Here in the Shire, talk about family ancestry is the majority of all I hear. It is a common subject to converse on and everyone is educated in their family history from birth. But since my birth even is unknown, I was denied the joy of such education. Everyone knows that I have no history, and that, perhaps, is the worse thing in the world that could happen to a Hobbit such as I. No family, no history, no life. I am alone.
But do not think that because I am alone, I have no spirit left in me. No, my spirit is quite alive, even if no one can see it. I think that it must have come from the river. That is the only place I remember from before I came to live in the Shire. For some reason, I do remember my doom, the night I was lost and the night I lost all history.
My memory is but a blur of images. I remember the sky, clear, dark, heavy, like velvet dotted with little bits of crystal. There was no moon to speak of. I can still hear in my ears the sounds of the rushing river water threatening to drown the craft I was in. It was not the Spring season, so the rushing waters could not have been caused by the melting snows making their way down from the mountains. This could only have been a storm. And it must have been a raging one at that, for the last memory I have of that night is seeing the bright stars sink out of existence and tasting the river water as it flooded my mouth.
In the morning (I only know this from what I have been told), I was found, a poor half-drowned infant, on the shores of the Brandywine, in the land of Minhiriath, near the Eryn Varn. I suppose I must call myself fortunate, for out of their character, two Dwarves had come all the way to the shores of Eriador and on their way back to their mines came upon my helpless form, whimpering and still breathing. Who these certain Dwarves were and why they were traveling I have never learned and no one seems apt to tell me. What I do know is that on their travel home, they took the time to stop at the Shire and drop me off, to the astonishment of its inhabitants. It was not the Dwarves that astonished them as much as the fact that I came to them and they knew me not.
Then began the great discussion concerning my origin. This discussion, I have heard, took weeks, maybe even months. Apparently, at least for that beginning time in my life, I was something to speak of. The tale of the nameless infant spread like wild fire throughout the Shire and on to other Hobbit communities. Even with so widespread a tale, no one came forward to claim me as their own. In the end, at least a few facts were agreed upon. First, I was obviously a Proudfoot. My enormous feet, large even for a Hobbit, gave me away as having at least some relation to that Surname in history. Second, it was probable that I had spilled out of a boat and the rest of my family drowned. Third, no one knew of me throughout all the lands Hobbits dwelt in and so no one would claim me. Fourth, I was probably related to �those Proudfeet.� All my life I have wondered who �those Proudfeet� are. I cannot understand it. If it is known that I am related to someone, why was it concluded no one would name me as theirs? And why is it that when I mention the issue, it must always be turned aside and I blamed for my impulsiveness, a Halfling in my tweens?
And so, I am sorry I can write little about who I am. Sorry I have been made an outcast by a doom written for me long ago. At the last, old Odo Proudfoot said that out of the goodness of his heart and do to the fact that I was most likely related to his family, albeit distantly (my feet do look a great deal like his), he would take me in. For this reason, I have grown up in the beauty of the Shire my entire life, living and feeling it as my home, the only home I have ever known.
Yet I have also grown up alone. I am the Hobbit without history and for that, I am often left alone. No, I am almost always left alone. Oh, yes, old Odo is good to me, I cannot deny that, but my usefulness to him is limited considering the vastness of his other descendents. Most of the time, I seek the solitude of the river Brandywine and the peacefulness of the Oak Forest. There I can think and dream, a young, irresponsible Hobbit in his tweens, out of the way and out of the hair of everyone else, laying my questions at the feet of the rustling wind alone.
This is where my memoir begins. In my tweens, that confusing time when you are just trying to figure out who you are in the first place and what purpose you have in the Shire. I believe my exact age to be a fresh twenty-two. But I am not so sure. Be that as it may, it is time my story begins.