Before we begin, a bit of context for those new to our little corner of the Pacific Northwest: Mr. Carson is not, in fact, a person (though he might correct me on that). He is a concrete frog butler who resides on the back deck, always impeccably poised beneath his stone umbrella. On rainy afternoons, which is to say, most afternoons, he can often be found offering critiques of the gardener’s vinyl selections with a tone somewhere between a British art critic and a disappointed music professor.
Enjoy.
— Dave, caretaker of the Gentle Garden and reluctant stenographer of amphibian philosophy
October 15th, 2025
Gerald the Garden Gnome: The Secret Life of a Swiftie
We always thought Gerald was immune to pop culture.
After all, he’s the resident curmudgeon of the garden; the gnome who grumbles about the compost ratio, scoffs at fairy lights, and insists that modern music went downhill after The Sound of Music. He’s the sort who claims to prefer the quiet hum of bees and the occasional frog croak to “all that racket humans listen to.”
So imagine our surprise when we discovered Gerald is… a Swiftie.
Yes. Our Gerald. The Grumbler of the Garden.
The same gnome who once rolled his stone eyes at my playlist now sneaks off under the cover of dusk for secret listening sessions.
It started one drizzly Thursday evening. I was reading by the fire with Gandalf the wise asleep halfway across my lap. Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw a blur of red felt dart across the front yard. It couldn’t be. Gerald never leaves his post after sunset. He takes his “garden sentinel duties” very seriously.
But curiosity won, as it always does.
I tiptoed through the wet grass and followed the faint glow of light spilling from Hagrid’s Board Game Café next door. The door was ajar, a soft hum of melody seeping through. I peeked in.
And there he was.
Perched on a chair far too big for him, a tiny glass of whiskey balanced precariously by his elbow, Gerald was nodding solemnly to “The Life of a Showgirl.” His little porcelain foot was tapping along, off-beat, bless him, but tapping all the same.
When the bridge hit, he lifted his glass and whispered, “Now that’s a lyric.”
He’s not there to gossip or perform. He’s there to feel.
I asked him about it later, gently, over tea and moss biscuits. He tried to deny it at first, mumbling something about “accidental exposure” and “being trapped during a heavy rain.” But then he sighed, tugged at his mossy beard, and said:
“She just… gets it. The yearning. The drama. The bridges! It’s poetry, really.”
And now, when the rain taps against the window and the fire crackles low, I like to imagine Gerald at his usual stool, sipping, swaying, and silently mouthing every word.
A gnome of contradictions.
A gardener of emotions.
A quiet Swiftie, hiding in plain sight.
So, the next time you hear The Fate of Ophelia echoing faintly through the ferns, don’t look at me.
Look for the smallest fan in the room, stone-faced, red-hatted, and living his best Swiftie life.
October 8th, 2025
Mr. Carson’s Musical Musings: A Review of The Cosmic Selection by Lord Huron
Today, he requested that I “dust off something cosmic, but tasteful.” I chose The Cosmic Selector by Lord Huron. He listened in silence, the drizzle pattering politely off his umbrella, before clearing his throat, or rather, producing a small rumbling hum that we’ve come to interpret as such, and delivered the following review.
It is, as usual, both lofty and damp.Ah, yes – The Cosmic Selector. A title both ambitious and alluring, as if reaching toward the heavens while keeping one’s webbed feet firmly planted in the damp soil of existence. I must confess, when Dave placed the record on the old turntable inside Hagrid’s Board Game Café, I expected the usual human noise, perhaps another plaintive ode to lost love or a predictable banjo romp. But no. What unfurled was something… Debussy-esque.
Not in imitation, mind you, but in essence, that shimmering interplay between melancholy and light. Debussy painted with water and sound; Lord Huron does the same with memory and reverb. There’s a movement in Is There Anybody Out there that recalls Clair de Lune in its quiet ache – that sense of stepping out into the fog, where the world becomes more suggestion than substance.
And Bag of Bones is pure impressionism. The edges blur, emotion becomes color, and one is left not with a story, but a feeling, and a touch of melancholy…
Even their grander moments remind me of Debussy’s later works, when he seemed to be writing not for orchestras but for dreams. It’s as if Lord Huron composed this album in the same illuminated space between dusk and dawn where I myself reside: half ornament, half philosopher, forever listening to the rain tap on my stone umbrella.
In short: The Cosmic Selector is what Debussy might have written had he owned a guitar, a tape delay pedal, and a fondness for haunting Americana. It is lush, romantic, and tinged with the sadness of knowing that beauty is always fleeting.
Final Verdict:
🌧️ Five out of five well-polished umbrellas. A masterpiece of space country, mist and melody that best enjoyed with a cup of Earl Grey, a steady drizzle, and the company of a (mildly judgmental) frog.
Click here for a full listen of Mr. Carson’s Enchanted Trowel Playlist –https://open.spotify.com/embed/playlist/6zbPwqlkNoA8tZ8mJnvle9?utm_source=generator
The Enchanted Trowel 