I'm not sure when this whole craze started. But when my roommates and I started noticing that every other house on the street had a lawn gnome or two lurking around, we started asking questions.

It's one of those things you wouldn't pick up on at first, but there is a subtle eeriness to seeing two-foot, bearded statuettes populating the lawns and gardens of an entire town.

Well, alright...it's not like everybody in Plattsburgh had a lawn gnome, but hardly a day goes by that I don't see at least four of them in a given 12 hour period. I soon became obsessed with the lawn gnome subculture of Plattsburgh and sought out to find an explanation for their popularity.

To the layperson, a lawn gnome is a ceramic or plastic statuette that stands about one foot tall and bears a striking resemblance to one of Snow White's seven "dwarfs." With little exception, however, lawn gnomes, unlike Grumpy or Sleepy, seem to express a perpetual sense of joy upon their grinning, bearded visages.

My friends and I spent nearly two weeks prowling the neighborhoods of Plattsburgh, searching for the ultimate lawn gnome source. We found houses harboring one or two of them; the telltale white beards and bright garments shone brilliantly from residential shrubs and gardens. But we needed a true lawn gnome advocate. We needed a professional.

And, when we stumbled upon the Rock residence during a midday journalistic hunt around town, our hearts leapt; we knew we had found the promised land.

At first glance, the trailer home seemed unremarkable, blending itself into the larger trailer park environment naturally. A cynical observer might sneer at the overturned lawn furniture that was scattered about the front yard, or the amalgam of debris tangled into the nearby shrubs, but for the most part, the modular home seemed nothing to write home about.

Then my eyes adjusted.

 

This is the front of Jon Rock's trailer; observe the variety of color and pose displayed in his collection.

 

"Wait!" I shouted to the driver excitedly. He slammed the brakes down hard and reversed the car slowly. All heads turned toward the trailer that had seconds before seemed ordinary.

Gnomes...hell, there must have been at least 15 of them perched on a small shelf on the front of the trailer, and that wasn't all. A couple more were reclining on the porch and several smaller ones were spying gleefully out of the shrubs.

After gawking at this spectacle for several moments, I decided it was essential to expose the owner of this collection to the world. Our journalistic mission was, of course, to seek out and shed light on the lawn gnome culture of Plattsburgh, and as we grabbed our camera, readied our question, and exited our vehicle. We knew we had hit the jackpot.

We approached the trailer cautiously; we had no idea what sort of person would own so many lawn gnomes, but we did not want them thinking that we were neighborhood hooligans trying to pilfer them. Were they even home? As we got closer, we noticed that gnomes weren't the only occupants standing sentinel.

Twin dwarves (larger cousins of the gnome), clad in bright colors of red, yellow and white basked leisurely on the garbage-cluttered porch, silently smoking empty pipes as they observed our approach. I surmised that this well-painted couple must have cost considerably more than their ceramic counterparts, for they looked to be made of concrete and were much larger.

A small wooden bear acknowledged our presence as well, staring wistfully at us while tiredly clutching the edge of an ornamental wagon wheel. It looked as if it were taking a rest from an exhausting carnival act.

The weather was a bit chilly, even for October, but we never doubted for one second where to lay the blame for our creeping skin and shaking hands. I suddenly remembered R.L. Stine's movie and book series Goosebumps, and realized…gods, there was an episode titled "The Revenge of the Lawn Gnomes." I didn't remember the gist of the storyline, but I could not suppress the feeling that we were being watched.

There was something intangibly eerie about the whole scene. The grins molded carefully onto the visage of each gnome contrasted sharply with the bleak, forlorn landscape of autumn. There was an unhealthy aura luminating from that gnome-infested trailer, invisible to the naked eye, but permeating to the soul. It had both elements of a wax museum and a cemetery, as appalling as it was interesting.

So there we were, just putting around the front of this trailer, surrounded by porcelain freaks, when...WHACK! The storm door on the front porch swings violently outward, slapping loudly against the plastic laminate of the trailer's exterior. Out steps a squat, unshaven man who blinks unhappily into the pale, autumn sunshine. His eyes, hollowed with five o'clock shadow, along with his pasty-white skin, suggested that he had not seen the light of day in awhile. And, he was none too pleased to see it now.

Once his eyes acclimate, he notices us. "What do yer want?" he mumbles shyly.

We explained our journalistic mission. The resident, Jon Rock, 32, a lifelong resident of the Plattsburgh area stammered embarrassingly, pointing out that his gnomes were not in the best condition.

"You should have come by a week earlier and seen my mom's collection," he says, gesturing toward a neighboring trailer. "She keeps hers in good condition, but they're put away now."

We insist that his collection is precisely what we we're looking for - several of the gnomes did indeed show signs of weathering, but the sheer size of his collection was far more crucial.

After several moments of flattery, Rock's resolve breaks and the truth comes bubbling forth.

Apparently, Rock and his next-door mother Janine had been upholding their gnomish empire in the Plattsburgh area for years, housing well over 30 beardlings between their two trailers.

And how did the Rock family acquire so many lawn gnomes? Rock sadly recalls a lawn ornament store in nearby Cadyville that closed years ago, although he could not remember the name of the business. According to Rock, lawn gnome prices during this heyday were much cheaper and plentiful, the probable spawning bed for the majority of lawn gnomes scattered throughout Plattsburgh.

"Back then, the gnomes only cost us about four dollars," says Rock. "But Ginger Jollette, the widow of the ex-town justice Jollette of Dannemora (another neighboring town), is the only person I know who sells em' and she's charging eight dollars!"

Despite this information, Rock could not accurately express a reason behind his lawn gnome obsession, stating simply, "If there's gnomes around, I'll get them." He gestures wildly at the twin dwarves; "I got those two at an auction last year for 15 bucks." Quite the bargain.

At this point, we decided it was time to move on. Rock had been an excellent source, but we needed more; we thanked Rock for his time and continued our search. Our journey led us across Clinton County, through the neighboring towns of Peru, West Chazy, and Dannemora, in search for more answers. Everyone who owned a lawn gnome seemed to own just one. We severely doubted that these people would provide any useful answers.

Not that we didn't try. An elderly woman who had been raking leaves outside her house in West Chazy curtly responded that she found her lawn gnome to be "cute," but offered no further assistance.

Was I the only one finding this whole lawn gnome thing strange? Did no one else dare ask why? Perhaps not, but word of our investigations spread like the SUNY Plattsburgh college crowd like a swarm of locusts. We were soon introduced to Oscar Flores, Jr.

 

Oscar Flores reveals his dark secret.

 

A native of the Plattsburgh area, Flores is a student at Plattsburgh State, where he ardently pursues his studies. Flores is, in most ways, the average SUNY student: hard drinking, slow thinking, and...that's about it.

However, he holds a dark secret that he reveals to very few people. He is the owner of two lawn gnomes, which he has named David and Blueballs. Flores nabbed David last spring from a neighbor's garden and named his newfound treasure after the popular late 1980's Nickelodeon cartoon titled David the Gnome.

"I really loved watching the show as a child," explains Flores, "And, when I saw that gnome lying in my neighbor's garden, I knew I had found him.... I knew I had found David."

Apparently, Flores' theft went unnoticed, for he has remained the owner of David for the past two years.
And, Blueballs? Oscar has always had a special place in his heart for this little, blue-clad fellow. He inherited him from his late aunt Yolanda when he was a child.

"When I was young, Yolanda used to tuck me into bed with Blueballs," recalls Flores. "I used to watch a lot of television with him as well...there was nothing like having him around for Saturday morning cartoons." Interesting, yet disturbing.

We had certainly found a true lawn gnome lover here, but the mystery of the lawn gnome abundance remained unsolved; many questions remained unanswered. If this Ginger Jollette person was the only lawn gnome dealer around, how could so many Clinton County residents own lawn gnomes? Who and where is Ginger Jollette? (Her name is absent from the county phone book.) For what reason would people want a lawn gnome?

Perhaps Ginger Jollette is, in reality, a gnome peddler who makes her rounds in Clinton County - spreading the seed of the lawn gnome as she goes. And, could she alone produce a sufficient number of lawn gnomes to supply so many people? Probably not. It is more likely that she smuggles them in from Europe, occasionally traveling to Montreal, where she would rendezvous with Franz, her French-Canadian supplier. But, of course, there is no proof to support this theory.

The conundrum left my mind reeling in confusion and exhaustion. I either had to give up, or reevaluate my goals as a journalist. Well, I wasn't ready to give up, so I settled with this: rather than attempt to explain the phenomena of the North Country lawn gnome, I would perpetuate and showcase the mystery I had created.

So sharpen your eyes and pay closer attention to the lawns that you may encounter. You might be surprised to find out just how popular lawn gnomes are in your area.

Have a theory? Email us.