I Lived The Life And Times of A Gnome

MEMORIES OF THE AUTUMN I KEPT COMPANY WITH GNOMES AT SEVEN PERSONS' COTTAGE

TRY TO IMAGINE THIS - TALK ABOUT LIVING A FANTASY

     BACK IN THE AUTUMN OF 1979, I THINK IT WAS (IN THE FOG OF AGE), I LIVED THE RESIDENTIAL EXISTENCE OF A GARDEN VARIETY, HONORARY GNOME. YOU READ CORRECTLY. A REPORTER BY DAY, AN OUT OF PLACE BIG GUY IN A LITTLE PERSON'S ABODE. IT WAS DURING A PARTICULARLY ACTIVE DRINKING PERIOD IN MY LIFE, SO IF IT READS A LITTLE PECULIAR, IMAGINE COMING HOME A LITTLE TIPSY, TO A SERIOUSLY DOWNSIZED COTTAGE……IN EVERY WAY. I FELT LIKE GULLIVER AT TIMES, BENDING OVER TO GET IN THE FRONT DOOR, HOPING I WASN'T GOING TO BE WRESTLED TO THE GROUND, AND THEN TIED DOWN, BY THE SMALL IRATE NEIGHBORHOOD RESIDENTS.

     I'VE WRITTEN A FEW OTHER EDITORIAL PIECES, IN RECENT YEARS, ABOUT MY FIVE MONTH OCCUPANCY OF "SEVEN PERSONS' COTTAGE," WHICH I RENTED, WITH GREAT GLEE, FROM EARL AND JESSIE MACDONALD, OF FOOT'S BAY, ON THE SHORE OF BEAUTIFUL LAKE JOSEPH. IT WAS MOST DEFINITELY A MEMORABLE SUMMER. BUT IT WAS THE AUTUMN SEASON IN THIS TO-SCALE ENGLISH COTTAGE, THAT WAS MOST SPIRITED TO A FLEDGLING WRITER, LOOKING FOR INSPIRATION. IN FACT, I HAVE LOOKED FOR YEARS AND YEARS TO FIND A SIMILAR TYPE ABODE, TO USE AS A WRITING RETREAT. NO LUCK. THERE WAS ONLY ONE "SEVEN PERSONS' COTTAGE," BUT BY GOLLY, I GOT TO LIVE IN IT FROM SPRING TO AUTUMN.

     THE SCALE MODEL OF A MUCH LARGER ENGLISH LAKESIDE COTTAGE, SUCH AS MIGHT BE FOUND ON LAKE WINDERMERE, IN THE LAKE DISTRICT OF ENGLAND, WAS SITUATED ON THE LOW SHORE-SIDE, BENEATH TOWERING PINES THAT BORDERED THE COTTAGE ROAD. I EVEN HAD MY OWN MINIATURE HARBOR WITH A TINY DOCK AND A LITTLE BOAT, IN CASE A RESIDENT GNOME WANTED TO GO ON A LITTLE TOODLE OF THE LAKE. THERE WAS EVEN A CROQUET COURSE SET UP ON THE LAWN, JUST OUTSIDE MY BEAUTIFUL SIDE WINDOW, WHICH ALWAYS REMINDED ME OF THE VIEWING AREA, HIGH ON THE STERN OF A GREAT OCEAN-GOING SCHOONER.

THERE WAS A MOOD WITHIN THAT WAS ENCHANTING - AND YOU'D FEEL LIKE A KID IN A CANDY SHOP

     The down-sized English cottage had been built by a neighbor of the MacDonalds, and I was fortunate enough to meet him, when Jessie took me over one day to visit. His was the cottage next door. I always remember the scent of pipe tobacco, and seeing the owner's huge collective of pipes with carved faces, if memory serves. It was this gentleman who had painstakingly built the wee cottage, with amazing carpentry skills. He was an artist as far as I was concerned. The MacDonalds then purchased the property, and rented it out to various folks during the summer months. Earl and Jessie were wonderful people to rent from, and often times I'd wake up in the morning, with Earl rapping on the door, so I'd wake up to see the ducks gathered in the little harbor. He loved that property, and the two of them were great to socialize with, during my brief stay. They knew I didn't have many friends around, so they'd come to tell me there was a lunch for me at their house, and I should come over and relax. I was a poor….and I mean that, reporter, and I ate cheaply if I ate at all. So I wasn't adverse at all to their hospitality. And as Earl promised me it would be a great retreat for a writer, he was absolutely correct. I wrote through the day for The Beacon, and wrote at night for me……first about my lost love, and then eventually, about love left to seek out. I arrived somewhat beaten down by life, but quickly found the bright and cheerful little cottage, had too much spirit within, to nurture sadness.

     It was on misty autumn mornings, living in the gnome-sized cottage, which was a cross between a trip to Narnia with C.S. Lewis and a Robbie Burns experience, in Bonnie Scotland. You could forget where you were. It was the magic of the place. At night, looking out onto the lake, and watching the lights of the boats gyrating across the waves of the lake, made it seem, from the window, as if the house was actually floating as well. To set the mood for me, on that first day when I cross the threshold of this magic little place, a copy of the newly released book, "Gnomes," was on the built-in desk, inside the door. The book was brought to North America in translation by Martha Stewart's husband, who after this enormous success, which made millions by the way, helped with the hugely successful book, "Entertaining," still a milestone book in Martha's mountain of publications. I read the Gnomes book numerous times during that stay on Lake Joseph. Every time I had to hunch over to get in the tiny door, at the cottage entrance, I got a chuckle seeing the gnome book staring back at me. I never arrived at the cottage without expecting to find these tiny souls at home. Enchanted? I learned all about enchantments that season. People coming to see me succumbed to the spell, moments on the property. It was a chick magnate let me tell you, and they always found the keeper of the cottage….me….to be cute and cuddly in the midst of tiny attributes, like scaled-down hearth and fireplace, staircase, small chairs and tables, and even miniature gargoyles carved into the wood mantlepiece. They begged to stay over. I never had it so good. (Of course this only refers to a period of time, as my wife would not like to read this kind of personal anecdote, as it was before we met).

     I stayed until late in the fall that year, until the first flurries came whipping over that chilled lake, and through the barren hardwoods. I didn't mind being huddled under the wool blankets they left me, in the warm glow of the crackling flames in the small but completely adequate fireplace…..where I had a comfortable arm chair pulled close. I'd sit there in this relative paradise, of so many inspirations around me, and settle to a splendid peacefulness, cradling a hot cup of tea made in the tiny kitchen the gnomes found spacious. I never felt alone in that cottage. Not that it was haunted, but because of its character and beautifully aged woodwork, it felt so historic and storied, whether it was or it wasn't. I can remember coming home late at night, and swearing to have heard voices inside. I woke up that way at night, hearing the pitter patter of little feet, that weren't there……or at least there were no bodies to go with the footsteps. But it wasn't an unsettling occupation, and if there were ghosts in that tiny place, they were of the most welcoming variety. I felt at home on my first night, which is unusual for me, as I come from a family of sentimentalists, who hate being separated for long from their cherished residences. As I had just separated from my girlfriend of five years…..after asking her if she wanted to get married……and she quipped, "to who," and strangely enough, Seven Persons' Cottage was a respite to a broken heart. It seemed to know how miserable I was, and by golly, after about the first week, I'd returned to writing in the evenings, something I'd abandoned after Gail gave me the proverbial heave-ho for another guy. Don't you just hate when that happens. That summer, I went from wanting to drink myself into a long term stupor, to restoring my interest in the future…..which I blamed on Gail for stomping into the ground, with the last bouquet I sent her on a reporter's budget. It wasn't much to look at, but it was the thought that counted. Right? Gail came to Seven Person's Cottage once to see how I was holding up, and I guess she was satisfied with the "we can still be friends" thing, and when she left, you know……I felt the gnome-like sensibility bloom from the heart of that place on the shore of a beautiful lake. It was my "serenity now!" It saved me I think. I arrived there feeling like I'd been mauled by zoo animals, my heart ripped out of my chest, and that dear little place, with the MacDonald's kindnesses bestowed, and my Abba record (I only had one record) for my failing turntable……turned my life around in a modest spring to autumn residency. How many of you can say that one of your best friends was a to-scale English cottage, where a great bard should have been holed-up, writing romantic poetry for lost love. I was just a poor bard but I did write poetry.

     The truly curious aspect of design, at Seven Persons Cottage, was that it could easily accommodate seven guests. The most I had over at one time was four, but it was a comfortable arrangement, considering three of them were young ladies, smitten with the pipe smoking writer-in-residence. Yup, I used to smoke my pipe and write. It just seemed important to act like the great writers, even if I was still a bum in the industry. The girls thought I was special. Of course so did my mother. Gail, not so much. The furniture was all small, and like the dining-room table, it had leaves that folded out to accommodate more guests around the table. The bedrooms had bunk beds, and small chairs for reading before bed, and the kitchen had small scale cupboards and a bar fridge that was more than enough for the non-cooker me. It got me thinking, you know, about how much space is wasted and extravagant in the average North American house, when this small (condo size) cottage, made efficient use of every square foot…..such that after awhile, you didn't even recognize it as downsized, unless you went outside, and saw the doll house architecture on a big lot. No space was wasted. We could learn a lot from that cottage design. If I had the money, let me tell you, it would have been mine. I always feel that way about the great places I've lived in my life, and if I owned every neat place that inspired me to write, well, my property tax bill would be in the millions. In Gravenhurst, thankfully, I'm only paying a King's Ransom, for Birch Hollow, as compared to the gigantic lakefront assessment for the little Gnome cottage.

     I used to hate leaving Seven Persons Cottage in the morning, but I was thrilled to arrive back home in the early evening, exhausted but cheerful about the next few hours, sitting by the hearth, having a wee sip of brandy, (the cheapest kind) in Robbie Burns honor, and then typing away until I could compose no more. And when on autumn evenings like this, that I donned my nightcap, and extinguished the oil lamp, it was sort of like The Waltons……as every creak and groan in the old woodwork, seemed to be wishing me a good night's slumber. I retired to bedlam relaxed, contented, and resolved, that if the gnomes should take over the cottage while I slept……I'd be good with that, as long as they swept up their crumbs from those late evening snacks.

     A friend, who I have deep respect, looked at me one day recently, as I spun another of my trademark yarns, and wanted to, I'm sure, ask me if there is a shred of truth to all these collected tales I've offered for public consumption, for all these years as a writer. I suppose it's a case, that unless one sees and experiences it first hand, no amount of convincing will truly make up the sensory deficiency, between story teller, and listener. I would have liked to taken this friend to Seven Persons Cottage, to see the "fantastic" of what I have known as my special enchantments, because me thinks, we all need to know magic exists beyond childhood……and the strange dreams in the recess of sleep. I will occasionally dream about my time at Seven Persons' Cottage, and I will wake up, suddenly, to look around and see if it's true………that I have returned to that quaint little lakeside cottage, that saved my life, way back……and gave me so much to write about. But I find myself feeling good cheer none the less, and know that my Birch Hollow, you see, as a present haven, is the friendly composite of all the fascinating places I have ever lived. It now is as spartan, plain and convenient, comfortable and pleasantly haunted, as I remember from the days when…….I kept company with gnomes on a misty lakeshore in the Muskoka heartland. It may all be fiction, and possibly just a very long dream about the life I have enjoyed. The welts from pinches, tell me I'm not dreaming.

     Thanks so much for sharing this recollection with me today. Please join me for another adventure, coming soon.