Holiday décor in general is just way, way out of control (and we here at the House of Webbs are part of the problem: witness our 9-foot inflatable Halloween psycho-cat and the Amazing Christmas Tree Wonderland Forest).
But I now have important news regarding patriotic paraphernalia, and in the true spirit of Martha (Stewart, not Washington) I’m passing along my observations and experience.
Focused primarily around Independence Day and consisting of multiple American flags impaled at sidewalk’s edge or a red, white and blue bow stuck on the existing summer door wreath, an old fashioned show of star-spangled sentiment used to be easy enough. But the war and its resulting wave of rabid patriotism has proffered a stunning increase of options in Americana Accoutrements.
To suggest increased value from new additions to the home’s wardrobe, or more likely to extend the selling season, retailers are now pushing patriotic decor for Memorial Day and Labor Day in addition to July 4th, many providing a continuous display May through August. Does this not de facto imply that we should do the same?
Therein is a conundrum. Do we install a spirited show just after graduation and leave it up for nearly three months, eschewing other traditional summertime outdoor décor such as sunflowers and pinwheels? This would be as boring as wearing white shoes continuously from our Memorial Day marriage to them right up until our Labor Day divorce, allowing for no dalliances with flip flops.
Conversely it seems silly, if not obsessive, to put up and take down our stars and stripes motif three times (four, if you celebrate Flag Day). Which brings us back to sticking with convention and decorating only for July 4th, shunning the chance to “yard-honor” fallen soldiers or the country’s workforce.
No matter your choice on ‘when’, I’m here with a heads up on ‘what’: the patriotic décor trend…bunting.
For years bunting has been traditionally swagged across the homes in sprawling Cape Cod compounds, around the pillars of Hamptons mansions and beneath the windows of colonial cottages. And now, like the killer bee and fire ant, it’s here.
I toyed with the idea of bunting last summer; this year I was sure. I embarked on a quest that opened Pandora’s box of patriotic picks. Research ruled out Frontgate for high cost (hellooooo…this is CLOTH, not Italian statuary), Lillian Vernon for low quality and mail order in general (I hate surprises). Sew is a four-letter word. I knew home ready-to-wear was for me.
FYI, retailers are all over this bunting thing. Synthetic polymer blends yield a vinyl-backed, flocked-front swag with pleats that fold in and out like a fan. This was tempting, with two color options -- traditional swag with blue at the top, white in the middle and red on the bottom, and one that featured white stars in the inner blue field. Moderately priced, in light of my determination to convert our comely cottage into a bastion of patriotism Paul Revere would want to ride about -- by swagging all 20 windows plus a dramatic flourish above the front door. And, as I look back now, a feature that should not be overlooked or underestimated: this type of bunting does not wrinkle. Ever.
Another variety featured a foil-like finish…full installation would have resulted in a blinding reflection suitable for Jessica Simpson’s home or a landing strip. If a more glam look is your style, go for this type. (Which doesn’t wrinkle either. Ever.)
Many stores; many trips to reconnoiter the choices; family dinners missed as I stood in the front yard and stared at the house, trying to envision which design and which material would accomplish “the look.”
Finally, desperate and unable to engage my husband in one more spirited discussion on the topic, I returned to the store, determined not to leave without bunting. And there, despite the tiny voice that kept saying, ‘there’s a catch,’ I picked up the pre-formed plastic box that held the time-honored, the traditional, the wrinkled: cloth bunting.
Classic cotton. Stitched sections. Three feet wide across the top and 18 inches deep at the fullest point of the swag. Canvas strip-topped, metal grommets. Ahhh, yes, I sighed…now THIS is bunting. A little wrinkled, but authentic. God Bless America. I bought all they had.
At home I spilled the bags across our big farm table, packages of bunting swags scattering across its oak finish with colorful hints of the glory that was to come.
“Look,” I beamed at my husband…”BUNTING!” He smiled, so relieved, and picked up a package, splitting the hard plastic and allowing a small wad of red, white and blue to burst forth.
“Looks a little wrinkled,” he murmured.
“It’ll be fine,” I said, taking it from him and popping it like a pillowcase just out of the dryer. “Just needs a light pressing.”
I located the ironing board and then the iron, which required using the patented “Shot-O-Steam” feature a few hundred times to dislocate the sediment lodged in its holes. With gusto I laid the first bunting swag on the board, recalling my expertise with ironing ruffled shirts. But the short story here is that a shirt is not a bunting swag, and ruffles are not pleats with a weird pouch on each side. For every wrinkle I removed, a pleat was flattened. Getting the pouch to poof and the pleats to fold buggered the gentle curve of the bottom.
Resiliently embracing Plan B, I fetched the steamer, a Christmas gift prized for ‘instantly removing wrinkles.’ While this is technically true, sadly the steamer was not up to transforming a wad of cotton -- already pinched in the middle, far from flat and tightly pleated -- into what I envisioned: a pristine half circle of Americana, hanging ‘neath the windows with as beautiful a shape and balance as fine draperies…ready to float on a gentle breeze, elicit reverent salutes and thankful applause, and to withstand the binoculared scrutiny of any nosy passer-by wondering if indeed I had ponied up for the real thing.
“Sweetie, you can’t see the wrinkles from the street,” said my darling. I pressed on, literally, sweat beading my brow as I stood over the steamer.
He tried again. “How about we go ahead and hang them and let humidity make the wrinkles fall out?” I looked up, now fully engaged in Plan C, holding the steamer hose in my mouth so my hands were free to force convulsed cotton into pleated perfection.
“Mo!”, I emphatically articulated around the plastic hose. He retreated, occasionally popping in like a prairie dog out of its hole to offer help and suggestions. I battled the bunting.
Several hours later, after deploying the iron, the clothes dryer, the steamer and a hair dryer, I hung the bunting. (Actually, I fought the bunting and the bunting won. My display was only over the door, as attempting anything further would have invited a complete mental breakdown). Still, with the flags along the sidewalk and the big bow on the sunflower wreath, our home was ready for the 4th. We surveyed the presentation from the front yard and raised a toast. I had achieved “the look.” Now, the world would recognize I had embraced bunting. “You must be so proud,” my husband said.
At that point there was only one thing left to do: write to my friends who might be tempted to experiment with the bunting trend and tell them the secret to surviving the experience: YOU CAN’T SEE THE WRINKLES FROM THE STREET.
Epilogue --
The next day I went out for the mail and a neighbor waved.
“Your house looks great,” she called. “I just love the little flags stuck along the sidewalk!”
