Conversations with a Gnome

Copyright © 2015 M.E.Brinton.

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ISBN: 978-1-5043-4099-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5043-4100-4 (e)

Balboa Press rev. date: 10/27/2015

Contents

Introduction

Spring 1999

Spring 2000

Early summer 2000

August 2001

September 2001

End of September 2001

Winter coming 2001

Deep in Winter 2001

December 2001

February 2002

Spring 2002

Summer 2002

Early Winter 2002

January, 2003

Spring 2003

Fall 2004

Summer 2005

July 2005

August 2005

November 2006 Changes, new things.

January 2007

March 2007

April 2007

Spring 2008

Epilogue

Autumn 2014

"If we shadows have offended,

Think but this, and all is mended,

That you have but slumbered here

While these visions did appear.

And this weak and idle theme,

No more yielding than a dream,

Gentles, do not reprehend:

…So, goodnight unto you all

Give me your hands, if we be friends,

And Robin shall restore amends."

Puck, Midsummer Night’s Dream

Introduction

To make a family history story short, my grandmother, Nellie, was born in Cork and came with her family to this country. It didn’t happen quite this simply, because they stopped off in South America for some years, but they eventually got to Philadelphia. My parents, siblings and I, and my aunt, all lived with her during my childhood. Her stories filled each day, and they live on…

In her house, the Little People had their favorite chairs. Whisking her hands in front of her as she entered a room, Nellie said, Off with ye, and they rushed away. Making sure they had gone, minding their manners and not coming into her sitting room without her say so, she then told me to sit down on my red chair, and she would sit on her larger one. It was story time. Then, after the story, if she was not tired, she sang an Irish song. The Little People crowded in the door to listen.

They followed her to the garden and sat under the leaves of her rhubarb plants, keeping their eyes on her as she gardened. With my bucket and spade in hand, I trailed behind her, too, walking carefully between the lettuce rows.

In my childhood, the Little People, whom she also called the Little Folk, were everywhere, just out of sight, around corners, peering and inquisitive -- under beds, sitting on chairs, crouching down in cellar ways. The underground cellar ones were different and they were tiny. Mama called these Pixies. One of my younger brothers showed them to me one day. They were crouched in the nook of the cellar stairway. He asked if I could see them. At first, I said no, but then, after a while, I did see them. He had to first point them out to me, because they were in hiding, in the shadows. I think they liked my little brother enormously. He was elfin, with wispy yellow hair, and sparkling eyes.

The Little People I know are from all over the British Isles. The ones Nana saw were from Ireland and parts of England. The ones Mama spoke about were from Wales and Scotland. Most of Mama’s family came from there. My father said the ones he saw as a child were in the woods of Pennsylvania.

In my childhood, I learned the Little Folk kept their boundaries. By day, the elves in the basement never came higher than the top cellar step. At night, in Mama’s family, the custom was to leave a bowl of milk for these people, who included pixies, elves, sprites, fairies, gnomes.

Nellie had an awareness of something more. The house felt happy inside, comfortable, as if an invisible hand had made it a welcoming place. Not only her friends stopped by to chat, but also, animals and her unseen folk. The same feeling she had for an animal, making them happy, is the same she had for the Little People. You can call it all fantasy, but you will find life more complete and complex, to believe in something more than what is seen.

Nellie kept her house tidy for her Little People. She had ‘everything in its place’. She said it was good luck to encourage the gnomes to stay as benevolent houseguests. She had beautiful objects in each room for them to look at: seashells, plants, paintings on the walls, books and toys for us in a cupboard underneath the green and pink Irish tea set.

At breakfast, she told the day’s fortune with tealeaves. After she finished drinking tea, she took the leaves from the cup, placing them in her hand and stamped her fist on them. Each morning, sitting on a chair on top of Sears’s catalogues and telephone books, I watched her.

What do you wish to know? she asked us.

Tell us about the day, I begged her. What will the visitors look like today? Who will they be?

Company is coming. One of them wears a long coat. The other one has on a hat. Oh, let me see, there is one with a flower print dress, that will be Auntie, maybe…

Auntie Belle, my second cousin, whom we called her Auntie out of respect to her age, lived in a nearby town. Other aunts and uncles lived close to us, and always came by. Friends loved to visit; they came to see my grandmother.

When we asked her questions and watched her tell fortunes, there were the Little Folk listening underneath the table. I dropped them a piece of toast each morning. I thought they liked her current jam. The cat licked butter from the toast.

I started to write down the following conversations forty years after my grandmother died. She had many of her own talks with the Little People, as did my father. As far as I know, they never wrote them down.

These conversations take place in the remote north, a cold, forested area and they begin in early spring 1999, continuing through seven years. A gnome’s New Year begins in Spring, so do these writings.

Spring 1999

Gnome sits on the porch steps, watching the fir trees blow and squirrels running up the branches. The wind shifts directions. He climbs up the railing and looks at winter’s six feet of snow.

I’m outside, sitting in a chair on the porch and reading a newspaper. I am cautious not to disturb him by looking directly look at him. Gnomes often vanish if you look straight at them.

Why don’t you like it if people stare at you? I asked him once. Other gnomes in the past had vanished when I looked right at them.

It frightens me.

Once, when I studied dance, we learned that a soft gaze a dancer uses on stage, makes you aware of a peripheral area of vision.

He continued, Look at me from the side of your eyes, which is where the other world begins. This other world is where we live. It is behind you, to the side of you, above you. The moment you stare into it, it vanishes. On the border of this world is where you will find me.

The problem is, you want to look straight at him: Gnome stands three feet tall. He wears a gold felt hat that resembles a crown. His green velvet coat makes him almost kingly. Leather pants, a brown shirt and suede boots complete his outfit. A white beard touches his knees. On each visit, he wears different clothes.

Are you impatient? I don’t look at him, but continue reading the news.

I’m waiting for the snow to go. He kicks at the snow bank. Gnomes like action, especially if you play music. Then they clap, and dance to flutes and fiddles. In winter, Gnome sits by the stove, sitting in a wooden chair with a red cushion that the cats love. He jumps on to the kitchen table.

The visits with Gnome started in this way: I came home from work, opened the kitchen door and saw two gnomes dancing on the table. When I looked at them, they vanished. I remembered my grandmother and her little People. I made a cup of tea and sat down. I waited for them to come back.

After that, the gnomes came each evening. They had tea, then stood on the table because it was higher than the floor, away from boots, shoes, cat food bowls. Watching them from a distance, I wondered how to make a conversation with them. Gradually, I learned to relax, and not to consider this imagination of mine totally crazy. I let my thoughts go out to them, and we began to speak together.

When they left, I thanked them for coming, saying, I enjoyed your company. I never asked them to come back.

My day job is full of conversations with people. I work at a call center in rural Maine. Usually I do all the talking and feel I burden them with my cold calls -- phoning, intruding into their homes. When I come home, it’s a pleasure to have conversations with a gnome.

Little Gnome does not speak. He communicates through movement, especially somersaults, jumps, and twirls. Almost two feet tall, and skinny, he is beginning to grow a beard. His face has scruffy whiskers. He is extremely shy and stays behind trees, or chairs. How do I know he is there? Leaves will suddenly blow up into the air. A low branch of a fruit tree will move. A cat will bat his paws at something behind a chair.

The Christmas tree stands on the porch, even though it is spring. Deep snow has hindered us taking it into the back woods behind our house.

Gnome, wearing a wool jacket and brown hat, is happy to watch spring from the porch. Grasping his knees, he screws up his face. His leather boots bend on the railing and shine with crease marks carefully oiled. I peer above the newspaper and start up a conversation – looking at him sideways.

The snow sparkles. You are in a softer vision near me, as if you are part of a dream. Yet, you are real to me as much as the snow. Why don’t I see you as vividly?

He shifts his position as he looks at the fir trees. He says, The essence of my life, when it connects to you, is partly in my own space, but, also, in your time. This moment is brief to you. It is long to me, because it is in another dimension.

Can you see the snow?

Yes.

Then why don’t I see you as I see everything in front of me --I see you as a reflection.

I am reflection. I am the snow. I am that which you know the snow to be, I am part of the crystals shining in it.

"Can you hear the fir trees?’ Wind blows through pine needles. There are four tall ones in front of our house. Squirrels and crows nest there.

I hear them. They speak a tree language, he says.

Sometimes I think I can understand it, but my thoughts interfere with my listening.

Then, let your thoughts have the wind blowing through them, just as the wind whistles in the firs. Clear your thoughts. Let the trees speak to you, he says.

I put down the paper, look out on the early spring and think about what he has said. When I look for him, to ask him another question, he has gone.

Snowshoes rest against a snow bank. I put them on to go over the snow to dump the food scraps in the compost bin. An eastern Mountain Lion and coyote, several skunks come for this nightly supper. Hauling the bucket to the back yard, I realize how bone tired you can get of beauty, of this white landscape.

Gnome and Little Gnome sit on a log. A small pile of wood remains of the six cords we got for winter. We are running out this year. How could we know this when we had our wood delivered last July?

I struggle for a conversation. What is there to talk about other than snow?

Gnome, observing the clear spring blue sky, points to the trees; fresh winds course through them.

If you don’t have anything to say, sit down, he says.

He watches Little Gnome twirling around as if the wind held him. Gnome taps his feet. I frown and touch my finger to the wrinkles on my forehead. Winter makes you think of serious things. In contrast, Gnome makes me laugh. As he wiggles to sit on the log, his round belly bounces underneath his red flannel shirt. Suspenders hold up his trousers.

Puddles appear. On either side of the path are five feet of snow. Gnome stands by the snow banks, observing the water. He wears fur boots.

What do you see when you look at the sunlight reflected in the puddles? He leans over, pointing to the movement on the water’s surface. His short green cape flaps open. Underneath he has on a red flannel shirt and brown trousers.

He continues, Light moves with the wind across the water.

Little Gnome, who sits in a corner, looks at the ice. He dons a wool jacket and brown pants, with a long multi colored woolen scarf around his neck, its ends tucked into his belt.

Imagine being in this light, and you’d feel as you were skimming across the water, Gnome says.

Like water skiing?

I’d like to water ski someday, His eyes twinkle.

The spring breeze again ripples the water’s surface. Melting contrasts the frozen landscape. Closing my eyes, I picture a circle around me, full of light. I feel an Invisible World shining in this illumination. When I open my eyes, Gnome is watching me. I am relieved he hasn’t left. Little Gnome is trying to slide across the puddles.

Light and water converge here in the water. These are powerful forces, transforming the cold to warmth, Gnome says.

A cloud blocks the sun’s warmth. Light seems to leave the water’s surface. I shiver and head for the door. We go inside to sit by the woodstove.

There are dishes on the kitchen counter, ball of yarns in baskets, bills spilling over the table. The cat sleeps under the table on a chair’s red cushion. On the floor, shoes drift apart. I kick them aside – they belong out on the porch.

The phone rings. I stumble over a rug. It is my daughter in California. When I get off the telephone, my back tightens. I go over to where the stove is, because heat is comforting.

The gnome is beside me:

How do you feel after this phone call?

Outside, a squirrel jumps off the bird feeder. A nuthatch waits in the forsythia bush then flies for the sunflower seed mix. Our cat watches from the porch. I tap the window. I want the cat to stay away from the feeder. I rub the aching part in the small of my back.

Gnome says, If you have pain, think on me. This is the simplest thing to say to you. To understand a situation, you have to go inside the person. Your pain comes from emotion. Love for your child, is love with difficulty – it is a space in which together you enter. The place is dark and not easy to walk there. Although you wish love to be happiness, it is hard work. You have to be in that place of the other where so much moves which is in darkness, because you are not that person.

Gnome wears a tweed coat of woven brown and a moss green beret. He sits on the dining room wooden bench, his red cheeks glowing. The cat sticks out her head from underneath the chair.

He says, You are there together, but you have to change to be in there --listening, seeing where you can’t visibly see, and feeling where you can’t touch. When you can do this, it’s like substance melts.

I look up to the tin ceiling of our dining room. My thoughts