My darling granddaughter gave me a charming garden gnome to brighten the yard. My nosy neighbor, who can’t tolerate joy, reported me to the HOA for “ruining” the local look. She thought she won. She was so wrong!
Hi there! Bring a chair. This old gal’s story will make you laugh and possibly teach you. You’re thinking, “Oh lord, not another tale about lost love or cheating husbands.” Be patient! This isn’t about Arnold, sweetheart. He’s undoubtedly flirting with his deceased dream girls in the hereafter, bless his soul!
No, this narrative is about something anyone could experience.
Grandma Peggy will tell you how a garden gnome wreaked havoc in our calm neighborhood.
Before we begin, let me describe my home. Imagine a suburban paradise with maple-lined streets and green lawns like a leprechaun’s waistcoat.
At Mabel’s Bakery, everyone knows your name and the latest gossip is the biggest thrill.
Mabel’s Bakery! Real action happens there.
Every morning, a group of 80-year-olds drink coffee and eat Mabel’s cinnamon buns and croissants. Fresh bread fragrance and laughter lure people to the sidewalk like moths to a flame.
“Did you hear about Mr. Bill’s new toupee?” Gladys whispered, her mischievous eyes light up.
“Land sakes, it looks like a squirrel took up residence on his head!” Mildred would reply, and we’d laugh like hens.
My life is calm, filled with gardening, recipe sharing, and occasional harmless gossip. My granddaughter, darling Jessie, gave me the nicest garden gnome ever.
This small guy had a tiny watering can and a naughty smile that could light up a room.
“Gran,” Jessie began, beaming, “I thought he’d suit your garden. He looks like you when you’re crook!”
I couldn’t disagree. He got a fantastic place next to my precious birdbath.
I didn’t realize I’d started the neighborhood’s largest stir since Mr. Bill’s toupee flew off at the Fourth of July picnic.
“Oh, Peggy,” I said as I admired my work, “you’ve outdone yourself this time.”
I had no idea I was right.
Before we get started, let me introduce my thorn in the flesh—Carol, a late-70s neighbor. Imagine a woman who’s never disliked a rule or squashed a joy. Carol for you.
She moved in two years ago, yet her behavior makes her seem like Queen of the Cul-de-Sac. Always peeping over fences, measuring grass height with a ruler, and shooing kids away without reason.
I swear, she has more debate opinions than a politician.
I heard Carol’s shoes on the sidewalk one afternoon while watering my petunias. I prepared for another hedge-trimming “proper way” talk.
“Well, hello there, Carol,” I said with my nicest smile. “Lovely day, isn’t it?”
Carol narrowed her eyes at my garden. “Peggy,” she replied, sounding pleasant, “what on earth is that thing by your birdbath?”
I watched her eye my new gnome. Not a big gift from my granddaughter. Is he cute?”
Carol wrinkled her nose, smelling something nasty.
Definitely unique. You sure it’s allowed? You know our HOA is picky about community aesthetics.”
My smile sank. “Carol, I’ve lived here nearly 40 years. I believe I understand the rules.”
Raising an eyebrow. If you say so, Peggy. I’d rather you stay out of trouble.”
I felt like she meant TROUBLE as she clip-clopped away.
A week later, I realized my accuracy. HOA letters were crammed in my mailbox like dirty secrets.
I tore it open with shaking hands, and what I read made my blood boil hotter than Arnold’s five-alarm chili.
“Violation notice?” Reading aloud, I sputtered. “Does garden adornment violate neighborhood aesthetics? Why, I should…”
I could tell who did this without being Sherlock Holmes. I imagined Carol’s smug visage and her nasal voice: “I told you so, Peggy!”
Some might have removed the gnome, but not this old bird. I struggle harder than a cat in a bathtub, sir.
I went inside, got my reading glasses, and found the HOA rulebook. We’d follow all the regulations if Carol wanted to.
A plan emerged as I turned page after mind-numbing page. A clever, wonderful scheme to teach Carol a lasting lesson.
“Oh, Carol,” I said, “you’ve really stepped in it this time!”
My following two hours were busier than a one-armed paper hanger. I read that HOA rulebook like the last novel on Earth. Wow, I struck gold.
Our darling Carol wasn’t perfect after all. Her flawless white fence? One inch too tall. She was proud of her elegant mailbox? Not the right beige. Her wind chimes were as welcome as a skunk at a garden party, according to the noise ordinance.
But the cherry on top? Her driveway required resurfacing. Irony was sweeter than my winning apple pie.
I laughed, feeling like Nancy Drew. Well, well. Someone apparently lives in a glass house and throws stones.”
But I wasn’t done. This need something exceptional. This would emphasize the message.
I called my friend Mildred. “Millie? It’s Peggy. How about that large gnome collection your hubby left you? How would you use it?”
Mildred’s phone laugh cracked. “Peggy, old troublemaker. You’re doing what?”
Smiled so big my cheeks stung. “Oh, just planning a little… migration.”
Operation Gnome Invasion began that night in the dark. On Christmas Eve, I and other senior center “troublemakers” placed gnomes on Carol’s immaculate yard like elves.
Afterward, it seemed like a ceramic army had taken over.
Gnomes lounged beside the mailbox, peeked out from behind every bush, and one sassy one sat on the doorstep, guarding the door like a small, bearded sentinel.
My friend Gladys laughed as we inspected our effort. “Oh, to be a fly on the wall when she sees this in the morning!”
I rubbed her back. Don’t worry, Gladys. I have front-row seats.”
“With coffee and binoculars, I watched the birds from my window the next morning. Carol’s front door opened at 7:15 a.m.
What happened next was better than any TV show. Carol came outside, saw her lawn, and froze. Her mouth gaped. Her screech could’ve roused the dead.
“What in the name of all that’s holy?” she yelled, making three-block-away dogs cry.
Laughing nearly spilled my coffee. “Oh, Carol, you ain’t seen nothing yet.”
As usual, the HOA acted quickly.
An official-looking man in a drab suit knocked on Carol’s door at lunchtime. I may have reported a “excessive display of lawn ornaments.” anonymously. Oops! 😈
From where I stood, Carol was gesticulating frantically, her face redder than an August tomato. The HOA man appeared like a long-tailed cat in a rocking chair room.
The true surprise was when he gave her two envelopes. I knew the first was about gnomes. The second? You might say karma has a terrible sense of humor.
Carol turned red to white faster than a traffic light when she opened the second letter. She peered up at her too-tall fence, down at her non-regulation mailbox, and finally at her wind chimes, still tinkling in blissful denial of their coming death.
Not able to resist laughing. Is that medicine tasty, Carol? A little bitter?”
Carol huffed and puffed as she dragged gnomes from her property all day. She appeared to have run a marathon in heels by dusk.
I went for a walk at dusk. I waved as I passed Carol’s house, gnome-free but worn.
Good evening, Carol! Wow, your yard is different. Redecorating?”
Carol’s stare could melt steel. “You,” she demanded. “This was YOU, wasn’t it?”
I tried my best innocent granny face. Why, Carol, I’m sure I don’t understand. I’m too busy making sure my garden gnome meets HOA requirements. How’s your fence doing? And that mailbox? Then tsk.”
I felt proud as I left Carol sputtering. Some never learn, but a garden gnome may teach a great lesson.
My little gnome? He’s still smirking beside the birdbath. I swear his smile is wider now!