The one with The Hobbit and Lolo's death

I read The Hobbit in a hospital, many years ago, during a shift I took turns in with cousins looking after my Lolo Jose, who was very old and sick.

It was 1991. I was a very timid 13-year-old. As a child I had always found books comforting, and many an undesired social situation or uncomfortable phase were eased through with the excuse of a book in hand.

On that particular week, though,
it seemed as if I had gone through all of the books in my grandparents' bookshelf (except for a couple of books on Ferdinand Marcos, which, for a girl just about to start adolescence, can waaaaait). I looked one place further, and from a dusty pile on top of the shelf—the last place you'd expect to find a proper anything—I found something.

The book was starting to disintegrate but I flipped through and it did not seem to be missing any pages. That was enough. Now I have "baon" for my duty at Lolo's side.

I do not remember much from the book, as events took a dismal turn and warranted a flurry of activity around me that demanded attention. I normally sink into any book so much that my parents often had to yell at me to get my attention. But it was no ordinary time. My Lolo grew more ill by the day, and he would die before I could get midway through the book.

But while I may never separate the book from a sad memory, I do remember a few things from The Hobbit and before I start reading it again (the first part of the trilogy is showing in December, thus) I'd like to note them here:

My small-town public-schooled young girl impression was that it was verbose, and the few illustrations depicted creatures that looked odd and disgusting. Why would anyone take interest in human-like creatures with huge and hairy feet? Why not regular humans? Or regular beasts? Plus, the creatures lived on holes in the earth, which made me groan. The author should have simply made the story about rabbits. And, most crucially—"hobbits"!? If one were to make up a name for a new creature, it should evoke awe, not a worn beige wall.

That was 21 years ago. Now, when I read The Hobbit I get a mental picture of a mini and hairy Martin Freeman, which kind of spoils it for me because now I have no choice but to imagine things as Peter Jackson conjured. I no longer have the luxury of my own imagination. This is the reason for the previous paragraph, in fact. I wanted to have a record of visuals I imagined on my own, however disappointing they were for my young mind, before they are over-written forever.