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GARDEN MAGIC A GUARDIAN OF

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By PAT KANE-PRESCOTT

pkane-prescott@tampatrib.com

Published: October 25, 2009

It began in a faraway place, as so many vacation romances do.

Several years ago, my husband and I were making our annual pilgrimage to my family's home near Tacoma, Wash. It was late October, and although the skies were sunny, there was a bite to the air.

We were visiting the nearby coastal town of Steilacoom, an Old Northwest pioneer town founded in 1854 (and the first incorporated town in Washington state). It hugs Puget Sound and has the perpetual aroma of ripe apples, the sea, fir trees and coffee.

The coffee scent drifts over from Seattle.

The town is a hodgepodge of bluffs, old wooden houses and docks. A railway crawls along the coastline, and the sound of freight trains and whistles frequently jab the quiet.

It was here that I became captivated by a scarecrow.

Each year during October, the Steilacoom Garden Club sponsors a Scarecrow Fest.

Scarecrows sit on fences, dangle over porches and go all Gene Kelly with lamp posts. There is an annual theme, and prizes are awarded; there are scarecrows that defy logic and the imagination. But the scarecrow that got my attention wore a simple tartan shirt and old jeans and stood next to an old clapboard drugstore. He was very Old School.

He was also very compelling. As we drove around the town, finding and photographing scarecrows, I realized I had to have one of my own.

My scarecrow lives in our frontyard. His body is a crucifix of pressure-treated 2-by-2s. His head is an artificial pumpkin with no discernible features. His wardrobe is a mix of cotton shirts, sheets, bandanas and towels. He stands on the edge of our brick path and shepherds a small flock of ceramic chickens. He may be a wee bit Scottish because he seems to favor kilts to pants - and we do live in Dunedin. I know he can cook; right now he has an old grater in one of his hands.

He carries a tin pail that holds a solar-powered night light. I often wonder whether he fancies himself a modern Diogenes, but he may just want to attract more attention to himself.

As if he needs to.

His kind goes back to ancient Egypt, where scarecrows guarded wheat fields from quail. His ancestors took the form of crude netting. Yes, somewhere in his DNA there must be an inclination to scare birds, but I just don't see it. What I often see are blue jays perched on his outstretched arms, and butterflies toying with his gloved fingers. I see a benevolent soul that greets every morning with a wide embrace, and a stalwart guardian of garden magic.

He has been with us for a few years now, and each time I glance in his direction, I catch that mix of ripe apples, the sea and fir trees (the coffee aroma hasn't made it here). I get that hint of magic that carries me until my next Pacific Northwest adventure.

I think it's time for another one.

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