Gnome Repairs

A tiny sprig of a gnome lifted the last radish from his vegetable patch and placed it with care on top of a large pile of produce already stacked high in his wheelbarrow. Brushing the dirt from his hands and wiping his brow free of sweat, the gnome waved to a cardinal calling salutations from above the gnome's head.

Grunting and heaving, the tiny gnome bent from his knees and lifted the wheelbarrow up by the handles, but smacked face first into a head of lettuce when the wheel barrow lurched to the side. Gathering his pride, he snuck a look around. Mrs. Gnome sat with her back to the vegetable garden, churning butter oblivious to her husband in the vegetable patch behind her.

Grasping the wheelbarrow handles again, the gnome heaved and pushed and shoved the wheelbarrow across the now empty vegetable patch. He was about half-way through the churned earth when he noticed a line of sparrows watching him and flapping their wings. The smallest of the sparrows whistled and pointed at the wheelbarrow, it's twitter a mocking reproach of one of the gnome's most useful tools.

It was the wheelbarrow he could not live without, or maybe it was the wheelbarrow and the scarecrow who stood a silent sentry were must haves of any gardener worth the land he sowed, or no, the trifecta of garden implementation, the rake, trowel, and planter. Yes, those were the most important tools of any gardener.

Ignoring the peeping sparrows, the gnome turned the wheelbarrow with a mighty heave toward a shed that sat diagonal from the vegetable patch only to have the wheelbarrow thunk onto the ground with the tire wobbling off into the distance, leaving the gnome scratching his head.

Giving the sparrows a side-eye, their answering twitters like stones being thrown at his back. Marching over to the shed with his head held high and a brightly colored kerchief bouncing with each step from his back pocket, the gnome mumbled under his breath where the sparrows couldn't hear, "Maybe I should fix that."

All day the tiny sprig of a gnome puttered and toiled in his garden. Around mid-day, he decided to trim the hedges, and under the watchful eyes of the peeping sparrows who sat with their heads stretched as far as they could go, he discovered the clippers were rusted shut.

Wincing as the sparrows squacked in laughter, the gnome grabbed the clippers and began to whack them against a rock. After nearly an hour, the gnome had only succeeded in creating a cloud of rust and snapping the clippers into two, dull pieces. The sparrows tweeted in unison, "You should've fixed that,"

Dropping the clippers to the ground, the gnome flapped his hands at the birds until with indignant twitters, they flew off in a haze of feathers. Undaunted, the gnome went inside his home to borrow Mrs. Gnome's sewing shears. She wouldn't mind, he was sure of it. With a spring in his step he once more went out to tackle the chore of trimming the hedges and pruning the fruit trees.

The sun rose higher and higher in the sky, and the gnome could be seen sipping a glass of sweet tea while watering the tulips with the garden hose, something that was thankfully not in need of fixing, or so the gnome thought. With a spit and a sputter the hose dried to a trickle. Flopping the hose onto the ground, the gnome stared at it and at the sky. With a shrug, he muttered, "Maybe I should fix that..."

As the sun set, the gnome made a mental list of all the chores he needed to do, but none of them included fixing the things that needed to be fixed. Early the next morning, the gnome grabbed a bucket from the shed and filled it with chicken feed then jaunted out the door whistling a merry tune.

As he sauntered down the path, he waved to a couple starlings perched on a weathered picket fence no longer white but a dull grey. Humming a jaunty tune, he noticed a few more starlings land on the picket fence to join the first, and then as he passed a few more landed beside those. All of them were staring at him. The gnome quickened his step, he was imagining things. The starlings were staring at him, were they?

Glancing up at the sky, the gnome missed a step. Above and beyond in the branches of the trees and all along the picket fence were starlings. Dozens and dozens of beady black eyes stared at him. Oh dear, he thought to himself as he started to run.

Peeking over his shoulder, he almost tripped in astonishment. A trail of seeds followed along behind him down the path. Holding up the bucket, he saw it was filled with small round holes. Termites! Guess I should have taken care of that when Mrs. Gnome complained her spice rack had been punctured with a bunch of small holes. Was it last year?

The gnome turned and ran, while still looking over his shoulder at the gathering black cloud of starlings. As he continued to run, he failed to notice the rake half buried in last autumn's dead leaves.

BAM!

Tapping a tow at the foot of the gnome's bed, Mrs, Gnome held out a broom and gestured at the mess of seeds littering her front step. Hanging his aching head, the gnome mumbled, "Guess I should've fixed that..."