Resurrecting Charlie

The sun beat down on him relentlessly from a cloudless azure sky and the straw hat wasn't much relief from the heat. He looked more pathetic than intimidating, hanging limp against his support above the corn. In a way, he resembled the Holy Crucifixion. A cliché foisted on the crop as a deterrent to pillaging.

A circle of crows wheeled overhead and dove one by one. Their raspy battle cries rattled through the shimmering late summer air. They flew in low to buzz the scarecrow. The more brazen lit on his shoulders and pecked his burlap head, rending ragged holes in the cloth, and took flight once they discovered nothing worth eating, only hay.

They knocked the hat off and, without protection from the sun's rays, the heat grew more intense.

A shotgun blast sent the vandals skyward in a cacophony of protest and mockery. They had bested the farmer once again.

"Galdang crows!" the farmer said, tromping through the high brown stalks toward his scarecrow. He propped the double-barrel shotgun against the gnarly tree trunk and shaded his eyes as he stared up at the pathetic sentry.

Straw protruded from the newly torn holes in the burlap, the flannel shirt was sun-faded tatters, and the threadbare blue jeans had lost most of their stuffing. The scarecrow drooped against the post in defeat. The old farmer bent and retrieved the hat from the dirt and scattered bird shit. He swatted it against his leg a couple of times, stirring dust clouds with each whack.

He reached for his shotgun and carried it and the hat with him back to the dilapidated house. The door squeaked on its hinges when he entered the kitchen. Martha was staring out the streaked windows at the dying, pilfered corn.

The old farmer stopped and stared at her. She turned to him. Her eyelids drooped in the corners with age, but there was sadness there, too. A tacit understanding of disappointment passed between them. The old man set the hat on the table and shuffled toward the bedroom to prop the shotgun against the wall. His work boots scuffed along the linoleum as he went.

While the couple sat at the dinner table that night, it was quiet as they reflected on the problem with the crop. They were both getting on in age and the husband could no longer tend to the farm as he had in his youth. With each passing year, the crop dwindled in size and barely lasted until harvest. They had no children to help them.

The old clock on the wall ticked noisily as they ate cold ham and beans.

"Charlie needs a facelift," the old woman said.

Her husband's spoon of beans paused on its way to his mouth. His eyes met hers, lingered for a moment. He nodded and continued eating.

"I been thinkin the same thing," he said. "Reckon we oughtta do somethin."

The old woman seemed to have given it quite a bit of thought. "Why don't you see about gettin a pumpkin from Daryl."

The old man stared at the wall and nodded again as if seeing her vision.

"I'll get him some new clothes," the woman said.

It was decided.

Days later, the farmer toted his rickety ladder out to the scarecrow and set it up by the gnarled post. Menacing clouds crept in from the southwest and a gusting wind preceded the impending storm. The farmer climbed the wooden rungs and began the task of removing Charlie's tattered body.

In the early days, when the man was spry and determined, he and his wife looked upon the twisted tree standing alone in the flat expansive field with a sense of optimism. Its narrow trunk reached from the soil and split into two curling branches that dangled toward the ground as if it were tired.