The Dark Age

These are the doldrums in my neighborhood, that becalmed time when, try as they might, no one can find an excuse to decorate their lawns or houses.

It begins as Easter ends, and the assorted bunnies, eggs and baskets go back into storage until next year. (Odd, isn’t it, that the holiest day of Christianity seems to inspire no creche-like, Jesus-centric displays?)

And the slump continues until the first stirrings of Halloween, which seem to be creeping earlier and earlier into September.

That begins the high season, with Halloween morphing into Thanksgiving, then Christmas, then Valentine’s Day, then St. Patrick’s Day, then Easter again, each with its own ornamental symbols: jack-o-lanterns, witches, ghosts, turkeys, Pilgrims, St. Nick, reindeer, hearts, cupids, shamrocks, leprechauns, those bunnies and eggs ...

Then nothing.

Oh, there might be the occasional Old Glory put out to proclaim patriotism on Memorial Day, or Flag Day, or the Fourth of July. But nothing inflatable, nothing with movement, nothing consuming electricity.

You’d think the Festive Yard Association, or some such trade group, would be hard at work trying to expand the market, tapping into what is no doubt a pent-up desire that lacks only the proper encouragement to flourish. As calendars reveal, there’s no shortage of under-appreciated commemorations: National Maritime Day. Nurses Day. World Environment Day. Women’s Equality Day. The Opening of Hurricane Season. Whatever.

Shoot, on Long Island, Cinco de Mayo should probably be a paid holiday. Giant plastic shots of tequila, 10-foot bottles of Corona - wouldn’t it be glorious?

Instead, we have to make do with an explosion of blooming daffodils, crocuses, tulips, dogwoods, azaleas, day lilies, camellias, magnolias, forsythia, roses and the like.

They don’t even glow in the dark. What good is that?