Inflatable Yard Art: Behold the Beauty

It is 6:42 a.m. on a Saturday morning in mid-fall and my three-year-old son is out the door already. It is still dark. I am tired. Very tired.

“Mama, come on,” groans William, yanking at the strap of his bike helmet. “We have to see The Turkey. Bring the camera!” 

I look down at my threadbare pajamas then up at my hair, which is flat in some places and mountainous in others. I have not brushed my teeth; my body begs for a 96-ounce Diet Coke.

Still, I strap myself into my trench coat and jam my feet into my Crocs. I figure the only other people conscious at this hour are the parents of small children and they’ll look as bad—or worse—then me. Besides, we have yet to visit The Turkey bathed in moonlight.

We tootle down the driveway and around the block.

Then, suddenly, rising up like a Suburban phoenix is The Turkey: Behold, a seven-foot-tall inflatable decoration. It sports a black buckled pilgrim’s hat and a giant, red waddle. He is tethered to our neighbor’s lawn with six-foot-long cording; a fan the size of an SUV hums away merrily to support the big bird’s nylon girth.

We are small in his shadow.

“Ooh,” says William, glassy-eyed with awe. “Take a picture of me with The Turkey.”

I snap away. When we get home, we will download then add this photo to our bound album of inflatable yard art. The tome already includes pictures of The Turkey at mid-day and in the evening. The decoration looks different, you see, when framed by starlight rather than exposed in the harsh afternoon glare—much as Monet’s “Haystacks” change during the time of day in which they were painted.

Truly, we have become quite the connoisseurs: It seems we have photographs of every inflatable blow-up in the Southwest.

We have spent literally hours in the car circling neighborhoods in search of pumpkins, Santas, reindeers and, yes, turkeys. We are thrilled that our neighborhood includes one of the few purple Scooby Doos dressed in a witches’ costume—a throwback to the beginning era of IYA.

In fact, if you sit with William on your lap with his IYA book, he will serve as a docent to the genre, pointing out with chubby fingers the marks of distinction that make each piece unique. It seems cartoon-themed IYA ranks above standards like plain pumpkins; characters in costume are even more important; those with motorized vehicles attached are truly special.

And who am I to tell him what is beautiful?

Before having children, I was one of those snobbish grown-ups schooled at a liberal arts college to appreciate the Dutch Masters and cubism. Moreover, I’ve traveled to some of the world’s most acclaimed art museums to marvel at it in person. Certainly, I would have seen IYA as a cheesy, cheap crowd-pleaser sucking away electricity to the detriment of Planet Earth.

Now I know different.

I am a world-wizened mother who sees the beauty in the most unlikely places. I see it in mud pies. In properly Velcroed sneakers. In stick figures.

And yes, I see beauty in inflatable yard art.

Especially turkeys.

Julie Blair Riekse is a freelance writer living amongst IYA outside of Dallas, Texas. She will proudly stake a five-foot-tall penguin in her lawn this Christmas.

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Comments

[Brenda Simard]

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