Especially those of us who grew up in Parma, where pink flamingos, white socks and polka music were the iconic symbols of a suburban post-World War II era, chock full of eastern European immigrants who headed west in search of work at the Chevy plant.
For those who wanted to inch their way a little higher on the social scale, there was Seven Hills. The ubiquitous pink bird was frowned upon there, where the neighborhoods were peppered instead with chrome balls on pedestals, which I always found to be just a little pretentious.
And, don't you just adore the moniker, "lawn ornament." It sounds so lovely. Not quite descriptive of a duck with a gingham hat or what has become known as the "lawn jockey," the little guy, often black, who holds the lantern aloft. (Props here to Sherri Lofton on her Halloween costume a couple of years back.)
There have been those folks, and most of us have had at least one in our neighborhood, who cover every square inch of their yard with plastic and plaster. Maybe it's to keep people at bay. Or it's diabolically clever -- no need to fire up the lawn mower at Crazy Charlie's house!
My sister, Denise, once bought a home whose basement was littered with pink flamingos. One of them was used by my Dad in a brilliant prank he played on the neighbors. But I, alas, am flamingo-less. (Although I do possess a plunger with the fuchsia-colored bird's head perched atop the handle.)
My lawn ornaments decorate the inside of my abode. I wouldn't want anyone to walk off with my gnome or my Chinese guy.
Aside from which, the way I care for the vegetation in my yard, my treasured ornaments would probably get swallowed up by a hedge!
No comments:
Post a Comment