Bertie and the Scarecrows

Cormac MacConnell - The West's Awake

Bertie and the Scarecrows

April 9, 2008

By Cormac MacConnell

SCARECROWS are getting very scarce in the west in recent years, and I miss them very much. The reason for the reduced ranks is simple. Our farmers are going to the supermarkets since the Celtic Tiger arrived just like everybody else.

Why do all the hard labor to grow your own carrots and spuds and lettuce and cabbage when you can buy them in plastic bags and trays? Economics and politics and social changes have murdered our once strong and sturdy clans of scarecrows.

So I was absolutely delighted yesterday when driving through the parish of Lisseycasey at spotting a scarecrow in a roadside field. It was his hat I saw first, then the flailing ends of his red scarf.

It was windy and sunny in between the showers. I was so glad to see him that I stopped at once, put on my own hat and scarf and went over for a chat.

Don’t be surprised at that at all. Tune your head in a certain way and there is no more interesting companion than a scarecrow.

I’ve had splendid discourses with them many’s the time. And it was a remarkable coincidence, as I approached the Lissycasey Scarecrow, that I instantly noticed how much he resembled our soon to be former Taoiseach (Prime Minister) Bertie Ahern.

The poor divil was in trouble over his personal finances for the past year on an escalating basis. They used to call him the Teflon Taoiseach. He said last year that he would not lead his party into the next general election, and now he has resigned.

The Lissycasey scarecrow, exactly like Bertie, was sturdy and roundy, clad in the kind of anorak which Bertie began his political career wearing all the time.

He also had a roundy turnip-shaped head set tightly down on the shoulders. And he had a defiant cut about him as he stood guard over a small but neat vegetable garden.

“Hello, Bertie,” is what I said. “I hope you are rightly despite all this hardy weather and the bloody rain.”

You don’t actually verbalize any words when in conversation with a scarecrow. You use the telepathic frequency.

“I’m not all right,” he came back crossly. “Can’t you see that the wind nearly tore the trousers offa me last night? And I’m soaked to the straw and a bloody young crow shat on my right arm 10 minutes ago.”

Right enough, the navy trousers were at half mast and there were bedraggles of straw to be seen around the waist.

“And the young lads were throwing stones at me yesterday after Mass. There’s no respect left in the country at all for a scarecrow trying to do his best for his garden.”

“I know,” I sympathized. “These are hard days for anybody bearing the name Bertie and trying to mind his own patch. You have to be feeling down enough.”

“Desperate. I’m trying to put on a brave face but it’s getting harder and harder. Six months ago that young wastard of a crow would not have come near this garden. Now he has made a shat right down on top of me.

“And the whole bloody flock are raiding every morning. There won’t be a scrap of lettuce in the garden in a week.”

A gust of wind came from behind me and hit him in the chest. The poor divil wobbled more than a little, and the ends of the red scarf flew straight out like a garrotte.

It brought to my mind the one of the last TV shots I saw of the Teflon Taoiseach heading into the tribunal that is investigating his personal finances. He wobbled a bit too in the wind before he entered the Dublin Castle chamber.

“The way I feel this minute I think I’m likely to fall altogether before the day is out. Is there any chance that you’d haul up my britches and straighten me up a bit before you go?”

I thought about it for only a minute. A conversation with a scarecrow is a private thing.

Furthermore, one of the negatives of Taoiseach Bertie’s many years in power was a higher level of isolation in Ireland for rural dwellers.

There have been savage attacks on the kind of good people likely to erect scarecrows in their little gardens, and some of these good folk have had to resort to shotguns to protect their homes and gardens. A man could easily get shot for trespassing nowadays.

But, dammit, I was in Lissycasey and should be safe. I hopped over the wall, pulled up the trousers, tightened the length of baler twine around the waist of the anorak and generally straightened up the poor scarecrow.

“Good luck,” I said. “I hope you’ll get through this day anyway and that those crows leave you alone.”

“Thanks,” said the scarecrow wearily. And then in a resigned way, “But you can be sure that they won’t.”

It started to rain and I ran. On the car radio it was announced that Taoiseach Bertie was to resign effective next month. They got to him.

In the rear view mirror there was a flock of crows coming in to land.

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