I plopped a goofy gnome by my petunias one morning, its yellow hat floppy and its grin cheeky, thinking it’d jazz up my lawn. I’m Jane, and my yard’s my playground, but that gnome kicked off a wild feud with my neighbor, Frank, a grouch who treats his hedges like royalty. As I stood barefoot on the damp grass, Frank’s door screeched. “Jane, what’s that junk?” he growled. “A gnome, Frank. Cute, huh?” I said, winking. He stomped over, glaring. “They’re cursed,” he said. “I’ve read the forums.”
“Gnome forums?” I snorted. “Lawn warrior chats?” He didn’t flinch. “Keep it, and bad luck’s yours,” he said, storming off. I tapped my gnome. “Stay strong, pal.” Next morning, a funky smell—like burnt weeds and old socks—hit my kitchen. Outside, Frank’s yard was a smoke fest, lanterns puffing gray clouds my way. “What’s this nonsense?” I hollered. Frank strutted out, smug. “Spirit-cleansing lanterns,” he said. “They zap bad juju.” I coughed. “You’re gassing me!” He smirked. “Wind’s not my fault.”
I hit the garden shop, snagging a dozen gnomes—giant ones, wee ones, one with a tiny surfboard. I lined them up like a gnome posse. Frank saw them, dropped his mug, and stared daggers. War was on. My gnomes gave my yard sass, but a loud knock came. A suit-clad woman with a clipboard said, “HOA check. Got a complaint.” I grumbled, “Frank.” She circled my yard, tsking at my gnomes and wind bells. “Against code,” she said, handing me a list—ditch decor, repaint, silence bells. Frank grinned from his yard, and I felt crushed.
That night, I hid my gnomes in the backyard, their grins lost in shadows. I was down. Next day, I dragged out my ladder to scrape trim, cursing rules. Frank walked over, paint can and brushes in hand, looking guilty. “I went overboard,” he said. I snapped, “Ya think?” but eased up. “Paint for what?” I asked. “Gray, for your trim,” he said. I nodded. “You’re climbing.” We painted, laughing when Frank dripped on his socks. He said, “My mom passed last year. House feels dead.” I nodded. “My gnomes liven this place.”
By sunset, the house sparkled. “Still anti-gnome?” I asked. Frank chuckled. “They’re cool.” I held my first gnome. “Back out front?” He nodded. “One’s okay.” We set it by the petunias, its smile chill. “Dinner?” Frank asked, shy. “Sure,” I said. “No smoke bombs.” He laughed, and the air cleared. My gnome saga with Frank proved feuds can end in laughs, like a good paint job.
