There’s something strangely comforting about setting a cheerful garden gnome beneath the rosebushes in the early morning light. Maybe it’s the gnome’s crooked smile or the quirky hat, but to me, it made my yard feel lively and welcoming—as though it was quietly greeting neighbors each day. Apparently, not everyone felt the same.
Moments after I’d settled the gnome into its new home, my notoriously grumpy neighbor Josh appeared, arms folded tightly across his chest.
“What is that?” he barked, skeptically eyeing the gnome.
“That’s a gnome,” I replied, as if it were totally ordinary. “Isn’t he delightful?”
Josh’s face darkened. “They’re cursed,” he said, looking at the gnome like he expected it to come alive. I just laughed—I figured it was another of Josh’s odd quirks. But I had no idea our neighborhood peace was about to be shattered.
The very next day, my house was smothered under a haze of scented smoke. I could see Josh parading around his yard with “sacred cleansing lanterns,” waving them intently toward the gnome. That settled it. The battle lines were drawn.
The next morning, ten brand new gnomes lined my yard, all facing Josh’s perfectly trimmed hedges. Their beady eyes seemed to sparkle with mischief. Unsurprisingly, this didn’t go unnoticed.
Within a day, the local HOA sent over a stern inspector. Neighbors peeked from behind curtains, hungry for the latest round of suburban drama. My gnomes—and even my porch swing—were soon declared “non-compliant.” Reluctantly, I moved the gnomes to my backyard, which to Josh probably felt like no-man’s land.
The following morning, I was outside scraping paint, grumbling about HOA bylaws, when Josh walked up—not with more incense or complaints, but carrying paint cans, brushes, and an apologetic look.
He sat beside me and handed me a brush in silence. We painted in comfortable quiet, until he finally spoke. Josh’s voice trembled as he admitted his wife had died two years ago, and since then, the silence in his house had been unbearable. Oddly, my gnomes gave him something to focus on—something to break the emptiness, even if his first reaction was to push back.
I told him, “My gnomes made the yard feel a little less empty. Like they were keeping watch when no one else could.”
Josh smiled. “Maybe they’re not unlucky. Maybe we just misunderstood them.”
That evening, we set the original gnome gently back beneath the roses—where it all began.
As dusk settled in, Josh surprised me: “Would you like to come over for dinner? You can tell me which gnome you think is the most cursed.”
“As long as you promise to stop burning your sticks of doom,” I replied.
“Deal.”
In the end, peace wasn’t about who won or who had the nicest yard. It was about laughter, forgiveness, and sharing stories—paint-splattered hands, a little garden gnome, and maybe, just maybe, a dinner that turned two neighbors into friends.