parents got for my sister and me after we fell in love with the cartoon version of LOTR. At the ages of 5 and 6, who could resist an orc singing "Where there's a whip," (crack) "there's a way. Where there's a whip," (crack) "there's a way"?

But the book is what made Middle Earth come alive. There was magic not just in the world Tolkien created, but in the words themselves---in the very idea that he could build a world with nothing but words. I was in thrall; I was filled with a sense of wonder as profound as any revelation. And I've never recovered. I wasn't disappointed. The movie revived those dim synapses of my pre-Christian imagination. And when I read in the paper that Sean Astin, "Samwise the Brave," was visiting a local college to promote literacy, I bought a ticket to hear him speak.

It was too strange, too auspicious...too cool to ignore.

So I went. My seat was in the center of the auditorium, about six rows from the stage. The house was stacked neatly into rows and columns of people of various ages and kinds. The President of the college read a short, prepared introduction in a nasal tenor, but no one really paid much attention to him. He wasn't what we had come to see.

When "Sam" entered from stage left, in the flesh, everyone was one his or her feet, flinging hands together like enthusiastic seals. There were more than a few shouts and whistles springing from the throats of the students (and me). The object of our attentions took his time getting to the podium. He seemed used to such outbursts and applause, waving casually, locking eyes when possible, and flashing a slightly roguish, bright smile at all of us. His stature and hair were short (he did play a hobbit, after all). He even had his hobbit weight, but a beard had sprouted (that no hobbit could grow). Maybe it was the character he had assumed in our in our heads, or his his status as hereditary, Hollywood royalty, but as he stood before the podium, his look said to those gathered, "I'm here. I care. I'm like you. I'm mischievous. Get to know me. Trust me."


And we did. The hush, the collective pause that descended when he raised his palms in supplication was far louder than the cheering that preceded it.

Then came the familiar/strange voice. It was the same one that had said in a cockney accent, "There's some good in this world, Mr. Frodo, and it's worth fighting for." Only now, the voice was the shaped by its natural American rhythms, as it was in Rudy—--or even The Goonies.

Our Americanized Sam spoke of many things. He spoke of his children. Of his parents effort to make his life as normal as possible. Of the importance of community colleges, which he had himself attended. But there were two thing that struck me, and are the reason why there is any story to tell.

The first had to do with his father, who taught English at Johns Hopkins. The younger Astin mentioned that the "Cider Toast" that had been taking place every year at the grave of Edgar Allen Poe in Baltimore ever since the poet's death. The elder Astin was asked to recite "The Raven" and other excerpts at this event, where he also dressed up as the poet. Sean Astin mentioned this fact about his father because he had just seen him perform at the Toast. Well, my chin slipped out of my palm—I had been at the Toast the previous year while I was in volunteer service in Maryland. Not only was I surprised that he was talking about an event we both attended, but also because it was a good, strong memory we both shared, across the usual breaches between the possible and the impossible.

That would have been enough to make the evening worthwhile, but it was not the end. Towards the end of his speech, Sean/Sam asked if those who considered themselves writers would raise their hands. I put mine up, along with about 20 other people. He looked at all of us and smiled. "OK, you can put your hands down, but you're not off the hook yet." There was a little laughter from the audience at this, which he allowed to die before continuing. "The Lord of the Rings is a great piece of literature. Now, I'm not a writer—my talents lie elsewhere, but I was proud to be a part of the world he created. There are great books just waiting to be read. But there are also good books waiting to be written. Read Tolkien, but don't stop there. There could be someone in this very auditorium who will write something better than the Lord of the Rings."

(Ok, his words might be a little cheesy, but I took a nibble. You can put back alot of cheese for the people you like.)

His speech was over. He bowed. There was a standing ovation. As we clapped, Astin came down off the stage and walked towards the front row, shaking hands. People began to push forward in one wave, wanting to press up against the divinity in their midst. Not wanting to be caught in the tug, I looked for the nearest exit, which was down the aisle and to the right of the stage, but that was where Astin was heading. I moved on the balls of my feet towards freedom, trying to be quick and dodge the throng. But I hit an obstacle: Sean Astin.

We were face to face before I could stop my momentum; I put out my hand and he quickly put out his, so that we shook hands rather than fell. If he hadn't seen me coming we would have certainly crashed into each other. But it made for a very close, very tight handshake. The blood went to my cheeks. I didn't want to seem like a fawning little fan. He saw my look and seemed to understand.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Rachel. Rachel Peterson." I said.

"You're a writer?" he asked.

"When I give myself permission," I replied, surprised he had remembered I had raised my hand. "I was at the Cider Toast in Baltimore, too. Your Dad did a great job."

"Thanks. I'll tell him."

"And thanks for coming here to Springfield. I'm sure there are other lots of other places you could be."

"Yeah, but I like doing this. Thank you for listening. Would you like an autograph?"

"I'm really very happy to be standing here and meeting you, but would it insult you to say, 'No' to an autograph?"

He leaned forward and lowered his voice a little, "It'd actually be a relief." The crowd was thickening.

He straightened himself, as if preparing to climb another mountain of doom. "Well," he said, "I look forward to acting in the adaptation of your novel someday."

I laughed and shook my head, "Don't hold your breath, but thank you anyway. I'll keep my fingers crossed so that you win an Oscar."

He laughed, and let go of my hand so that he could wave a good-bye. "Then 'Good luck' to both of us. Take care, Rachel."

"You too. And have a safe trip home."

We both smiled and waved, and then he was engulfed by several weepy teenagers.

I suppose there is good in this world--that is, there are good stories. And good cheese.