I started writing in 1969. True, I was only in the third grade, but my teacher, Mrs. Ford assured me that I was a writer, so write I did. I grew up writing short stories, lyrics and poems. As I grew, I lost interest in many things, mini-skirts, Donny Osmond and roller skating to name a few, but I never lost interest in writing; it grew with me, keeping pace as I spurted, then stalled, and finally stumbled into maturity. I started writing about gardening back in the early nineties, inspired by a wayward thunder shower, an anonymous neighbor and a naked scarecrow.

The scarecrow wasn’t naked of its own accord. Earlier that day, the kids and I had stripped off all of the clothes it had been wearing the year before. As simple as this task may seem, it was made considerably more difficult by the family of garter snakes that had taken up residence in the scarecrow’s stuffing.  Before the undressing could begin, the beating had to commence.

Armed with a barn broom and a couple of pitchforks, the kids took turns whacking and poking the scarecrow. I stood by with a rusty, flat shovel, ready to wallop any garter snake that tried to wriggle its way up anyone’s pant leg. My 14-year-old son and my 12-year-old daughter poked and prodded cautiously at first, slowly working up the courage to plunge the pitchforks into the belly of the scarecrow. My youngest daughter, a fearless 7-year-old, delivered the first ferocious whack to the scarecrow’s midsection with the barn broom. The beating had begun in earnest. After a couple of good, hard wallops and blunt pokes, the snakes began their alarmed escape. At the first sight of the slithering refugees, the hootin’ and hollerin’ began.  It’s the hootin’ and hollerin’ that wears a body out.

Once we were sure the snakes were gone, we stripped the remaining rags from the scarecrow, leaving only a feed-sack head and wooden cross. The kids abandoned their implements of extermination at the foot of the defrocked scarecrow and headed into the house for a late-afternoon snack. After all the stomping and screaming, I needed some serious quiet time, so I headed down the driveway to watch a rambling spring storm that was rolling in from the south. After all the afternoon commotion, the low rumblings of the distant storm seemed somehow soft and soothing.

I was standing there, lost in the storm clouds, when I noticed a green minivan coming up the hill. It was the neighbor who lived at the bottom of our dead-end road. I had seen them move in a few years earlier, but we had never formally met. Rural communities being what they are, I knew all about the newcomers before the ink was dry on their mortgage papers. Our neighbor, a retired farmer with a pocket full of when-I-was-faming stories, told me they were members of the Pentecostal church in town. Her father was the pastor and her husband was preparing to enter the ministry. He couldn’t quite remember their names, and I didn’t inquire further.

I always waved when I saw them drive by-a nameless neighbor wave.  For a couple of years, the lady in the minivan waved back, and that was the sum or our interaction; but this time it was different. I was in mid anonymous wave when the van stopped right in front of me. The thick dust from the gravel road hung in the growing humidity of the approaching storm, surrounding the minivan in a pale cloud. The driver’s side door opened, and out stepped a young, reserved woman smiling tentatively.  Her long, deep-brown hair was pulled into a heavy, tight braid that fell over her right shoulder, coming to rest at her waist. She wore a simple denim frock, no doubt hand-made.

“Hi,” she hesitated and her shy smile faltered, “I’m Marta.” Two young girls, both pre-schoolers, waved at me from their car seats. I waved back briefly, trying not to look too dumbfounded by the sudden visit.

I could taste the gravel dust and the humidity through my still gaping mouth. I tried to shift the gape into some sort of smile while managing what I hoped sounded like a less-than-bewildered, “Hi, there. I’m Jerri.”

“We were wondering what your scarecrow is going to be this time,” she said. “The girls look forward to seeing what it is each year.”

I glanced towards the minivan, where the oldest girl, whose hair was also in a long braid, had wriggled out of her car seat. She had the back window half-way down, and with her little face pressed into the opening she yelled, “Your scarecrow is naked,” then collapsed back into her car seat in a fit of giggles.

Over the years, our scarecrow has stood watch in the garden as a country maiden, an angel, a farmer and countless other personas. One year my friend’s son joined the Army. My parents, who live near a military base, sent me an army uniform for the scarecrow, and it became an enlistee. When my oldest daughter graduated from high school my mother-in-law made a fabulous purple robe, and our scarecrow matriculated all summer long.

It was as if my anonymous neighbor had given me a gift-a gift in a big beautiful box with a fancy bow. We were connected, familiar, even though we were completely different, and I was overjoyed. People who know me would tell you that there couldn’t be two more different people on the planet than this woman and myself. We were from different social and economic backgrounds. We were at different stages in our lives. We had different philosophies and agendas. Yet there we were smiling and talking like age-old friends on the side of a gravel road, the impending summer storm completely forgotten.

We talked about things we had grown and gardens we had seen. In between giggles, the girls told me about some seeds their grandma had given them to grow in their own little garden. There on the side of a dead-end dirt road it wasn’t about our many differences. It was about sweet corn, sunflowers and a very naked scarecrow who was about to get a shower.

When the approaching storm broke into our conversation we said goodbye and ran for cover. As I was heading for the house, I decided I would write in my journal about my neighbor and the scarecrow that brought us together. I’ve been writing about life in the country ever since.