Prologue:
On number five of Marpole drive,
Old Rob McGudgen did reside,
In his home he did thrive,
A curmudgeon of great pride.
An aged carpenter extraordinare,
With crooked back and greying hair,
Nothing short of perfection he could abide.
But no tale is complete,
Without a challenge to meet,
A foe he had most foul,
That upon him grew a scowl.
And this is that very story,
Of how he met his match,
In a battle for firth and glory,
Against the gate with the creaky latch.
So now begins our tragic tale,
Of an old man who was sure to fail.
Part the First: A Creek at the Cul-de-Sac
Marpole drive was a sleepy little neighbourhood that seemed to be perpetually trapped in autumn. It was a quiet little drive, majority of it's traffic was orange sun-kissed leaves dancing down the street on a gentle breeze.
The Realtor's listing for homes along the drive read as default "an introverts paradise: quiet, serene, and impossibly cozy. "
Of all the quaint little homes one could argue that number five was by far the quaintest and most secluded. It sat on the end of the drive by the cul-de-sac. There was a sharp embankment on the lot, so it was elevated above the other homes. But it didn't stand out due to its natural camouflage; an army of stoic old oak trees surrounding the lot and obscuring the home from the street below. Down on the cul-de-sac, sitting between the cozy drive, and the enchanting home hidden in the trees, was a large mahogany gate with a mailbox designed as a miniature log cabin. The gate was the border between a small serene community and and even more secluded world belonging to one solitary man. All one could see behind the gate was a well crafted and beautifully up kept elevated walkway, weaving its way through the trees and up to the house above. A veritable stairway to heaven, hand cut and placed, and polished to perfection leading it's way to the hidden home.
The mailman would always swear the he caught glimpses of a footbridge traversing a small creek further up, all overlooked by a majestically fabricated gazebo. These rumors were of course unconfirmed as nary a guest had set foot beyond the gate. Perhaps the neighbours doubted the existence of such a creek out a jealousy as well, for surely it would be unfair for a brook to flow exclusively through only one of the homes at the end of the cul-de-sac. So often the mailman and his chatter of hearing the cool waters running through the yard were dismissed due to resentment. Only a group of secluded retirees could covert a creek.
Part the Second: A Curmudgeonly Craftsman
This secret suburban Eden was the dwelling of one man, Rob McGudgen. He was an old carpenter who had spent years crafting everything a man could construct from wood, be it a shed, a barn, a table, or a chair. But he specialized, as many tradesmen do in one specific sort of fabrication. For him, the pride and joy of his work was the creation of decks, verandas, patios, and porches. And if one was smart they would never let Rob catch them calling these the same thing, for he could lecture for hours the obvious and complex differences between these forms of platformed house-huggers. He took pride in his work, as would anyone who thrived at a single trade for six decades. And who can judge the career path of a man who shares his occupation with Jesus Christ? This was the mentality of the Octogenarian master craftsman.
Aside from what he did, few around knew a thing about the mysterious old man. He had lived at number five marpole drive for forty six years, and since the passing of his wife he refused to move out...and quite frankly refused to step foot out of his home.
However curmudgeonly he may have been, he was no crank. Granted he enjoyed his seclusion and solitude, as did most on the drive, but he just felt no reason to go out and meet people. Why would he? All he had ever known and loved resided on the inside of the gate st the base of the culdesac. Sure he was lonely, but his loneliness was outweighed by his love of his trade, and his appreciation of peace and quiet...something that Marpole drive was not in short supply of.
The only time he would venture beyond the boundary of the mahogany gate would be to retrieve his mail, and his delivered grocer goods. All these items he would procure not three feet beyond his sanctuary, from the quaint log cabin mailbox. Some say at night they could hear him sawing and sanding away, working on his walkways or repairing his gazebo. But these rumors, much like the tales from the mailman were lacking in proof and verification, no matter how intriguing and likely they sounded.
Glimpses of him gathering mail described him in brief simplicity: He stood slightly crooked from a lifetime of hard work, and sported a wild tuft of grey and silver hair. Only one thing was certain, for a man of Eighty Three, he was very shrouded in mystery, and surely quite agile; for he seemed more elusive than Bigfoot.
Part the Third: A Lecherous Latch on a Gorgeous Gate
One morning while quickly slipping out to retrieve the contents of his cabin on a post, Rob was confronted by the most heinous of noises. A creak. A creak so eerie and shrill it sent a shiver down his spine and a furrow up his brow. On his attempt to open the mahogany gate he was greeted by such a sound. And it wasn't alone, the noise was accompanied by a sad groaning attempt for the gate to open. It seemed that the hinge and latch were on there last legs, and very near a melancholy demise.
Not one to stand for anything short of excellence in his trade, Rob vowed to momentarily amend this issue. He turned with an unnatural spryness for a man so old and crooked, and scurried his way back up the winding path towards his hidden home. He left in such a hurry, with his mind so focused on repairing the gate, that he left the newly delivered bottle of fresh milk near the log cabin receptacle, where it was sure to sour.
Moments later he re-emerged triumphant from his home brandishing a box of tools, and sporting ratty old pads on his knees. He knelt beside the gate still as night, unflinching. Just remaining there studying the problem, the old clock like gears in his mind hidden under the tuft of wild grey hair (not unlike the way the house was hidden by trees) turned away. He stayed there for minutes, long enough for one to mistake him for a piece sculpted by Rodin himself. Then without warning, he sprung from his assessment to life. Pulling tools and supplies from his box with a fervor of determination. He grabbed an old lugnut and an old bolt and began to size them up for the gate. He worked with the experience of a man his age, but the vitality of a lad a quarter so. He truly was in his element. Things were going well.
Half way through removing the old latch he hit his insurmountable roadblock. his old Phillips head screwdriver snapped, its head lodging firmly within the grooved bolt with which it had been jousting. With the true nature of an old curmudgeon he muttered a curseword from generations long lost at his misfortune. He equipped himself with the hammer, and careful to not bash the mahogany his wife so admired, began to thump some sense into the bolt. However, it did not break free, and moreover it got worse. Trying to keep his cool he attemped to pry the whole thing off, risking slight marks to the finish of the wood. But alas, in the cool seemingly ever-autumn air it would not budge.
Once again be turned to scurry back towards the house, determined to repair his stubborn yet stunning gate latch. For he was atleast twice as stubborn as an creaky latch could be. Unfortunately, his heart wasn't as stubborn as he, and halfway up the path it decided to stop beating. Rob McGudgen fell flat from a massive heart attack on the beautiful woodwork of his pathway. His eyes struggling to stay open as hee peered at the glorious view of his gazeebo by the creek. Blinking to focus at the beautiful birdbath surrounded by roses at the foot of the creek; a serene detail the snoopy mailman could never have imagined. But luckily for Rob, his new neighbour was twice as snoopy as any mailman could ever have been.
Mrs. Gladys Fullbrood had just purchased a home on the gorgeous selling point that her Realtor had described it as "An introverts paradise: quiet, serene, and impossibly cozy" and that morning she had been drawn from watering her lilacs by the curious sound of Rob thumping away at the latch. Knowing only what she had heard from the gossiping mailman since moving in a week prior, and being curious as many old ladies who own cats are, she wandered over. Peering over the lovely mahogany gate she spotted Rob, looking more cozy than curmudgeonly as he lay on his walkway. She lingered for a moment to attempt to spot the gazebo and creek the mailman had mentioned, but being to petite it eluded her spectrum of vision. She promptly turned and moseyed off to call for help.
Later on the paramedics would say that they had little hope of getting to Rob in time, for his gate was simply too formidably constructed, and the latch was sealed shut tighter than a jar of gerkins. By the time they had smashed the gorgeous mahogany to splinters to get to him, he was seconds away from death. A double edged sword of being with the woman he loved, but being away from the home he had built for her. There was but one saving grace for old Rob McGudgen, his master craftsmanship and constant constructional vigilance. The paramedics were quoted as saying that the footpath beyond the gate was so well kept and smooth and level that it took them mere moments to rush a stretcher up there, load Rob and rush him back down. Proving that as stubborn as that latch had been, he had at least proved more stubborn by outliving it.
His gorgeous gate one innocent casualty of his struggle with the latch. But he vows that as soon as he gets out of the hospital, Rob sill construct a new gate in memory of his wife, one that simply swivels on a peg with no latch. Making it less likely to betray him, and easier for guest to come over. His home to be a welcome haven for visiting neighbours, with a very warm and inviting gate out front.
Fin
