Why Gnomes Break My Heart
When I was a kid, Mr. Bryant was the man who lived in the next cottage. He was not a pleasant man. They said because his wife died and since, well, he was just mad at everyone. I didn’t understand that then, him never smiling, never saying hello, and never giving me my ball back when it went into his garden.
I frequently knocked on his door, something mother had forbidden me to do, saying Mr. Bryant was sad and therefore should not be pestered. Mother didn’t understand my need. I only had one soccesr ball. Mr. Bryant never came to the door, after fifteen minutes of banging and shouting, but I knew he was in there.
Mr. Bryant loved gardening. Visitors coming to the island paused their hikes to stand and admire the array of flowers and the array of garden gnomes, near a hundred I heard, all sitting there with funny faces and bright colours. When I’ve gone into his garden to retrieve a ball accidentally kicked there, he growled at me real bad. Damn near knocked my head off with a swipe of his hand a time or two. “Clear off you little brat, stop bothering me, or I’ll swipe you for sure.” It was pretty scary; I can tell you. Well, anyway, one day I wasn’t going to get my ball back.
So, when it got real dark, me and George sneaked over the fence to retrieve the ball, and some other things. The next day all the local kids were howling with laughter, seeing nearly a hundred gnomes lined up, waiting for the school bus.
Heck, Mr. Bryant was madder than a March hair. Mother asked if I knew anything about it. I tried to lie. She knew better. After school she made me, on my own, go and put every one of them back in his garden. I never said George helped me because we don’t do that, you know, split between friends. George gave me his lunch sandwiches the next day for not splitting on him. I took them and ate them, too. Well earned.
In what seems an eternity later but isn’t at all. I find myself standing at the edge of the ocean, my wife’s grave, whispering to her to get out of that place, raise her head one more time. I’d show her Spain or Constantinople, we’d ride rickshaws in Rangoon, and I would buy her Paris, not roses like everybody buys everybody. She never hears. I would punch a priest coming near, kick a lamb, beat an old man with his own walking stick. Yes, I cannot explain it.
Sometime, a long while ago now, I wrote Mr. Bryant a song, in its verses apologizing for moving his gnomes to the school bus stop. I finally came to know of his sadness and how I wish I’d been a better boy than to have done that to him. I’ll never know if he was alive long enough to hear what I wrote. I hope so.
I’ve tried in my work to speak with effectiveness and with a love of the world at large. I try to live with quiet dignity but sometimes something takes over and I stamp and rage, thrashing words down in anger. I have an old man’s strength, but not his wisdom. I’m interested in my world, living my life, excited by gentleness, drinking it all in. It maybe that I get too excitable, too wild, too eager to taste again what I once knew.
So, I stand at the edge of the ocean…
