YARD ART

There was a retired fellow in my 1954 neighborhood who saved empty tin cans which he carefully cut into the shapes of daisies, sunflowers, and exotic plants from faraway islands. His front yard was a mass of brilliant primary colors year ’round. The back yard was full of tin and wood toys which he had made, little black boys chopping wood and eager longnecked ducks with wings flapping to beat the band. I loved to walk down the alley, so I could stand at his back yard and listen to the myriad sounds the toys made. It was magic. I remember how surprised I was to find out that the neighbors were upset by his house. “You’d think he knew better.” “Tacky.” “It makes the neighborhood look cheap.”

Well, the neighborhood was cheap. Sure, the old guy’s house did stand out like a bullet in a button box, but there was something touching and child-like about the place. He had created his own environment through a primitive artistic statement. I once asked him why he didn’t have real flowers in his front yard. He answered, “These are prettier, and real flowers die.”

But, alas, these days we are indoctrinated in the religion of tract home real estate. Its covenant is having to ask an adjoining neighbor how high he has set his power mower so your grass and his will send up a green and level hosanna to St. Augustine of Suburbia, the patron saint of lawn care. All have joined the great crusade of look-alike lawns.

Well, not all. Because on Saturday morning a dump truck full of 2000 pounds of crushed white rock backs up to one of the look – alikes and drops its contents amidst rolls of tar paper and black plastic covering. Sun-day the grass disap- pears, and by Mon-day there stands a snow-white yard with five cactus plants and a hand-painted donkey pulling a wagonload of caladiums. Stunned neighbors, as they leave for work, glare at the infidel’s slap in the face. At the end of the day, they return, hoping the in-fidel has come to his senses and returned to the flock, only to find an addition of two antique wagon wheels, a giant plaster swan, and a five-foot cement basket with daisies. Horror.

But in lime, these wounds heal, and the neighborhood returns to its pursuit of level lawns, secretly pleased to have an object of wrath and a measure of comparative taste. “We live three doors down from the goofiest yard you’ve ever seen.” “I know it needs mowing, but it ain’t as bad as the Flubals” house.”

We should, in fact, cherish these suburban iconoclasts. They unselfishly offer their visual treasures for all to see. They ask nothing in return except to be allowed their creative freedom. I like them, these wonderful infidels.

In appreciation, I’ve surveyed the city in search of the finest representations of Front Yard Art. I’ve found them. Herewith, The Dallas Texas Front Yard Awards.