Odd Duck

“I am an odd duck.” I blandly smile at the sweaty, uncomfortable real estate agent dressed in a coat and tie. In Georgia. In July. The man, sporting a nametag reading “Morris,” had tried to make small talk about how my inheritance is unique and different, and he got his answer—which only made him more uncomfortable.

“Yes, well, I’m glad you got the keys okay and are settling in nicely.” Morris straightens his droopy tie. “Thanks for filling out the last paperwork.”

As I close my front door, Joe cackles from his armchair. “He was melting, Harper. Melting. Like the Wicked Witch.”

“Yes, well, Southern heat can do that to you,” I dryly remark, flipping my brown ponytail, absent-mindedly. I was dressed more appropriately in a tank top and jean shorts, my lean figure muscular from my old job of carpentry. Not many female carpenters, but then again …

I am an odd duck.

Maybe that’s why Old Man Crowley—my late grandfather—thought of me in his will. Different am I. Perfect to fix up Crowley’s dilapidated “Ye Olde Putt Putt Forest” business behind his ramshackle cottage.

I head out back, gazing at the broken-down large deck that doubles as the cash register area to sign up for the game. The backyard sprawls across a few acres, mostly in the woods, with weeds piling everywhere. My eyes rove over the first two holes with peeling artificial turf, marking the cracks in the ceramic gnomes and stone woodland creatures that decorate each hole. The game continues through the woods, leading back to the broken-down deck and the last hole—complete with a ramp leading up to a giant, sly gnome sporting a round mouth, poised for a hole-in-one down his gullet.

So much potential here. My vision for the new course spills out of my mind, until I almost see the finished product appearing before me.

Joe follows me outside and sits his old butt in his deck chair, as I grab my tools and bring over a ceramic gnome.

“Are you gonna fill every crack in every gnome, Harper?” Joe’s eyes twinkle.

“Yep. And touch-up paint every one.” I dust off the gnome and study it. “You seem like a scaredy-cat gnome to me. Frightened of your own shadow. You must get bullied by the other creatures. Poor guy.”

Soon with my tools and paint, a panicked gnome emerges. I can almost see him jump.

“On to the next? What now, a sad gnome?” Joe speculates.

I bring over the next red-hatted fairytale creature and gaze at his face.

“No. You, my short, squat friend, are a goofy gnome. You are clumsy and not-too-bright.”

The gnome’s eyes appear to lose a few IQ points, as the new paint dries.

Joe solemnly observes the transformation. “I swear, Harper, you talk life into them. You have a gift.”

***

I sit on my plastic folding chair, hoping the brittle fibers hold, while I hold my steaming mint tea. The dark swoops down and kisses the earth, enveloping my gnomes in shadow.

Pumpkins squat on the polished back deck, carved with whimsical faces. The fall breeze cuts through my thin sweatshirt, and I shiver.

“Whaddya think, Joe? I’ve finished repairing the putting greens and all gnomes and woodland creatures, except for Big Daddy here.” I point to the giant gnome at the final hole.

Joe belches from his deck chair. “Just in time for the grand opening tomorrow—Halloween night. Better get your large friend fixed up good.”

I put down my tea on the immaculate deck and saunter over to the final hole. Some lucky clod will win the game, when Big Daddy swallows the ball.

“What sort of gnome is he, Harper?” Joe curiously questions.

“Oh, you are a crafty, big guy,” I croon to the giant, woodland fairy creature. “You are daring people to try and make this hole-in-one—if you don’t snap your mouth shut first, you sly dog.” I bop the creature’s nose, teasing. A gleam of mischief flares in Big Daddy’s eyes, as I work in the night.

Joe laughs. “People are gonna love ‘Ye Olde Putt Putt Forest.’ You have completely changed this little business. For the better.”

I am touched. “Aw, thanks, Joe. Well, we will see tomorrow night, when we open.”

***

“Hey Mom, this is lame.”

A whiny kid of the middle school variety complains to his mother, who holds the hand of an excited five-year-old girl, while the dad looks determined to make precious memories with his family. They file in at 6:01pm, the first group to arrive, and Joe and I watch breathlessly. The Halloween orange-and-yellow blinking lights highlight the shadowy gnomes in streaks of lurid hues.

“Well, Hamilton, the course website calls it magical. Look at the cute creatures!” The mom exclaims to the tween boy, who sullenly shrugs.

Joe whispers, “You can’t please everyone.”

I smile. “Just wait.”

After handing the clubs, card, and ball, to the determined dad, I notice a steady stream of customers trickling past the open gate to the brightly decorated deck, complete with freshly painted sign. Joe makes a pleased sound, as I ring up each group.

“A money maker, Harper.” Joe remarks.

A lull in customers stretches on for a few minutes, and I listen. Although half the kids looked bored at first, soon I hear shrieks of delight.

“Lookit! The gnomes are moving!”

“Look at that one blink!”

“Look at the shaking, scared one!”

“Lookit! Lookit!”

Joe whistles softly. “A gift indeed.”

The first family emerges from the woods. The mom and dad look delighted, and the young girl skips in excitement, but it’s the reluctantly interested expression of the tween that satisfies that need to engage my audience.

They line up for Big Daddy, who seems to wink slyly, spitting out a few balls before giving in and sheepishly swallowing one for a winner.

“I won!” The father jumps up and down, waving his club. Mom good-naturedly grins, the girl complains, and Hamilton tries to hide his enjoyment.

“I gotta say, lady,” the winner raves, “the animation you’ve done on these gnomes is nothing short of amazing. The mechanical part is incredible. They almost come to life!”

Joe coughs meaningfully from his deck chair.

“What mechanical part?” he snickers.

I blankly smile and thank group after group that attend the Halloween Grand Opening of ‘Ye Olde Putt Putt Forest.’ Group after group of delighted customers.

As I close the gate and lock up at midnight, I trudge back to the back deck, hands in my hoodie pockets, avoiding the chill. I stop and gaze at Joe, who looks as pleased as punch in his inevitable deck chair.

“Well, Joe, are you happy with what I’ve done with the place?” I fish for a compliment.

Joe smiles. “Harper, my dear granddaughter, you done me proud.”

And Old Man Joe Crowley disappears, leaving a forest of dancing gnomes behind.

I did say.

I am an odd duck.