Things I’ve Loved is a celebration of things from the near or distant past, either overlooked or forgotten by the unforgiving eye of popular culture. It is a venue to both reminisce and profess about this one thing that you’ve loved and think others may love too.

The time: early afternoon. The place: my bedroom. The person: me, 12 years old, with a boy’s haircut and an attitude. The book: The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring, by the forever-fantastic J. R. R. Tolkien.

I was sitting on my elbows with Tolkien’s masterpiece lying open under my eager eyeballs. Beneath a mountain of blankets, in tattered pajama pants and a Little Mermaid t-shirt, I rushed through the scene in the Mines of Moria, deep beneath the Misty Mountains. Gandalf the Grey stood on the Bridge of Khazad-dum. In front of him, a Balrog — an immense monster that had slept in Moria’s yawning depths until the fellowship had opted to travel in this abandoned realm of Middle Earth. Behind Gandalf was the way out; the remains of Moria’s eastern gates were just out of reach.

I can barely breathe at this point. That Balrog looks badass. Gandalf is mighty, but my twelve-year-old brain is starting to worry.

The Balrog moves to cross the bridge.

Gandalf — the best sorcerer in the entire world — thrusts his staff into the bridge, breaks it and sends the fiery monster back into the dark depths from whence it had come.

“Yes!” I cried, fist bumping my pillow. I returned my attention to the book. After only a moment, my mouth was agape.

Somehow the hideous creature had wrapped its whip around Gandalf’s knees. Gandalf falls down. He clutches the edge of the rocky bridge, barely holding on, resisting the creature’s massive weight tugging him like a horrible anchor of death.

“Help him!” I shout angrily. “Aragorn, why aren’t you helping him?! Don’t just stand there, Legolas! Someone, do something!”

Then Gandalf utters three more words — “fly, you fools” — and he falls.

“Noooooooooooooooooooooooo!”

I was 12 years old. I had never read a book where an author had killed a main character. They were my friends, and Gandalf was my favorite.

I felt the tears start running down my face. Soon my entire body was shuddering; I didn’t even attempt to control myself.

“No, no, no, no. This can’t be happening. I won’t let this happen.”

I slammed the book closed and threw it across my messy room. In a fury, I flung my blankets off my body and kicked my door open.

“Mom!” I shrieked.

My mother, as patient and wonderful then as she is today, poked her head up the stairs and asked, “What’s the matter sweet pea?”

Barely able to speak through tears, I choked out: “Mom. They killed him. They killed Gandalf . . . ”

This embarrassing scene actually happened. The Fellowship of the Ring was the first piece of literature to elicit a powerful emotional response from me. Tolkien captured me — body and soul. He compelled me to care deeply for the characters traveling all over Middle Earth, desperately trying to destroy the One Ring. Frodo was charming, Sam was loyal, Legolas was gracefully deadly, Gimli rocked his battle axe, Boromir was hopelessly human, Merry and Pippin exemplified selfless friendship, Aragorn was mysterious and ruggedly manly (I still have a crush on his “Strider” persona), and Gandalf — oh Gandalf — was so brave and wise, a living breathing example of what was right with the world.

When Gandalf died, I lost my marbles. Pages, sentences, words and letters moved me to tears. Literature had induced a temper tantrum. In that moment, the book transcended the wall of fiction that exists between the reader and the text. The boundaries around reality dissipated and it all melted together.

Only a great book can bend the parameters of what is real. Tolkien is one of the greats. His descriptions may be lengthy, his prose may be overly complex, and his lack of female characters may be a tad patriarchic, but the Lord of the Rings series is a work of fiction that no one should be without.

When Gandalf came back to the story later on, I shed a tear or two of joy. I was in love, after all. I still have semi-regular-extended-version-DVD-marathons of the film adaptations of this story (often while playing Lord of the Rings -themed Risk).

Every second of those twelve and a half hours I am brought back to my childhood, when I first discovered that literature could change the world — even if it was only the world of a 12 year-old with an attitude problem.