Whimsical. Whimsy. On a
Whim. Mirthful. Mirth. Laugh. Laughter. Smile. Two scarecrows hang on
the front of the lattice fence in the front of my courtyard from Fall
until I take them down in Winter. A stick that hangs from a burlap
string is on each one’s back and I use that stick as an anchor in the
lattice to hold them standing straight. When the Santa Ana winds blow
is when they begin to lean to the right and remain at that angle until I
take them down and march them into the garage just before the Christmas
decorations take their places. I leave them leaning to the right
because they look so whimsical hanging there with their happy-face
smiles and their Keene eyes. More than once I’ve pulled the car into
the driveway in a less than happy mood, seen the scarecrows leaning in
their crazy dance, and smiled.
I don’t know why they never made
it into the garage this winter. Instead, I stood them before the newly
trimmed olive tree. They stood as a source of guilt for me when the
rains came, until she fell down. She rested for the duration of the
winter, her green jacket muddied with the dirt and rain, her straw legs
dangling from her denims. He stood sentinel over her by the tree.
Guilt triggered in two directions whenever I saw them and reminded
myself that I should take them inside. But Winter became more mild, a
side effect of Global Warming or the Jet Stream, or La Nina or whatever
current theory bathed Southern California in way below normal rainfall,
and I didn’t sense the urgency to move them inside. They were
comfortable. They didn’t complain. Besides, they were on vacation, the
cawing of the crows that often sat on my rooftop, hopped down my
driveway and lead a cawcaphony in the trees near my home, evidence of
the out of work scarecrows. They were inside the courtyard facing the
fountain, feeling the breeze, watching me walk in and out of the house,
watching me sitting, reading, watching me with painted smiles. Guilt
turned to mirth.
How does time pass? Like the fog on
little cat’s feet? The passing of time and the vigilance of scarecrows
must have intertwined in some fast forward and one day it is Spring,
and I notice the olive tree has begun to sprout new leaves here and
there and here and there and I see the new leaves have framed the
scarecrow’s face in absurdity. And still he smiles, behind the leaves
he peeks, wondering, I project, what will be next. When can he go back
to work. When can she come stand with him again in equality. I’ll make
sure they’re back on the fence in the Fall so they can dance to the
Santa Ana winds and spread their quirky selves to my neighborhood and to
the crows.
Until then I’ll keep them in the
courtyard all to myself, or to my special invited courtyard visitors,
and smile at their patience and how they are taking what comes with a
stiff upper; a stiff upper lip? Nope. Scarecrows don’t have no lips!
They just have smiles. Smiles of patience. Smiles of Kindness. Smiles
of genuine scarecrowedness. Smiles that remind me of their whimsy, and
to be whimsical. And even, to remember often to do something on a
whim. 
No comments:
Post a Comment