While perusing the pages
of several fall nursery catalogues, I saw pictured whimsical scarecrows,
equipped with names, costumes, and patchwork faces that brighten the already
lively displays of flowers. They are
fashioned after farmers, rag dolls and the straw man in The Wizard of Oz. Seeing them reminds me of the stick
figures that have watched over my own vegetable garden in years past.
The addition of a
scarecrow brings a mischievous touch to any garden. They come in all shapes, sizes and styles, from homemade to
store bought, with smiles that bring to one’s mind railroad tracks, needlepoint
stitches, orthodontic braces, and tic-tac-toe. Those watching over my vegetables have had noses made of
buttons, and black triangle eyes inked on burlap. The hair has been fashioned from an assortment of yarn and
wool, and the bodies stuffed with paper, old rags, or hay. Sometimes their construction was a collaborative
effort between family members and neighbors.
My daughter and her
friends next door made our first scarecrow. They had planted rows of vegetables in an area of the
pasture. One child brought her
father’s shirt, another her father’s trousers. A younger sister contributed hay from the horse shed and a
gunny bag emptied of molasses and oats.
I donated broom handle, hat, and marker, as we made a day of planting
and creating the figure that was to stand guard over our vegetable starts.
Weathering the seasons,
it stood with one arm pointed west, while the other dangled indiscriminately to
one side. The torso was stuffed with newspaper, the arms and legs with alfalfa,
and the head with cotton. As time passed the scarecrow leaned farther and
farther to the right. Eight months
later it had fallen to ruin, cotton brains picked by the birds and stuffing
melted like sugar in the rain.
I purchased the second scarecrow in the
drugstore. Taken, by the lively
checkered pants and bright purple shirt, I whisked the fanciful figure into my
shopping cart, to replace the worn and dilapidated one. Taking it home I planted the solid stick of a spine into the soil,
straightened its beige tam, stood back to look, and found myself pleased with
the result. Prickly arms pointed
resolutely toward the ground as if to say “I protect this plot of land!” Equipped
with this colorful caricature, the garden seemed again complete.
By August the shirt had
grown dull, the trousers drab, and the chest had begun to sag. Our scarecrows effectiveness faded with
the colors of its attire, needing the help of a few flashing strips of foil on
a string. Still, the slumping gray
figure did elicit frightful shrieks from the neighborhood children, when they
ran across the pasture at dusk.
Following their lead I took the tattered frame from the garden the
following October, draped a black cape over its shoulders, and placed it near
the front entrance to my house as a Halloween prop.
In late autumn the
scarecrow was retired, leant against the fence near the garden gate. My daughter suggested a facelift, new
wardrobe and fresh chaff for padding around the crossed sticks that still held
tufts of fabric. Instead it stayed
there unattended with half a smile pointing heavenward and one eye watching the
land with an averted gaze.
Since then many years
have gone by, and two of the children are in college while another is in high
school. What was once the vegetable garden has been transformed into something
quite different. Roses were planted and a second gate added. During the
construction of a new fence I discovered the scarecrows remains buried beneath
an overgrown hedge.
The discovery gave way
to nostalgia and led to an afternoon spent constructing a new scarecrow. Snatching a burlap sack from the
pantry, I created a face by attaching large buttons for the nose and eyes, and
stitching a mouth below. Finding
unused quilt squares I added patches to a worn corduroy shirt. Lastly, a wrinkled hat retrieved from
my trunk, and the doweling from a weathered stick horse under the
children’s fort. A new scarecrow
was born, stuffed with straw and sitting on a bale of hay guarding the entrance
to the private rose garden. With an air of satisfaction I stepped back to view
the finished product. A new
steward stood protectively watching over the land with all the beguiling
dignity of its predecessors.
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