Howdy, folks. Glen Blamstead here, and I want to tell you about the newest member of the Sherman family. He's quiet. He's dependable. He shows up every single day, rain or shine, and he has never once asked to leave early for deer opener. His name is Hank, and he's a scarecrow.
I bought him at a fall craft sale in Mora a couple weekends back. I went in for a jar of honey and a pumpkin bar, and I came out with a six-foot man made of flannel, twine, and what I'm pretty sure is a feed sack from about 1994. The lady who made him said he was "outstanding in his field." I laughed so hard I paid full asking without haggling, which my wife says is the most un-Minnesotan thing I've ever done.
The Crow Situation
Now, I had a reason for bringing Hank home, and it wasn't just the pun. We've got a gang of crows that hang out by the lot behind the shop. They sit on the fence. They sit on the trucks. They sit on the stack of lumber and look at me like I owe them money. One of them, I'm convinced, is the ringleader. He's bigger than the rest, he's got one feather that sticks out sideways, and he has stolen at least two of my gas station sandwiches when I set them on the tailgate.
So I figured, the old-timers used scarecrows for a reason. I stuck Hank on a post right out by the field next to the yard, gave him a pair of my old work gloves, and set a hat on him. An unbranded hat, I might add, because Hank is a free agent.
The first morning, I came out with my coffee feeling pretty good about myself. And there were the crows. All six of them. Sitting on Hank. One on each arm, one on the hat, and the ringleader perched right on his shoulder like a pirate's parrot. They weren't scared of him. They'd adopted him. Hank had become the crows' new favorite piece of furniture.
Hank Joins The Crew
Here's where it gets good. The crew took one look at Hank and decided he was an employee. By lunchtime somebody had written "HANK" on a strip of duct tape and stuck it on his chest like a name badge. By the end of the day, somebody else had put a tape measure in his back pocket. By Wednesday he had a coffee mug.
I asked the guys why Hank had a coffee mug. They said, "Well, he's out there all day, Glen. He's gotta stay warm." I pointed out that he's made of straw. They said that's exactly why he needs to stay warm, because straw is basically kindling. I couldn't argue with the logic, so I let it go.
Then the jokes started. When somebody showed up late, the guys would say, "Hank's been here since six." When the post-hole auger got stuck in a rock for the third time, somebody hollered, "Hank wouldn't have hit that rock." Hank has never touched an auger in his life. Hank has no knees. But somehow he became the standard we were all being measured against.
Hank Meets The Public
The real test came when a couple pulled into the lot one afternoon asking about a barndominium. Nice folks from up near Pine County. The husband walks right past me, straight out toward the field, and starts asking Hank whether a lean-to on the side would block his view of the tree line.
Now, in fairness, it was getting toward dusk, the light was low, and Hank does have a confident stance. I walked over and said, "He's a great listener, but you'll want to talk to me about the lean-to." The fella turned around, looked at Hank, looked at me, and said, "Honestly, he seemed more patient." His wife laughed so hard she had to sit in the truck for a minute.
We ended up having a real good talk about their plans. Turns out they want a big shop on one end for his tractor and a cozy living space on the other end for her and the dog. I sketched it on the back of a napkin, they took a brochure, and on their way out the husband tipped his hat to Hank. Hank did not tip his back. Hank's a professional.
The Dog Has Opinions
Not everybody was a fan. My dog, Biscuit, has decided Hank is the single greatest threat this property has ever faced. Biscuit has been just fine with a skid steer, a snowplow, a thunderstorm, and that one goat that got loose from down the road. But a man made of flannel who doesn't move? Unacceptable.
Every morning Biscuit walks out, plants himself about ten feet from Hank, and stares. No barking. Just staring. It's like a staring contest where one side doesn't have eyeballs. Biscuit has not won yet, but he's not giving up either.
What Hank Taught Me
So here we are, almost to Halloween, and Hank is still out there. The crows still sit on him. Biscuit still glares at him. The crew still blames him for nothing and credits him for everything. And I've realized something. Hank does the one thing all of us could stand to do a little more: he stands still, keeps his mouth shut, and lets the weather do what it's going to do.
He's not great at scaring crows. He's terrible at it, really. But he's outstanding in his field, and that's more than I can say for myself most days.
If you're driving past the Sherman lot in Mora this week, give Hank a wave. Then stop on in and holler at us if you want to talk barns. Somebody with a pulse will be happy to help. Probably me. Hank's on break.
