By Kenneth SmithSenior Staff Writer
"If the Bigs wanna loot and pillage,
Their blood will fertilize all our millage,
We're not responsible for all our killage,
Of those who desecrate the midget village."
- "Midget Village," The Geezers
Popular urban legend tells of the existence of secludedcommunities where little people band together and live in peace, farfrom the troubles of the wicked Bigs.
In darker times, they were referred to as Midget or MunchkinVillages, though in today's politically correct climate, it'sprobably best to call them Villages of the Vertically Challenged. Forthe sake of simplicity in this article, I will refer to them in thearchaic vernacular (a note to my little friends: Please don't getoffended and kick me in the shins).
The most prolific story nationwide places the largest of thesesomewhere in New Jersey, though the location is commonly changed tosuit the needs of modern purveyors of tall tales ... er, or shortones, rather.
It's said Ringling Brothers bought up a tract of land and built averitable city for their runty retirees, replete with tiny houses,tiny businesses, tiny cars and tiny animals. Reclusive in nature, theteensy-weensy townies fiercely defend their land from the Bigs, andintruders are allegedly pelted with stones.
Sometimesthe story says a few outcast Bigs - albinos, to be specific - areallowed to live in the catacombs beneath the midget village, emergingonly at night to feed on the flesh of wayward tourists hoping to spyon the secret city.
But stone-throwing small people and cannibalistic albinos? Gimme abreak. The local version of the legend is much more believable. Here,it is said, rich midget show-folk, their pockets fat with cash madefrom starring as Munchkins in The Wizard of Oz, came to the area andbuilt a village of little houses. Yes, much more believable.
I'd heard such rumors even before moving to San Diego a few yearsago; to be honest, finding the place has been somewhat of along-running obsession with me. My hopes were also occasionallybolstered by people claiming their friend's sister's boyfriend'scabdriver knew the exact location and would someday take us there.
I don't know why I've been so set on the legend - maybe adelusional fantasy that the honorable midgets there would see theinner midget in my rather hulking frame and accept me, perhaps evenmake me their king! But I digress.
Two recent developments spurred me to resume my search. First,while cruising the Internet, I found something called the "AndreaCute Girl Report." In it, a guy named "Archbishop" Dave Smith, aveteran of Sacramento dork-punk bands The Four Eyes and NoKill,relates his daily interactions with a girl in his CaliforniaArchaeology class. At one point, he and some friends rent apimped-out Caddy and drive 600-some-odd miles in search of SanDiego's Midget Village. They eventually find it, and Smith reports itlike this:
"Two houses, with slightly smaller doors and windows, withaddresses written in crazy midget writing. It was well worth it, andwhen we finished taking pictures, Bill drove off and the Caddystarted smoking."
I had the confirmation I needed. A few weeks later a girl in myJournalism 420 class claimed she had written a paper on the housesback in high school and gave me some rough directions. With that, Iwas off.
The search begins
She said the houses were in La Jolla, near Mt. Soledad. Beingunfamiliar with the area, I got lost and ended up asking directionsfrom a businessman-looking bloke at a Starbucks on Nobel Drive (ifyou know where Mt. Soledad is in relation to there, you'll have aninkling just how unfamiliar I am).
He was extremely knowledgeable and gave me very exact directionsto Mt. Soledad. When I told him I was actually in search of theMidget Village, he looked confused, then suddenly got very excited.
"Oh,you mean the little houses! Where the dwarves used to live!"
Another set of very exact directions followed, but he claimed thehouses were not in fact by Mt. Soledad, but rather in "The Village"area of La Jolla.
I followed his directions and was shocked when I got there to findthat many houses seem abnormally small-scaled, with low roofs andwindows. I drove around the neighborhood trying to discern whetherseveral were clusters of odd houses or the fabled Midget Village andtrying to discern what a guy named Archbishop might call "crazymidget handwriting." I asked a young kid walking down the street ifhe knew about the houses and he said, "Oh yeah, they're right downthere." I got lost again, and took to yelling at affluent passers-byfrom my beat-up, decommissioned cop car.
I spotted an octogenarian hobbling up the road and asked, "Excuseme sir, can you direct me to the midget houses?"
"I can't hear ya sonny," the oldster screamed and moved closer tomy car. All my interviewing skills flew out the driver's-side windowas he leaned in the car. I stammered on about "Tiny houses ... Wizardof Oz ... this neighborhood ... built by midgets."
He responded with a glance - part shock, part bemusement and partterror - that confirmed he thought I was on dope. He then furrowedhis brow, looked way back inside his memory and said, "The onlymidgets I know of live in Balboa Park." Then he hobbled off.
I was about to give up entirely, but on the way out saw a housethat looked like something out of a fairytale, one I imagined mightbe built by an eccentric midget with money to burn. It had a littlestone fence, low windows, a tiny door and the Ford Tempo out frontlooked huge in comparison.
I went and knocked on the door, having to duck to pass under theawning. After a few minutes, an ancient, normal-sized lady answeredthe door and jerked back in shock.
"Pardon me ma'am, I'm a reporter in search of the famous midgethouses and wonder if this might be one."
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