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To the humans in this community:
Every summer, for as long as they can remember, the Gregor family has enjoyed sweet, juicy slices of watermelon fresh from their garden. No doubt many of you have indulged in the same great pleasure over the years. Perhaps you’ve considered this odd, since the Gregor family doesn’t have a garden. Not one that they tend to, anyway. The watermelons have always seemed content to grow all on their own, in a little patch of moist dirt in the corner of the yard, correct? They’re large, they’re attractive to the eye, and – as I’m sure you’ll all agree – they’re considered the most delicious watermelons in the neighborhood.
The Gregor children and their friends have spent countless lazy afternoons splashing around in their pool and gnawing the slices of melon right down to the rind. Then, in a kind of grand tradition, they’ve spit the seeds into the corner where the watermelons always have appeared, making a contest out of who could spit their seeds the farthest. I believe Bobby Wellermen holds the current record?
No one ever thought anything of it. You’ve thought of it as a stroke of luck. You’ve assumed that one corner of the yard has simply been gifted with particularly fertile soil. You’ve joked about the Gregor family’s melons, and envied them a time or two, I’d wager.
You’ve never – not once – looked out into the Gregor family's backyard when the moon is high and seen the spindly little shape that darts about their lawn at night and tends to the melons, no matter the weather or the temperature.
Even if you have seen the little figure responsible for the watermelons’ growth, you’ve never understood what it was. I’d bet that you shrugged it off, thinking it to be a stray cat, or a rabbit, or some such thing. After all, why would anyone ever recognize the true nature of something that’s always tried so very hard to remain hidden?
Lawn gnomes, you see, are very shy. We do not accept praise very well, and even the slightest grateful glance can send us into a giggling fit. When thanked profusely, we have a tendency to take off our pointed caps, and ball them up between our knobby little fingers, and stare at the calluses on our feet in an attempt to avoid meeting anyone’s eyes.
So, we stay hidden.
In the old days, this didn’t matter; everyone knew exactly what made their gardens thrive, and were careful to thank us gnomes in ways that didn’t make us self-conscious. For instance, they’d leave out a platter of sweet, doughy rolls, or a saucer of milk with just a little sugar mixed in… Even the most timid lawn gnome could never turn down a thank you like that. In those days, we lawn gnomes looked more respectable. More like the plump little stone likenesses you’ve seen set up in gardens around the world.
But you humans are forgetful, and as time passed more and more people forgot about us garden-tenders. We gnomes have grown thin and bony, our hats faded and dirtied… Our dark skin has been stretched taut, and our bellies are often left empty… To the shame of lawn gnomes everywhere, some have even resorted to eating the fruits of their own labor – pun not intended - in order to survive. Just imagine, stealing from the families that they’ve faithfully assisted for so long!
Still, a number of us have persisted in the grand tradition of the lawn gnome. Members of the Loyal Association of Garden Gnomes – commonly known as LAGG – have gone on proudly doing their duty in the quiet ways always favored by our people.
“Lawn gnomes have never asked for recognition,” the president of the association once shouted, his eyes so full of life and enthusiasm. “Why should that change now?”
Until quite recently, I agreed whole-heartedly with this statement. I always attended the LAGG meetings, I volunteered my time to train young gnomes in the ways of our forefathers, and I always, always made sure that the Gregor family got their watermelons right on time – in the best part of the season.
But it is now with great sorrow that I must resign from the honored order of LAGG. Nothing can dissuade me from this decision that I have deliberated over for so long. Nothing can subtract from this latest humiliation that I have suffered.
Last Tuesday night, unbeknownst to me, the oldest Gregor children decided to spend the night under the stars, camping out in their backyard. It had been so long since their last campout that – I freely confess – my guard was down, and I was not as wary as I should have been.
I was spotted while tending to the little watermelon shoots. And instead of thanking me for my services, as protocol demanded, the girl shrieked as if she’d spotted a goblin rather than a gnome, and the boy vocally expressed such vulgarity that I will not repeat his utterances here in this document. Earlier in the day, they had been playing tennis, and had left the rackets laying about for me to pick up and deposit on their porch step, the way I have always done. The boy swiftly retrieved one of these rackets and set about swinging it at me, again and again, beating me away in the manner that one might fend off a rabid animal.
I escaped into the bushes, and all but my pride was left wholly intact.
But that, good people, is why I have made the decision to leave LAGG and find a different, more self-fulfilling career. This letter is a courtesy – an explanation for my actions – and I write it only because I know that the Gregors were not the only ones who enjoyed the ‘fruits of my labor’. Now, go spit your seeds at someone else for a change.
Sincerely,
L.E. Dobbins
Former Member of the Loyal Association of Garden Gnomes
