The Real Reason Behind the Pandemic

Whelp, I guess it’s finally time to come forward and confess. Something big. Like, really really big. Akin to admitting that I was actually the one who shot John F. Kennedy. Which, for the record, would be impossible since I wasn’t even born then. But, these are the things you think about when you’re in the middle of reading books about such events (*cough* plug for any historical fiction fans out there: And They Called it Camelot is great.)

Anyway, now I’m just procrastinating my confession. Okay, fine — I’ll just come out with it. You guys, I’m the reason why 2020 sucked. Yup. Me. Single-handedly. It’s all my fault.

Remember all the way back to 2019? When the world was bright and we could do such things as lick our friends’ faces. Not that we would do that necessarily, but we could if we wanted to… ah, how young and naive we all were to think there would come a time when we couldn’t lick faces. We really should’ve seized the opportunity.

Anyway, I’m procrastinating again.

In April of 2019, I took my sister down to a charming little brewhouse in Denver aptly named Grandma’s House . Think of your grandmother’s actual house. That’s right, the one with golden-framed cross-stitched messages like “Home is where your heinie is.” Doilies and stale jars of generic candy on every table top. Bathrooms that smell an odd combination of two-year-old potpourri and dentures. This is that. And I simply cannot recommend it highly enough. Err.. once the world opens back up again.

Procrastination continues.

Okay, so it was Meghan’s birthday and I treated her to a “paint your own yard gnome” evening at Grandma’s House. Because that’s how cool Grandma’s House is. We drove the forty minutes down there, painted the hell out of some ceramic yard gnomes (avoiding any and all conversations that started with “when I was your age…” as one must do during any grandparent visit,) marked our initials on said gnomes, and patted their little heads with a promise to come back and collect them in a few days after they’d had their time in the kiln.

Fast forward to a few days later, when I boldly volunteered to make the trek the 45 minutes back down to Denver to pick up our shiny new yard ornaments.

Grandma’s House wasn’t open yet, which brought up a slew of insecurities for me. I suddenly felt cold and like no one was around to comfort me or wrap me in a warm afghan. I mean, shouldn’t grandma’s house be open and inviting every hour of every day? Isn’t that what grandmas are meant for?? It should’ve been my first clue that something was about to be very, very wrong.

Anyway, it wasn’t open, but there was a side door with a sign on it: “Pick up gnomes here.”

This was starting to feel like a shady situation, at least as far as grandmas go.

I snuck into the side door and saw a big box labeled “GNOMES” in Sharpie. Only, there were no gnomes in the box — at least none visible. Because, after their kilning, each gnome was wrapped up in a ball of tissue paper and impossible-to-remove tape. Our initials were then marked on the paper.

I immediately found Meghan’s, but I couldn’t see my initials (CWF) anywhere. And then, I saw something close enough. The workers at Grandma’s House must have had a little too much hot cocoa and knitting time and were probably just sloppy with their letters by that point. I grabbed my gnome package and got out of there before any creepy old dolls in Grandma’s House woke up and tried to kill me or something.

I stopped by Meghan’s house and we used scissors (and ultimately our teeth) to rip through the impossible tape to open our finished gnomes together. Meghan’s was adorable and exactly how she’d pictured hers turning out.

Mine, on the other hand… was purple…

Now, I’ll be the first to admit, sometimes the paint looks different wet than it does after it gets fired up, but purple?!? That couldn’t be right.

Meghan grabbed the gnome from me and looked at its feet. The initials CPL clearly and proudly stared back at us. I had stolen somebody else’s gnome.

I knew right then we’d be cursed. It was the only thing I was certain of in the moment. I had to make this right.

I called Grandma’s House and asked if someone had come in to file a report of a missing gnome, but they couldn’t care less about my problems. There were so many painted gnomes going in and out of there, who cared if someone took the wrong one?? That was not an appropriate grandma answer! Every gnome matters!

What could I do? I wasn’t free to drive back down to Denver for at least another week, and was informed that the gnomes would all be thrown out by then to make room for the new batch coming in. And so, I was stuck with someone else’s gnome. Did I mention he was purple?!?

And now, the real predicament came. If I was already destined to be cursed for this heinous act of mine, would I be even more cursed if I threw the gnome away? Was I about to unleash the kraken of curses?

I chose to play it safe. I kept the purple gnome and even found him a lovely spot in my garden…it may have been in a hidden corner of my garden, but it was a special spot for him nonetheless…

And there he lived. Happily. At least, I thought happily, until the world announced a global pandemic.

And through all the ups and (mostly) downs of 2020, that smug little gnome just sat there in his corner spot, smiling his purple grin like he didn’t have a single thing to do with it all. But, I knew better. We all know better, cursed gnome.

Punk.

So, there it is. Whew! That’s quite a weight off my shoulders. I’m sorry. I’m sorry to CPL, whoever the hell you are, for stealing your purple gnome. I’m sorry to Grandma’s House for saying your candy is stale. I’m sorry to the world for bringing in a foreign purple gnome and therefore starting a world pandemic.

May 2021 be better for us all.

And now, for the real question. Do I dare throw this gnome away or do I need to keep it for the rest of eternity?