All of my lawn ornaments

So, okay, I got like fifty things on my front lawn. You name it, I got it. I got gnomes. I got flamingos. I got those little character guys whose legs spin like windmills. I even got some red and blue lantern type deals that light up real nice at night. I even put them on a timer, so they’d kick on whether I was around or not. So when it’s dark and the wind starts up, my lawn is like a fucking cavalcade of life. Everything starts moving and lighting up. Last summer, I hung some old bike reflectors from the branches of the trees in the yard, so the light would catch and shine and, you know, do a really good job of making sure everyone could see the little character guys whose legs spin like windmills, even in the middle of the night.

And fuck those people who resent me for it. Fuck those people who call it tacky. I know they do it. They drive by and slow their cars down and make great shows out of pointing at things like the fake plastic flowers I shoved into the ground near where the dandelions grow or the fiery red icicle lights that hang from my gutters all year round. I even had some neighbours complain once. They did! They came and talked to me and asked if maybe I could ‘tone down’ my lawn. And of course I was real polite about it — even though the whole time I was just thinking ‘fuck you’ over and over again — because, hell, it’s not that I don’t half agree with them. It IS tacky. It’s a half-assed rainbow that barely arcs off the ground: the kind of rainbow you might see during the storm, faintly and in between bales of shitty face-stinging rain and hail. It’s crap and I know it’s crap. I do. So I understand and yet I still say ‘fuck you’ to all those gawkers, all those complainers, all those who criticize something as trivial as my own god damned front lawn.

Because you know why I do it? You know why I turned my lawn into a decaying miniature golf course bordered by painted oil barrels and tire swings not yet tied to trees? You know why I spend Saturdays at flea markets looking for more gnomes, more flamingos, more characters I can shove into the grass? It’s because of my thirtieth birthday. That’s it. I had just bought this house — you know, all by myself — and everyone was given me all sorts of house-related shit. I swear, I somehow ended up with a toaster for every room. I could have toast in the fucking laundry room — it was ridiculous. But whatever, you know, they were all nice gestures.

And so, I guess, was the gnome.

My sister gave me a gnome. And, really, while my first thought was something like “Jesus Christ, a fucking gnome” I still really appreciated it because my sister, you know, has had a rough life. She dated some jackass who liked to drink a lot and got her pregnant a bunch of times (though that was soon taken care of) and, though I could never fucking prove it, I was so sure he was hitting her. So fucking sure. But whatever. She had it rough. She finally got away from that but had a whole whack of trouble finding work and, really, I didn’t expect a god damn thing. So the gnome… it was nice to get the gnome.

But what do you do with a gnome? If anyone else had given it to me, I would have just thrown the fucker out. I mean, I would have still been polite about receiving it, but, you know, back then, I wasn’t really a gnome kind of guy. But, you know — older brothers and younger sisters. I’d give the world to her. So I stuck that little guy on my lawn. And he stood out there and, well, stood out there some more. He was one of those bearded ones with a little pick-axe over his shoulder. I don’t know why the hell that was. Why are garden gnomes always doing physical labour. Hell, most of them look like they’re mining or something. That’s no job for a gnome. If I run a fucking mining company, I’m not going to hire a damn gnome. And that’s not discriminatory — it’s the opposite of that — because the only reason I wouldn’t give a gnome a mining job is because I’d worry about their safety. A guy with legs that little should not be working in such dangerous conditions.

So, whatever. It doesn’t matter. For a few weeks, that gnome stood out there with his little axe all ready to go into the mines. But every day I’d come home from work and think, hey, that looks stupid. It looked really stupid. It was just one damn gnome on an otherwise totally normal lawn. I could not deal with that I’m not kidding here: for some reason seeing that one gnome all by himself in an expanse of green every day was fucking torture for me. He just sat there in the centre of the damn lawn, and I’d pull up in my car, get out, and walk by really quick so as to not make eye contact.

So what could I do? I bought another gnome. Now they were a team. This one had a shovel. They worked well together. But, still, it bothered me. What were they going to do with just a pick axe and a shovel. They needed more. So I got more. More gnomes. And, soon after, decorations for the gnome world. Even when I started to feel like it made more sense, I still couldn’t stop myself. I’d get home, step out of my car, and make eye contact with the original gnome — the pick axe one, and, no, I didn’t give those plastic fuckers names; I’m not crazy — and see that, you know, he’s all right. He’s content. He’s got his axe and his buddy with the shovel and his other buddy with the lantern and that Woody Woodpecker windmill that’s, really, funny as all hell. But then I’d catch the eyes of another one and think, well, shit, you know what HE needs. And then I’d have to go get him something.

And no, I don’t think it’s ever going to stop. And I’m okay with that. Really, I am. It’s okay. The other week my sister came by my house. She made some peanut butter cookies which was just about the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen. And she came over and just sort of stood at the end of my driveway for a second, staring at all the crap on my lawn.

“Jesus,” she said, “you went a little crazy.”

“Eh, shit, you know,” I said. “Couldn’t just have the one gnome.”

She laughed a little. “Guess not,” she said. “Still, the neighbours must hate your ass right about now.”

“Hah, a little bit. But what do I care?”

She watched all those crazy little windmills spin. “Yeah,” she agreed. “I like it.”

So, whatever, you know. I don’t regret all the tacky crap on my lawn. It’s not about looking good or fitting in or whatever the fuck else you want to describe as normal. It’s about family. That’s what it was about. I had to get the gnome a family. And next week I’m going to give him a fucking wishing well.