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Stumpy The Garden Gnome
Short Biography on our Garden Gnome - Stumpy. Stumpy was the “Eighth” Dwarf. Yep- really. He was the black sheep. Stumpy was written out of the Fairy Tale Folklore a long time ago. Ostracized by his siblings, the Magnificent Seven, for making inappropriate advances to Snow White, Stumpy, in exile, turned initially to kissing frogs. He was hoping they’d turn into beautiful women. Of course, all of this happened a long time ago and Stumpy got around a lot in those olden days. That was before he made his decision to reside with us at Apartment Gardening That’s why you find so many stone frogs in gardens today. Moreover, Stumpy turned a myriad pixies, garden fairies and the like into statues. You’ll see a lot of these around, too. Yes, Prince Charming, if he ever divorces Snow White, will have his work cut out reviving all of these. Despite his longevity, Stumpy has retained his vigor (and testosterone levels) mainly because of his in-depth knowledge of life-sustaining herbs and flower remedies. He taught a fellow called Bach about the latter, though he never got the credit. Sometimes Stumpy can be positively embarrassing. But his wanderings into gardens containing water-nymphs and angelic female statues can be curtailed by a liberal sprinkling of snail pellets. He hates them. Stumpy’s also averse to dogs roaming loose close to his abode. Hates being peed upon. But he does love to tell stories, and one of his better ones can be found below…. It’s called, “Tragedy in the Big Apple” and is, of course, particularly targeted at the garden lover. Have a look and see…
Stumpies Recommended Reads (Bookstore) Click Here! You just gotta check it out.
Tragedy in the Big AppleA common Apartment-Garden story Yep…by Stumpy Dwarf, Garden Gnome Our story begins when our hero Mr. Sweetpea, and his friend, Mr. Potato, decide to leave their plum jobs and move to the Big Apple. The boys were real country pumpkins. Mr. Sweetpea’s father had been a vegetarian. Sweetpea Senior had died in a tragic accident. Young Sweetpea could still remember the words of Reverend Radish as they planted his father’s body in the garden. “Lettuce give thanks, remembering that he will surely sprout again in that great big greenhouse in the sky. Actually, what happened was that Sweetpea Senior had very bad eyesight. His doctor had placed him on a strict diet of carrots. Carrots, carrots – and nothing else. It helped his eyesight enormously. But death came when he tripped over his ears and broke his neck. Old gardeners never die. They just spade away. So young Sweetpea grew up as an orphan . As the years passed Sweetpea grew tall and straight. He wasn’t very athletic, though. In fact he was as skinny as a string less stringbean – with the wood scraped off. For some months Mr. Sweetpea was disconsolate. The seeds of discontent germinated. But the decision to change jobs pulled him out of the manure. He drifted from furrow to furrow, eventually driving a school bus in America’s Deep South. Alabama, I believe it was. He used to drive this dilapidated bus filled with white and coloured kids to school. The kids would just fight and fight. One day Mr. Sweetpea could stand it no longer. He pulled the bus to the side of the road and yelled at the schoolchildren. “Out! Get out of the bus! Once the kids were out he lined ‘em up. “Right. Now I’ll give it to you straight. No more arguing. There is no more black. And there is no more white- right? You’re all green. Got that? You’re all green. What are you? “All green, sir.” “Okay. I’m glad we understand each other. Now get back on the bus.” At this, one of the white prefects stepped forward and took charge. “Right lads, everyone back on the bus: light greens at the front: dark greens down the back.” At twenty-two Mr. Sweetpea met Mr. Potato and there began a lifelong friendship. They travelled all over: the San Francisco Salad Bowl, Sydney’s Botanical Gardens, but things turned sour in Citrus City. The place was a real compost heap. That was when they decided to go to the Big Apple. In the Big Apple our heroes fell in with a fast crowd. They teamed up with a Mr. Split-pea. Split-pea had been in trouble since the day his father had been killed by a couple slugs whilst trying to do a break-and-enter. Split-pea always carried a celery stick and a big bunch of skeleton peas. He introduced the boys to onion-drinking and smoked grass openly. But it was Split-pea’s young cousin, Miss Tomato, who really set the juice to pounding in Mr. Sweetpea's veins. She was luscious: smooth skin; ripe, voluptuous body. Sweetpea used to get stalky just thinking about her. Miss Tomato had had a tough childhood. She’d definitely grown up on the wrong side of the fence. And dry. Where she’d been raised it practically never rained. She was seven years of age when she first felt rain. It came as such a shock that she broke out in hysterics. They had to throw a bucket of dust over her to calm her down. Compared with Miss Tomato, our hero Sweetpea was totally green. Miss Tomato told Sweetpea that she’d been deflowered by an amorous gardener before she was fifteen. It wasn’t true. She’d been rooted, all right. But actually she’d been packed reaped. Sweepea couldn’t see how wicked she was. He just lusted after her. His friend, Mr. Potato, was shocked to the marrow of his bones when he heard that Sweetpea wanted to legally bed down in the same furrow as Miss Tomato. To him, the whole idea was a lemon. As it turned out, she up and left him. She was of shallow soil. She just walked out on him to become a stripper at the Clockwork Orange Club. When our heroes came through the swing door into the Clockwork Orange the place was jumping. On stage the “Sugar Beats” were banging away on their electric guitars and mandarins. People were guzzling onion juice and root beer. There wasn’t mushroom. Sweetpea spotted Miss Tomato. She looked ravishing. Carrot-spike high-heeled shoes, dress as tight as the skin on an capsicum, the faint fragrance of asparagus in her hair. He asked her for a dance and she said, “Yes.” On the sidelines a tough-looking turnip said to Mr. Potato. “Your friend mustn’t want to live long, Buddy- that’s Mr. Broadbean’s Tomato he’s dancing with.” On hearing that, Mr. Potato nearly soiled himself. Mr. Broadbean was a real big banana. And tough. It was said he could put his right tendril in his left hand hip pocket and hold himself out at arms length. At that very moment a deathly hush came over the place. Mr. Potato looked up to see the biggest Broadbean he’d ever set eyes on come into the room. It looked like there would be a fight. And as I said early, there wasn’t mushroom to move. The fight was swift and bloody. A couple of big Swedish Turnip bouncers eventually broke it up. But not before it was too late. There was a fatality. And the another was seriously injured. The police came and questioned Mr. Potato but he didn’t spill the beans. Broadbean was dead. Killed by a base ball bat swung by one of the big Swedes. They had to plant him. Mr. Sweetpea was taken off to intensive care. In the hospital waiting room Mr. Potato anxiously awaited news on his friend. At last the surgeon appeared. “Mr. Potato?” “Yes.” “I’ve got good news and bad.” “Yes.” “The good news is that Mr. Potato will live. The bad is that he’ll be a vegetable for the rest of his life.”
PS: Contact at our address apartme6@apartment-gardening-homes.com if there is any particular book you are looking for. I am sure we can help. Happy Gardening Stumpy Garden Gnome
Stumpy really is a great story teller,it's pretty normal behaviour for a Garden Gnome! Marty
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