Yard Art

When I was little, my grandmother’s garden felt like the Stations of the Cross, with pathways leading to various pieces of yard art. It was even arranged like a cross; you stepped up into the side yard on one of the arms, then walked to the center line, and turned  right to stand in front of the Virgin Mary in a clamshell, so popular with New England Catholics. The other two statues were a painted cement squirrel, and (I think) some sort of garden gnome. I loved walking the stations of these figures when I visited. Her sister-in-law favored pink flamingos around a cement birdbath.  My mother owned an Italianate fountain: a boy on a fish that spouted water into a large—and very heavy—basin, perched on a pillar. When the fountain broke, she planted the basin in petunias. When the basin broke, she kept the boy, fish, and pedestal. I grew up with some fine yard art, which I rejected out of hand. My own garden, I vowed, would have none of that tacky cement figure stuff, no plastic, nothing like that. Rustic trellises from tree trimmings, hand made signs, lots of veggies and few flowers (NO petunias, thank you!) were ok. The natural beauty of a cabbage would shine in my garden.

But then, in graduate school, I began to look at yard art. Wooden cut out figures of farmers and farmer’s wives bent over appeared in local yards on the coast. “Tacky!” I thought, but I also noticed as they moved. One week, they were in Kittery, then in Dover, and then, a few months later, they were about 50 miles inland at Great East Lake.  I took pictures. “There’s a thesis here,” I thought. There are, to a graduate student, thesi everywhere. Different areas supported different yard art. The Virgin Mary was popular around Boston, but not in Pennsylvania.  Some areas had more art than others. Glass balls, fake deer, birdbaths, gnomes….cement figures, wooden figures, ceramics….There is a thesis here.

When we bought our house, I caved into peer pressure and bought a pair of pink flamingos, who lived in the back yard near the compost piles and brush. When we built a little pool back there, they were right at home. We added a cement Buddha and Saint Francis, and then some mardi-gras beads. Blue bottles lined paths.   Broken dishes found new homes in garden beds. When my mother died, I brought home the boy riding the fish and the pedestal.  There is a small wall hanging of the Virgin Mary on the fence. A wooden crescent moon and hearts hang from tree branches.  Sixteen gnomes are tucked in the foliage; at least three came from Sarah Lee,  my partner’s mother, as birthday presents. Five painted Mrs. Butterworths are posing near the chives and asparagus. On Saturday, a friend delivered a cement figure that he had purchased years ago because it reminded him of his children. They don’t want it (at least, not now), so it is living in my yard. At night, when we are asleep, do all of these figures move around, have pie parties and long conversations?

My yard has become my grandmother’s, in a way. There are stepping stones and hidden figures among the cabbages. Pink flamingos look down upon the vegetable garden.  My family—all of it—has gathered in this space. And so, I am keeping the new statue, but, if Corey ever wants it, she knows where it is. Because I still kick myself for not claiming the squirrel from my grandmother’s yard.