Scarce scarecrows fall on hard times
There was not a townland from Malin to Mizen that did not boast two or three of them at least.
They garnished the landscape, as well as performing a useful security presence around the gardens.
They served a few other functions as well. I think I told ye before about collecting a bottle of poitin from the overcoat pocket of a childhood scarecrow for my father. It was to properly welcome home a party of Yanks from Chicago who were calling that night. I confessed my sin in Confession afterwards, but the priest was much more amused than offended. I got away with a single Our Father and Hail Mary.
Times have changed. I don’t know if I spotted a single scarecrow here in Co Clare all of last year.
For that reason I stopped the car last week when I spotted one of the breed on the outskirts of Fanore on Black Head. It was like meeting up again with an old school friend.
In fairness to the scarecrow, though, he was a sad-looking specimen, barely hanging in there. He would not scare a timid female wren, never mind a crow.
On close examination, all he was constructed from was a frail timber cross over which had been thrown a ragged blue anorak. The cap on his head was a thin baseball cap from which the visor had already been torn away by the winds of winter. I’d bet he has fallen down in his tracks already, despite the mildest March in living memory.
One of the strange quirks which one spotted in the heyday of the scarecrows was that they were born and bred differently, from region to region.
As a general rule, they were bigger and far more flamboyant when erected over vegetable and spud gardens in poor land in the poorer counties along the West coast. The scarecrows of the Golden Vale and counties like Meath and Kildare were always skeletal little stunted yokes, like my Fanore friend whilst, for example, the scarecrows of Co Donegal were usually better dressed than the farmers whose tillage they were protecting.
I’ve seen them up there even wearing waistcoats with glinting brass buttons, the finest of heavy overcoats, scarves, and felt hats pulled low down over their straw-stuffed foreheads. They could be up to seven feet tall, and they always had two proper legs, equipped with trousers rather than just one bare timber shank. They would frighten a bishop, never mind a mere crow.
I’ve been told many stories about scarecrows down the years. Apparently the best-dressed ones were always erected by farmers’ wives and daughters, and were the source of great craic in the making. I heard a chilling yarn from Longford of a married man in a certain district, in chaster rural times than these, maybe, who contrived to get an unmarried neighbour girl pregnant, and instantly fled to England without accepting any of his responsibilities or culpabilities.
He did not escape totally, though, because the girl erected scarecrows which were the living image of him in the family garden for the next five years, and he was made the laughing stock of the district forever.
Meanwhile, this week, about 30 small Garda stations were closed throughout rural Ireland as an economy measure. They will be sorely missed, because local gardaí in small villages performed many hidden social services quietly for their own people. They were not just there to summons them for having no rear lights on their bicycles.
There were two elderly spinsters living alone in a remote area of Co Mayo, some years ago. Their neighbours began to drift away out of the district, and they began to feel very isolated. The wise old Sergeant and Guard in the station donated old uniform pieces to them for their scarecrow. The gift included even the peaked cap.
The scarecrow stood guard over the gable garden. Given the way he was dressed for duty, there was the clear implication that this was the home of a policeman. The old ladies were never troubled again.
We will miss the country gardaí that have been withdrawn from us, much more than some of us are already missing the other mute guardians that watched over our gardens for so long. And that’s for sure.
