2. Two Tales, One Scarecrow
Getting Started
   The article, A Choctaloosa Miracle, was Joseph’s introduction to the exciting world of news reporting.
   Joseph Crispin and Barney Franklin joined the ranks of Huntley-Brinkley, Woodward and Bernstein, and Clark Kent and Perry White today.
   Joseph Crispin, Star Reporter, walked out of the prestigious offices of The Bee with the fierce commitment of a Megyn Kelly, the honest humor of a Tucker Carlson, the sincerity of a Walter Cronkite, and the perseverance of a Roland Burton Hedley III.
   The Choctaloosa Bee will fly into the 21st century!

   The day still had hours ahead of it. But he didn’t really have a job yet.
   A while after lunch, Joseph decided to take his busy mind to the old willow tree by Corn Maize Creek. The creek was much reduced by this time of the year. There was a particularly large willow next to the creek bed. Even on a ninety degree afternoon, the shade and hint of a breeze made it a relaxing place to be.
   The dense branches were easy to climb, and just a few feet up he was able to perch on the base of a large limb. He could look through the thin limbs hanging from above and see across the creek into the cover of the other bank. The summer heat had reduced the creek to puddles and a few mud flats interspersed with dusty islands. A shallow pool lingered in front of him.
   A picture of Winnie the Pooh and his place to think Great Thoughts came to mind. This had been such a place for Joseph once.
   What did he know about college?
   Charlie Pickett had gone to college and returned four years later as Charles Pickett, en route to Law School and focused like a laser beam on a fixed future somewhere in the maze of the Law.
   And Billy Nelson had gone off to college and come back last year, also, but after only four months. He had found a job at the Quickie Lube and was good at it. Add some beer at the Hound Dog on Friday and Saturday nights and life was at its finest for Billy.
   Joseph had a vision of the short term as a search for clues leading to his calling, his profession or job or whatever it was. But what if the path were not about the destination but about the path itself? What if the path was more important than the destination, indeed, was really the point of it all?
   Really, how much time was spent on the path and how much at the goal at the end of all the work and preparation? It seemed like the desired end was always just a little further ahead, the carrot always dangling just beyond reach. At least, that’s what the adult world looked like from his perspective.
   What if one enjoyed the journey, lived in the moment between being and becoming, experiencing both the past and the future fused together in the advancing now?
   Everything was a question mark, like a mystery. The clues seemed random, scattered profusely, and often appearing as contradictory.
Indeed, the world was a mystery, a huge place. Would he find himself in some small piece of it?
   How much did he even know about Choctaloosa County? How many more stories were there like Dinah’s, hidden beneath the surface?
   A mystery can be an exciting adventure wherever it is and wherever it leads. Joseph knew he was ready to embark upon one! But the world at large must wait as he started closer to home.
   He might just find the world while exploring Choctaloosa County for The Bee, but if he explored the world, he would lose Choctaloosa County.
   The willow was not exactly a cushioned seat. Joseph didn’t know if what had passed through his mind qualified as Great Thoughts, but he summed it up nicely: this bear’s thinking is done for the day.
   He climbed down and headed home.

​   Walking into the house through the kitchen back door, his mom was already starting dinner. Cole slaw…that meant barbecue and beans and chips. Not bad for a Thursday night!
   The ups and downs of the morning (Had this only been a matter of hours since breakfast and wondering what would be Dinah’s reaction?) had consumed energy like a black hole. Then waiting on Mr. Franklin’s reaction had been another nail-biter. It took the de-stressing lounge time in the willow to realize he had let other people’s reactions determine his mood – anxiety. Not a good life strategy!
   Regardless of all that, he seemed to have built an appetite that felt like a bottomless pit in his stomach, ready to devour anything under the large definition of “food.”.
   Since mom was in the kitchen fixing dinner – still half an eon away judging by the kitchen clock – then a snack would spoil his appetite, she would say. He opted for a compromise.
   “Can I get one of those cold drinks out of the fridge, Mom?”
   He knew as he spoke what her answer would be.
   “I don’t know if you are able, but you may have one if you can.”
   Spoken like a true English teacher. She couldn’t let it pass unnoticed.
   He took a cola and went to his office. That sounded so much better than his “bedroom,” which also happened to have a desk.
   He figured Mr. Franklin would be busy finalizing tomorrow’s edition, so this was not the time to call. Besides, he wanted to be sure the article appeared in the paper as he had written it before accepting the job.
   Selling ads – what did that look like? Maybe you ought to see what ads are in the paper now, you think?

   His mom kept old copies of The Bee for dad to use when starting fires in the living room fireplace. Since it was June, there were about 15 to 20 back issues piled in the kindling bin.
   Joseph sat down on the sofa and started looking though each issue. Searching through the pages, he realized how little he had noticed about The Bee although it had been there most of his life.   
   The articles were all as Mr. Franklin had said, the work of himself or from a member of whatever organization was the subject of the article – fraternal club, fire station, garden club, etc.
   One of the weekly’s more popular columns would probably be the police report – a list from the public record of crimes and arrests, traffic violations, public intoxication, domestic disturbance, and such. THAT should provide a source of gossip, a reason to chat over the fence with a neighbor.
   And there was the Births and Deaths – Comings and Goings – Column. Another source of “sharing information” with the neighbors. He would have to look at that tomorrow, also.
   Only then did it occur what a source for gossip his own article would be. He was glad that he signed it, “A Bee!”
   Almost every issue had the same ads for the same businesses. He knew of a lot of businesses not advertised here. And although he had seen the names on the signs of those businesses, he did not know one thing about most of them or why he or anyone else should go there.
   And there was Choctaloosa Realty, Claire’s real estate firm, in every issue. And in the small “Real Estate” section there were a few listings for houses scattered throughout the county.
   And one listing caught his eye for some reason. It was not noteworthy in any way, just a simple, “LOTS FOR SALE. Eagles Nest Community; two and five acres; be part of America’s most outstanding residential community.”
   The price range seemed exorbitant, even though Joseph knew next to nothing about real estate pricing.
   He went back over earlier issues of the paper. Most of the companies just had business card ads with very basic information. The others were up to a quarter page size but were black and white, loaded with print. There were few pictures, only an occasional logo, and nothing that beckoned to the eye.
   Few of them gave a reason to go to the advertiser. Nothing called out WII-FM.
   Joseph had seen The Montgomery Advertiser plenty of times and knew what advertising could look like. A plan began to take shape in his mind.

   His Dad came in from work.
   As the agricultural extension agent for Choctaloosa County, Stan Crispin described his job as a series of part time jobs that would fill the daily work schedule for two people.
   Joseph had heard his dad respond to a neighbor who kept bugging him about his job, asking what he did to fill the day.
   “I am a small farmer advisor, commercial livestock and crop advisor, county economic development director, 4-H educator, food safety advisor, Learning Center director, AmeriCorps volunteer supervisor, and have several other titles in the official job description. Add to that I’m the representative for the universities and petrochemical companies, our primary funders. I am taking applications if you’d like a job.”
   The neighbor had backed off. Come to think about it, Joseph hadn’t seen him in a while.
   His Dad was wearing his official uniform: the cap with the AACAA (Alabama Association of County Agricultural Agents) emblem.    Actually, there was an official orange vest that came with the title, but Joseph only saw him wearing it in pictures. The rest of the wardrobe was a dark blue polo shirt, khaki jeans, and boots.
   “Hello, son! How’d it go with the article today?” He hung his cap on the bare coat rack just inside the door.
   “It was an eventful day with a lot to tell. When you’ve got a few minutes, we can talk.”
   His mother must have heard because she said dinner would be ready in about 10 minutes.
   His dad smiled and said, “I guess we can make it a family conversation again,” and headed toward the back to wash up.
Indeed, this would make the fourth night in a row of an extended dinner conversation initiated by a birth on a state highway.
   When they had said grace and begun eating, Joseph related the events of the day, from the visit with Claire and Dinah (some personal details edited) to the one with Barney Franklin.
   “What do you think about me taking the job in selling advertising for The Bee?”
   His father asked, “What do you think about it, Joseph?”
   What do you think about it, Joseph?
   What do you think about it, Joseph?
   Joseph had expected questions about all the things he didn’t know, particularly pay and what Mr. Franklin’s expectations were. Only then did he realize that his dad had asked the most important question.
   His dad had taken his second bite of the barbecue sandwich. That probably helped staunch the flood of questions eager to burst out.
   The answer to his dad’s question lay in the willow tree.
   Tell ‘em your Great Thought, Pooh.”
   “I might just find the world while exploring Choctaloosa County for The Bee, but if I explore the world, I will lose Choctaloosa County.
   “That may seem a little strange, but I’d like to work outward from where I am rather than jump out and try to figure out where I am.”
   He shook his head. “That didn’t come out right. It made a lot more sense in my head.”
   His dad and mom looked at each other for a couple of seconds in silence.
   The seconds dragged by like prisoners, each with a ball and chain.
   His father spoke what both parents had apparently communicated to one another telepathically.
   “Actually, that makes a lot of sense, Joseph, very mature of you. Is there a long term goal from this beginning?”
   That put a different spin on what to do next, didn’t it! Oh, wait, maybe not….
   “What was your long term goal, Dad? To be an Ag Agent, marry Mom, have this house, have me, and what else? Were all of those things in your plan?”
   His father laughed. “Touché. We make plans and then life happens.
   “But we cannot leave our direction in life to chance, to other people. I did have some goals, and they were related to external things, to other people, and many of them did not come into being.
   “As well as I could, I tried to be someone that I could both like and respect. Maybe if that is the only solid goal, and every other plan is just a possibility. Then you make adjustments to it as life happens. That’s about the only way to be where you want to be at any given moment.”
   Joseph thought for a moment. “So you think it’s OK for me to take the job at The Bee?”
   Dad nodded to his mother and Joseph looked at her.
   “As long as it is moving you in the direction of who you want to be.”
   Joseph had the feeling they had conspired together at some point on this issue. That was good. They were in agreement, and it sounded like they were giving him the freedom to choose.
   “You are 18, for goodness sake!”
   They had given him enough of an answer. “Thank you.” He looked back and forth at each of them. Sometimes fewer words were better, he had learned.
   The rest of the lengthy meal was discussing what he might be doing in his new job. And there were a lot of funny stories about life in Choctaloosa County, only a few of which had made it into The Bee.
 
   Toward the end of the dinner conversation – almost 2 hours later, after apple pie and they had taken the dishes to the kitchen – Joseph remembered the scarecrow.
   They had gone into the living room, but no one seemed interested in the TV or a movie.
   “I saw something pretty strange today,” Joseph began. He laughed. “Well, I guess that is consistent with the rest of the week!
   “You know all those cornfields just the other side of New Deal? I could swear I saw a scarecrow out in the middle of one field. Why in the world would anybody put a single scarecrow in a bunch of fields that are probably hundreds of acres?”
   “Does seem a little pointless,” agreed his father. “To be effective, you have to move them around every few days or so. And one in such a large field would serve little purpose.”
   “You want to go see it while it’s still light?” Being almost the summer solstice, the sun had not quite set as of yet.
   His father shook his head. “I’ve got an early 4-H Club meeting over in Smithfield tomorrow. Why don’t we make it tomorrow night?”
   Joseph smiled, “Sure. We can spend Friday night looking at a scarecrow. Maybe Mom will want to come if she is up for the excitement.”
   And the conversation turned to the 4-H meeting. Joseph had been in 4-H most of his life. By junior year, he was burnt out on it and dropped out. And that was fine. “Not every country boy needs to be a farmer,” his dad had said.
   A little later, Joseph went to his room. He did little on social media, but he looked through what might be interesting…not a lot. Often he felt like the FaceBook and Instagram time was a lot like combining video games with day time soap opera. It was time for something real…sleep.
 
   Joseph woke the next morning thinking about the Eagles Nest Community. It sounded like a good name. He vaguely remembered hearing about some big houses being built up past Blue Tail, toward Community Valley.
   Community Valley was more like a separate state, only geographically a part of Choctaloosa County. In the very northeastern corner of the county, it seemed remote and isolated from the rest of the county even though there were no physical barriers.
   You are slipping down a rabbit hole, buddy!
   Yes, first he needed to pin down the job with Barney Franklin, find out what his responsibilities were, what he had to work with, and WII-FM, what Joseph Crispin would get from The Bee besides experience. And with that came a job to do.
   Joseph was in front of the porch when the “paperboy,” an employee of the Pack ‘n’ Ship franchise, delivered The Bee. The franchisee had turned a money loser to a money maker by adding to his list of services things like delivering newspapers locally. The Montgomery Advertiser and the Birmingham Times also had contracted for local delivery of their papers to paying subscribers. And the Pack 'n' Ship offered low rates to local businesses wanting to hand out fliers.
   The driver waved back as Joseph caught a well thrown, left-handed, over the car roof, newspaper. He quickly opened and scanned the front page. First glance was enough to see the banner headline spanning the top of the whole first page: A CHOCTALOOSA MIRACLE!
   He quickly read the article, turning to page 4, as directed, right after the question, “Who are the mother and child?” Yeah, Mr. Franklin sure knows how to keep you reading.
   Every word was there, unchanged, right through to the end of the piece. And no words or names were added. He called Mr. Franklin, got his voicemail, and left a message asking to visit.
   He took the paper into the kitchen. His dad had left early, and his mom hadn’t made it the kitchen yet.
   For the 1003rd day in a row - or was this the 1004th? Time flew as much as it stood still - Joseph poured a bowl of Cheerios and added milk and sugar. He ate, and he waited.
   About 8:30 his cell phone rang. He picked up and said, “Hello,” having seen “The Bee” on the phone screen. Mr. Franklin did not say anything except, “Well?”
   Joseph responded, “We need to talk,” and received a “Come on down,” reply.
   Ten minutes after the brief exchange, Joseph and Mr. Franklin began negotiations in person. As negotiations are, it was a back and forth.
   Mr. Franklin showed him a commission schedule based on “new customers.”
   When Joseph asked what a new customer was, Mr. Franklin said anyone not on the advertisers list, a list of every advertiser he had ever had. Joseph countered that many of those were not active, so they agreed that “new” meant they had not advertised in over a year.
   And so it went until they had mutually agreed upon expectations for the job.
   Joseph received the advertising pricing schedule and rules for an acceptable ad. When there were no more questions, it was finished.
   A handshake and a signed agreement later (a memo pad page with notations, signed by Barney Franklin), Joseph was out the door ready to begin his career as a sales representative, his cover as a reporter.
   It was almost 10:30 on Friday morning. Where to begin?
   His sales position demanded that he start contacting potential advertisers, but his reporter instinct said to find out what impact the Eagles Nest development would have on Choctaloosa County.
   Being a rational person, Joseph rationalized that in exploring the second opportunity he could pick up new advertisers along the way. That the two objects were incompatible was never allowed to enter the thought process.
   Rationalization is a wonderful talent! Note to self: rationalization is what rational people do, isn’t it? Investigate.
   And perhaps it was not coincidental that the logical place to begin looking into the Eagles Nest was with the property salesperson, Claire Jacobs.
 
   Joseph dialed Claire’s real estate office in Smithfield to get her cell number. He wanted this to be a business call rather than a personal home call. She picked up on the second ring.
   “Hello, Claire Jacobs.” Her real estate agent voice almost seemed to say, “How may I be of service?”
   "Good morning, Mrs. Jacobs,” he said in his mature reporter voice. “I wondered if I might speak to you about the Eagles Nest properties.”
   “Joseph, Is that you?” she asked incredulously. Answering her own question, she added, “I saw The Bee this morning. Considering everything, all the things that might have been said, thank you. I just hope people can leave the article as it is, just a piece of life that happens without the need for drama.”
   Joseph should have known there was no way to separate the personal from the business, especially where a mama bear and her cub were involved. He pulled off his reporter mask and went with the flow of the moment.
   “I do, too, Claire.”
   Dead air. One second, two seconds, three seconds….His mind had gone blank.
   “So, you were asking about Eagles Nest.” She laughed, “Are you thinking of buying?”
   “Not yet. I’ll need to see what my first paycheck looks like. Seriously, Mr. Franklin offered me a job at The Bee selling advertising. Looking at the ads already in past issues, I saw your ad for the lots at Eagles Nest. I confess that this is just a curiosity call to learn more about Eagles Nest.”
   “What would you like to know?” Her voice had reverted to the one she used when she answered the phone. He was losing her. She probably thought this was a pretext to come to Dinah’s house.
   “If you had some time when we could just have an unhurried chat over a glass of tea, maybe at Dell’s, that would be great. I wouldn’t want to disturb Dinah and Chloe.”
   Dell’s was a “meat and three” open from 10 to 8 and located in the heart of New Deal, two doors from the New Used Cars lot. Their meat of the day (there were usually two – fried chicken and country fried steak) plus three vegetables (three of the seven choices were also fried) comprised their Plate Lunch or Dinner Plate (slightly larger portions). Biscuits were included, tea was extra. Their cream pies were heavenly.
   Claire went back into her more relaxed voice, not feeling a threat to Dinah at this point. “I have an appointment at 1:00 up there today, so what about 3:00 at Dell’s?”
   “Works for me. See you then, and thank you.”
   “See you then.” Click
   And the story inches forward ever so slowly. What story? Well, we don’t know yet, do we?”
   He had some time to kill until 3:00. Actually, he didn’t have time to kill: he had a job to do.
   Don’s Hardware was located between Dell’s and the New Used Cars. He would go home for lunch and research the old newspapers, then visit Mr. Don.
 
The Hardware Store
   Mr. Don’s competition was a Tractor Supply down in Troy and all three of the big ones – Home Depot, Lowes, and Tractor Supply – in Montgomery. The larger the amount of purchase, the more incentive for a customer to drive to one of these mega hardware stores.
   Don West was the owner, and Joseph had called him Mr. Don since he was a small boy tagging along with his father. The building had seemed crammed with every conceivable thing a man could need. Aisles seemed endless and towered high above the small boy.
   Of course, a few years later when Dad took him to The Home Depot in Montgomery, he learned more about relativity, seeing how small Don’s store was when compared to The Home Depot. Joseph did not yet comprehend that there is more to business than the exchange of money for products or services.
   Joseph knew from this limited experience how devastating the Big Box Stores had been on poor Mr. Don. Thinking about it, how could Mr. Don compete with the vast resources of his behemoth competitors?
   The big three focused on Do-It-Yourself types, offering advice and even classes for dedicated DIY’s. They offered discounts to professional contractors to gain the higher volume business that also carried lower sales personnel cost. Pretty good business plan!
   Research in the old newspapers at home showed that Don’s Hardware was not advertising at all.
   Joseph’s internet research on the hardware business category was not encouraging. In the end, he came up with two strategies for Mr. Don: Niche markets and a focus on local relationships.
   All of this as if Mr. Don had not done his own research and planning!
   But Joseph had to get his life education, and no better place or time than the here and now. At least he determined that he would start by asking questions rather than go in as if he had all the answers. Better for Mr. Don to tell Joseph rather than for Joseph to show how little he knew.
   By 2:00 he was pulling into the overflow parking behind the hardware store. He didn’t want to fill a spot out front that might accommodate a paying customer.
   Inside, Mr. Don was helping a woman select some gloves for working in her garden. There apparently was a lot to talk about because it was at least ten minutes later before they came up to the cash register. He rang up the gloves - the $14 pair had a more cheerful pattern than the $9 pair.
   During his wait, Joseph had strolled around the small shop that had once seemed to hold half the treasures of the world. There were some changes from what he remembered: more gardening tools for the female backyard gardeners (colorful and comfortable), DIY items for household maintenance in attractive boxes (with easy to understand step by step instructions), and pots and planters that would be attractive in most any room of the house, among other things.
   As the customer happily walked out the front door with her purchase, Mr. Don came over and asked with a smile, “What can I help you with, Joseph?” Mr. Don was very good with names.
   Joseph felt guilty that he had not come in to buy anything. But you ARE here to help, even if he already is using your two strategies!
   “Actually, I was hoping that I could help you, Mr. Don.”
   The smile stayed but a little of the life in it had dimmed as Don replied, “Oh. How is that?”
   “I am working with Barney Franklin at The Choctaloosa Bee, and I would like to talk to you about the advantages of advertising.”
   The genuine smile returned. “Joseph, how long have you been coming to my hardware store?”
   “Well, probably since I was old enough for Dad to bring me.”
   “Would seeing an ad for Don’s Hardware give you more incentive to come here if you needed a hammer or a shovel?”
   Joseph remembered the ad in The Montgomery Advertiser he had seen this morning at home. “Everybody in Montgomery knows Home Depot is there. But Home Depot has a huge ad in The Advertiser at least once a week. Do you think they are wasting their money?”
   Don’s smile was fainter but his voice was kind, like an adult helping a child to understand. “That is a little different, Joseph. They have a lot of money for advertising, and some stiff competition from other stores like Lowe’s.”
   Don gestured toward the street outside. “We’re in a small community among people who have known each other all their lives. The people around here know Don’s, and I know them. We’ll do fine.”
   By then, a fatherly hand was on Joseph’s shoulder. Wisdom had been imparted, and Don now blessed Joseph on his future journey to other businesses. Farewell.
   Not so fast. It’s not over. Choose the middle way….OK, what IS the middle way? Maybe to plant a seed (in a hardware store?). You don’t have to make a sale today.
   “That’s OK, Mr. Don. It was just a thought. Let me leave you a price list for ads. And as a special bonus, first time advertisers receive a free article detailing what the owner thinks is important for the readers to know about their store.” Joseph shrugged, “Maybe we all need a little reminder sometime of who our friends are and who is just doing business.”
   Joseph extended his hand with a smile. “Thanks for talking with me, Mr. Don. Be well.”
   Don shook Joseph’s hand. “I think you can just call me ‘Don’ at this point”
   Joseph said, “Thanks, Don,” as he withdrew his hand and walked toward the door. Then a new thought came.
   He went back and took the advertisement price list from Don, and wrote his name and cell number on it. “In case you change your mind,” he said as he handed it back.
   The advertising salesman walked out into the summer sun. No sale, but he still felt good. Looking at his phone, 2:28. He had a little time to kill. He was thirsty, but that could wait.
   Thinking about Eagles Nest, he could not separate Community Valley, the commune, literally Eagles Nest’s next door neighbor, feeling them connected in some way.
   He went around back toward his car, a sweltering hotbox in the June midday sun. The line of trees behind the lot looked more inviting.
   Sitting on the ground in the shade, he pulled out his phone. Don’s Hardware provided an unprotected Wi-Fi and he did a search
If you search on Google, you googled it. If you search on DuckDuckGo, do you say you DuckDuckWent? DuckDuckGo’d?
   He wanted to read about Community Valley, something he should have done at home.
   He thought about his own knowledge of the commune as he punched in his search and chose their website.
 
Community Valley
   Community Valley was an anomaly in Choctaloosa County, a world apart from its county neighbors.
   The isolation had originally been more cultural than geographic, but Community Valley had always been oriented toward Smithfield and the Farmer’s Market that was held throughout the year. The direct route west to Smithfield made trips south through New Deal and Corn Maize fairly rare.
   In the last decade, they had become equally oriented toward Georgia, a stone’s throw away. There seemed to be more of an affinity to Atlanta than to Birmingham or Montgomery.
   The place could barely be called a “valley.” There were some modest mounds around the hint of a depression. As with Choctaloosa County, in general, the area lay below the southernmost stretch of the Appalachians but not yet to the coastal plain.
   “Community” was probably as good a word as any for a settlement of hippies from California over 40 years ago.
   From a ragtag collection of colorful rundown buses parked on the edge of a tree line, the original group of a hundred or so people had blossomed into some 300 or so inhabitants living in more or less traditional rural homes and trailers. A school building had been built a few years after their arrival, eventually surrounded by what at first glance appeared to be the usual businesses of a small community.
   Their early years had been quite rocky as none of the west coast immigrants had experience in rural life. The arts of providing food, water, and necessities from nature were as unknown to them as the expanses of space or the mysteries of the depths of the oceans.
   While the new arrivals brought a self-professed message of love and peace, most of the people of Choctaloosa County saw a mass of outstretched arms looking for a handout. They felt nothing in common with the new arrivals, fully expecting them to disappear when they discovered their new Promised Land was one requiring hard work, skills in nature, and a dose of divine intervention. This is part of the Bible belt, after all!
   But The Community (as the people referred to themselves) had survived and now thrived.
   The owner of the land where they came to rest was a sympathetic old widower. His children had long since moved to busier lives in far off places. When he died, they inherited the land that he had allowed them to use, over 1800 acres. 

   Joseph had been there on a school field trip in the 8th grade. The teacher, Ms. Meadows, was an ardent proponent of change and a new way of life for all of humanity. She had dreams of a people’s revolution to restore Eden. She was gone the next year.
    The Community by the time Joseph saw it had transformed itself into a rural resort showcasing the traditional ways of life from a bygone era. Ms. Meadows had not been able to hide her disappointment.
   They farmed, growing almost every vegetable possible in Alabama and without chemicals. They raised free range chickens. They made most of their own clothes and much of their own furniture. And they knew how to make a visitor feel comfortable. He remembered the fresh warm bread with homemade jam that all of the students had received.
   Looking at their present website, Joseph saw a well-orchestrated marketing tool. Full color pictures from spring and fall invited the reader to step inside and explore the wonders of nature.
   Community Valley now presented the image of a working resort, a getaway in nature for urbanites.
   The Community featured cabins, rustic on the outside but nicely furnished inside, luxury in the guise of a wilderness experience.
   And there was a restaurant with much of their own produce prepared in traditional southern ways.
   A meeting room scalable for 12 to 100 was available with all of the furniture plus electronics for high powered presentations.
   A male guest dressed in full farmer uniform drove a tractor past another who was stacking bales of hay.
   A female guest sat on a beautiful brown horse, her cowgirl outfit fresh out of a fashion catalogue.
   Everything was geared toward creating a rustic experience without the realities of nature that a city dweller would consider objectionable.
   Basically, Community Valley appeared to be a window to the past but with the appealing conveniences of the present. For a price, the resort provided the urban elite a retreat into a nature made comfortable.
   Joseph intuitively knew there was a connection between Eagles Nest and the Community Valley Resort. This gave him a queasy feeling, like Choctaloosa County was being marketed to lure in the wealthy, to transform paradise into a sideshow for the modern world.
   Would the things these newcomers sought to escape follow them and pollute the true communal spirit of the county? He could feel that this influx would change the nature of the county, of the people.
   He wanted to learn from Claire more about what was happening. As sales agent, she must have some insight regarding the newcomers.
   Almost 3:00. He walked around to the street and into Dell’s Restaurant.

   The A/C and darkness were like walking into the coolness of a cave. He stood in the doorway a few seconds allowing his eyesight to adjust.
   Joseph saw Claire at a table for 4 by the wall. There were maybe a total of six people in the whole place, and one was a waitress and one was a cashier.
   Claire was on the side of the table facing the door.
   NEVER sit with your back to the door. Remember Wild Bill Hickok!
   Joseph took his chances and sat in a chair opposite her, back to the door.
   “Good afternoon,” he said, reaching over to shake her hand as he sat down. “How did it go at Eagles Nest?”
   A bit surprised at the offered hand, she shook it firmly. “Good. Not a sale yet, but it’s still in the works. Just several more questions to answer about the details for permits and zoning, what they can and can’t do with the land.” She shrugged, “I think they’re just trying to cover all the possibilities.”
   “Is that normal with the sale of these lots?” he asked.
   “With these lots, yes. I was there trying to resolve issues with a potential buyer when Dinah called to say it was time. As she described what was happening, I told her to hurry to the hospital and I would meet her there.” She shrugged her shoulders. “So much for planning.
   “But anyway, I participated in several home sales and a lot sale with the agency owner when I was in training, and now have had several home sales on my own. Everything on those transactions went relatively smoothly.”
   The waitress, Tina, came and she ordered unsweet tea. Joseph ordered sweet tea and a chocolate cream pie. Ah, a double hit!
   Claire continued after Tina left. “But these folks buying lots at Eagles Nest are not from around here. They’re not newlyweds excited about their first home, or experienced homeowners just expanding their living space for a growing family.
   “No, these are bankers and lawyers with a keen eye for detail and advantage. Something as simple as buying a piece of land is a marathon negotiation where they must perceive that they are the victor in a head-on competition.”
   “Wow! That sounds exhausting!”
   “Yes, it is.” She smiled. “But having been a mother of two two-year olds and watched them grow up to seventeen, I learned how to handle inappropriate boundaries. A two-year old doesn’t know what boundaries should exist in their behavior and their relationships with other people. Some adults also want to believe their boundaries are whatever they want them to be. Pretty similar patterns of behavior,” she said, shaking her head.
   “And they are risk takers, and I mean both the two-year olds and the Eagles Nest buyers. They see something shiny just out of reach and they’ll climb up to get it, no matter what happens or who gets hurt. Always reaching for something, mostly what they shouldn’t have or don’t need.”
   She paused, then looked Joseph straight in the eye and said with a genuine smile, “Treating them like two-year olds works pretty well.”
   Their orders arrived. Claire picked up her tea and stuck it out. “Cheers!”
   Joseph picked up his tea and clicked glasses with hers. “Cheers!”
   They each took a long drink.
   Claire seemed eager to talk, picking up where she had left off before the interruption.
   “Find something they do for which you can praise them, give them some shiny, harmless reward, and…well, let them think they are in control while slowly reshaping the conversation.
   ”When they throw a temper tantrum – and they will – they will throw things. Being adults, they mainly throw hurtful words, accusations, cutting and demeaning remarks, anything to beat you down. It is often subtle, like the cut of a knife so sharp that you don’t even feel the blade, but then you notice the blood pouring out. So you put on the full armor of God, knowing who you are and who you were created to be.”
   She leaned back. “Ten years ago I would have thought that was the corniest thing I’d ever heard. But then I had no foundation and I just swayed back and forth with every punch. But that was then.
   “Now I realize that most of us are stuck between the age of two and seventeen as to how we see the world, just kids still trying to figure it out.”
   Claire had a sip of tea, encircling the glass with both hands as if to keep it from being ripped from her grasp.
   “I don’t quite know why I’m telling you this. Maybe it’s just that when you learn the lesson young, it helps you to focus on who you want to be, not what you want to be.”
   Joseph was astounded by this revelation, but then it did make sense in a strange way. He had always looked at grown-ups as “grown up,” and kids as “not grown up.” But where was the line that was the demarcation between the two?
   He had seen grown-ups arguing and fighting. Sure, they did it by speaking catty remarks to mutual acquaintances, inferring instead of shouting names at one another, making alliances and forming cliques that excluded the other, or put it in newspaper articles and Letters to the Editor, instead of fist fights.
   And one would end up the loser, bloodied and damaged, and the other the victor, taking the spoils of war, whatever they were.
   He had never seen that they were just being big kids.
   Well, now you know, and it’s about time! Most adults just manage their external behavior better than kids. They never have grown up on the inside.
   He repeated back what he had just learned. “So, let me understand. You give a few things of interest to them that are not important in the big scheme, slowly allow them their small victories, shift away from arguing on the important things, and eventually get the signature on the dotted line. And your strength is knowing who you are, your value independent of them.”
   She smiled as she shook her head. “It’s a lot like dealing with a child – or my husband. Rule #1 is, ‘Feed the ego,’” she put in air quotes. “That’s why middle aged men go for the younger women – it’s an ego trip.”
   “Alert! Alert!” Klaxons began sounding on the Starship Enterprise. Too much information!
   Joseph didn’t know exactly how to respond to the detour looming ahead, but he wanted to learn more about the main road.
   “It sounds like it is uphill both ways on that street! You get beat up, and then you have to turn it around so they don’t know when they get beat up.”
   Claire actually laughed. “That may be a little exaggerated. I know that may be what it sounded like, but if you remember that they’re just a kid who doesn’t know any better yet, you can do it without malice and in a way that maybe they can look back on it one day as an instructive lesson.
   “I’m not saying I always act with a pure heart and no personal motives. I get sucked into the tit-for-tat petty transactional retaliation sometimes. But I’d like to think I at least go into it with an attitude of win-win.”
   Something had raised a flag in her short lecture. “What happened since ten years ago that made a change?”
   Claire’s eyes were on the iced tea, but he could tell she wasn’t looking at the tea. Something was going on, she was making some kind of decision.
   She looked up at him and he saw that the decision had been made.
   “Let me tell you a story,” she said, leaning forward.
   “There was a sophomore at a prestigious eastern university. And she was beginning to see where she wanted her life to go.
   “And there was an economics graduate student who seems to have it all: looks, charm, intelligence, even money.
   “They came together, and she never left. Two years of dating, marriage, and two children later, she realized that he was gone even when he was right in front of her. She did not know when it happened, but his consulting trips got longer. They moved four times in six years, each time to a more expensive place with enough room to lose each other more easily.
   “She ended up in Atlanta, a son starting school and a daughter at home. She had not accompanied him on a trip in years. The high powered bankers and lawyers no longer came to their house for dinner. Her husband no longer took her to the cocktail parties.
   “She had to figure out who she was, and when she did, she found her freedom. And she and the kids took a road trip that summer. They saw a lot of small towns because she had seen enough of big cities. And they found Choctaloosa County, Alabama, by getting lost.
   “Having lunch right here at Dell’s, the woman looked through The Choctaloosa Bee and found the ‘Homes for sale.’ They drove to the address of the first one on the list, and she and both kids felt like they were home.
   “And she bought it,” Claire concluded with conviction.
   She finally raised the tea and took a long sip through the straw. There was a slurping sound as the tea ran out and she searched for the last few drops.
   “So, there!" she said, smiling. "We are all kids at heart and all we want is a little fun and some understanding.”
   The story was done.
   Claire was ready to move ahead. “So, what is it you’re asking me about Eagles Nest?”
   Joseph’s brain suffered whiplash with the sudden change in direction. He needed to finish where they were.
   Time to move on….quickly! No! No questions, Joseph….
   But he went there anyway.
   ”Wait! So, does your - her husband live here? Are they still married?”
   Claire smiled. “There are elements of the story that are true, and other elements that are wishful thinking. But yes, they are still married, and no, he does not live here. He did for a while, sort of, gone about as much as usual. Now he only uses the address for a business write-off and a place he comes occasionally to see his kids.”
   Her expression brightened. “But I hear he has a surprise coming. She will be serving divorce papers on him in a few days. She started the paperwork when her granddaughter was born.”
   All of this talking about herself in the third person seems pretty weird!
   But notice that she didn’t show any emotion about it. It’s all happening to someone else and she is getting to create the story.
   Oh, yeah. Right! 
   Joseph tried to focus on one thing. Two things were one thing too many.
   “To sum up, ‘Who are these people who want to buy in Choctaloosa County, one of the least modern areas in the state, if not the country, and two, why pay so much for the privilege?’”
   “The circles my husband ran in seemed to have turned his head around. Me? I guess I got dizzy and fell out of the circle because I was grounded in the kids and, later, who I was.
   “Long story short, he is bringing his circle to Choctaloosa County. I can’t give you specifics because of confidentiality agreements, but they’re not just buying in Eagles Nest.”
   WII-FM for her husband and friends?
   “But why? What’s in it for him? And them?”
   “Those are good questions,” she nodded. “The irony of me being the agent for selling this property is keeping me from understanding what is really happening here. I know some of these people, at least by reputation from what Samuel, her husband,” she smiled, “my husband, said about them. None of them has recognized who I am, though.”
   Conspiratorially, she leaned forward again and added, “Want to help me figure it out?”
   He saw a 13 year old in the 43 year old Claire across the table.
   Claire came back to her grandmother self and looked at her watch. “Wow! It’s after 4:00. I better see how Dinah and Chloe are doing.”
   “How are things going? Is there getting to be a routine?”
   “Well, for Chloe there is a routine: Eating, pooping, and sleeping, not necessarily in that order. And sometimes she makes an insistent announcement of a need for a change. I think Dinah is getting into the rhythm of it.”
   As she got up, she said, “But that’s why it is the young who have babies. My rhythm is less adaptable.”
   She picked up the check that Joseph had not noticed arriving, smiled, and said, “Take care, Joseph.”
   She went to the register with the check, and he waited a respectful distance behind her as she paid.
   As she turned to the door, he said, “Thanks for the pie and the talk, Claire. I would like to learn more about what’s going on up there.”
   She considered a moment before saying, “Tell you what…we’ll have you for that dinner sometime soon. I’d like to learn more, too.”
   Joseph beamed. “That’d be great!”

The Scarecrow and the Veteran
   As Joseph approached the road from the parking lot behind Dell’s, he suddenly decided to turn left, away from home. He wanted a glimpse of the scarecrow again.
   A couple of minutes later, no one was behind him and he pulled over on the shoulder where there was that slight elevation of the road. He got out of the car and looked out over the cornfields across the road.
   Clear as day, the silent sentinel stood surveying his green domain. The corn was just about full height, probably ready to tassel any day by this time in June.
   Just wait and walk to it with your dad. And he’ll give you a full report on how the corn crop is coming along, the nature of the soil, any insect damage. Some real bonding time….
   Joseph just smiled, got back in the car, and headed home.
   He turned the car around back onto the highway. He passed back through New Deal and saw the small building at the edge of the New Used Cars lot. He quickly slowed down and pulled onto the gravel parking area next to what might have passed for a single storage unit with some windows.
   A small Tiny House? Or is that redundant, too?
   His tennis shoes crunched on the gravel as he walked up to the front door. The blue gray exterior gave the house the aged, frayed appearance of a very old person.
   The sign hanging from a chain suspended from a single nail read “Being,” as the last time he had seen it. But the lower sign now read, “YOU” instead of “Whole.”
   Joseph knocked on the door wondering if a knock too hard would damage the place.
   There was no answer, only the persistent hum of the window air conditioner.
   “You looking for Jerry?” came a voice from around back.
   An old man, maybe in his seventies, ambled around the side of the house, a short walk, maybe 25 feet or so. He wore clothes that looked, shall we say, comfortable, to phrase it in a kind way. He was short with a wiry frame and his beard was mostly gray. The hair that stuck out from under his Bass Pro fishing cap was gray, peppered with a little black.
   And he looked exhausted, sweaty, as if he had done a marathon.
   “Is Jerry the owner?” Joseph asked.
   “Yes, he is.” The old man offered no further information.
   “I was just curious about the sign. I saw it the other day and now it has changed. What’s he mean by ’Being’ and whatever word he put below?”
   The old man came up and looked at the sign more closely, as if he had to be up close to read it. “What day is it?” he asked.
   “Friday,” responded Joseph.
   “Yep. That’s the right sign for Friday. What else did you want to know?”
   Joseph was confused.
   “I asked what it meant,” he explained, pronouncing each word distinctly to make sure the man understood.
   Perplexed at Joseph’s question, the man asked, “Who are you today?” He also pronounced each word distinctly, imitating Joseph.
   “Hi, I’m Joseph Crispin,” Joseph said, extending his hand, thinking the man wanted an introduction.
   Ignoring the hand, “Who were you yesterday?”
   Joseph suspected either the guy was a little off or he had just entered The Twilight Zone.
   “I was Joseph Crispin then, too.”
   “Are you sure? I find most people don’t really know who they are. They give me a name, like Joseph Crispin, and expect that to tell me who they are.”
   The klaxon sounded again on the Enterprise and Captain Kirk’s voice came over the intercom: “Alien life form aboard ship. Take precautions. Repeat, alien life form aboard ship!”
   “Who are you?” Joseph countered, hoping the answer would provide an explanation.
   “’I’m Jerry,’” he said, mocking Joseph’s voice. “Does that tell you anything?”
   “At least it’s a start.”
   “Well, maybe,” Jerry replied without conviction. “Why don’t you come back tomorrow after you’ve thought about it and tell me who you are. Right now it’s time for me to drink a gallon of water, cool off, and fix lunch. Good bye!”
   Jerry gently moved Joseph out of his way and entered the unlocked door. He left the door open and Joseph watched him go down the narrow hallway along the left side of the house.
   Standing outside the open door, Joseph felt like he had just encountered a munchkin who had run inside Oz, leaving open the door to the Emerald City. He might not be in Kansas (or Alabama) anymore, so why not enter?
   He stood just inside the door, hearing the clinking of glass and water pouring. The refrigerator door opened and then was shut. Jerry came back into view with a glass in one hand and a carry out container in the other.
   “Well, come on in and close the door. Are you hungry?” He held the plate slightly tilted so Joseph could see the country fried steak and assorted vegetables.
   “No thanks, but you go ahead.”
   Jerry disappeared to the side but called out, “Come in and let me tell you about my Amazing Experience.”
   Joseph went the short distance to where a table and two bench seats made a dining room. Jerry had drunk half the large glass of water and was starting on the mashed potatoes and green beans. It was all cold leftovers, but it didn’t seem to bother the old man’s appetite.
   After swallowing a well chewed bite and washing it down with more water, Jerry launched into his story. The dialogue was painfully slow as he alternated sentences or phrases with small mouthfuls. He seemed to be chewing a certain number of times before swallowing the small bites.
   Will we be through with the story and the meal in time for breakfast?
   “I went on my early-afternoon walk today and saw the most amazing thing. There was a woman standing way out in the middle of a cornfield. Hot as it was, she was the picture of serenity.”
   He put down his plastic fork and held up his hands as if showing Joseph a picture of this serene woman.
   “So I made my way through the corn, thick as a jungle. I wished I’d had the bayonet I used in the Vietnamese jungle. But I fought my way through bare handed until I reached her.
   “She stood tall and proud, but so very sad. She was without hope. I asked her what was wrong, and she just cried silent tears.”
   Jerry stopped for about the tenth time and slowly ate several bites in a row, methodically chewing and swallowing.
   Joseph wanted him to continue the story, but kept quiet in spite of the urge to reach over and pull the story out of the old man.
   “She looked like she had been physically abused. She was showing the world what had been done to her. She was wearing her wounds like badges of honor. I had a lot of respect for her.
   “And then, I’ll never forget this, she looked at me, pleading for help.”
   Joseph noticed that Jerry was much less agitated and more coherent than when they were standing outside. Maybe Jerry just needed the water and the food.
   Another two silent bites passed.
   “Help against what?” Joseph asked.
   Jerry chewed slowly and swallowed. “And she said, ‘The loneliness.’
   “By then, I was crying with her. But I knew what I had to do. I knew the only solution.”
   Jerry took another bite, but stopped chewing. He seemed momentarily frozen, back in front of the woman.
   He finished chewing and looked Joseph in the eye. “And then I started singing:
   “’Jesus loves me! This I know, for the Bible tells me so; little ones to Him belong; we are weak, but He is strong.
   “’We are all little ones,’ I said to her.
   “She smiled and sang, ‘Yes, Jesus loves me! Yes, Jesus loves me! Yes, Jesus loves me! The Bible tells me so.’"
   “And we sang all 4 of the verses after that. And then her tears were gone and she was smiling and happy.
   “She said, ‘Thank you,’ and I said ‘Thank Him!’
   “And she knew she was going to be OK, and I knew she was going to be OK. She was smiling and the sun made her look so pretty…. I knew I could leave her, and I was as happy as she was.
   “But I was so hot and thirsty! And I had missed lunch. So I came home. And I found you here.”
   He took the last bite of country fried steak and said, “Thank you for being here, my friend, Joseph. It’s good to share.”
   He looked at his almost empty plate and said, “Are you sure you don’t want something, anything?”
   Jerry looked guilty that he had not shared, and Joseph could feel Jerry’s discomfort sliding across the table toward him like a cold early morning fog. There were two rolls untouched still on the foil that had covered the plate lunch.
   “I would really like a roll,” Joseph said, looking at them.
   Jerry gave a very big smile and pushed them in between Joseph and himself. “There are two. You have one, and I will have one.”
   Joseph took one and had a bite, and Jerry took one and had a bite.
   Jerry did not eat any more, but the roll was pretty good and Joseph finished his.
   “Thank you for sharing your lunch, Jerry.” It felt funny saying “lunch” since it was well after 5:00 by now.
   “You’re welcome, Joseph. But I’m tired now and need to rest.”
   “Sure, Jerry.” As he got up, he asked, “Shall I come by again?”
   “Please do. Close the door as you leave. I’m just going to sit here a bit.”
   Joseph went out and back to his car. Questions about the old man and how he survived and the identity of the woman were all swirling in his head.
 
Birth of a Scarecrow
   His dad tried to make it home early on Fridays, and his work pickup was already there when Joseph pulled into the driveway.
   There was the smell of French fries as he walked in the front door. And there would be the smell of hamburgers on the grill out back.    Some cole slaw and tea, apple or cherry pie if they were lucky, and Friday night dinner at home was complete.
   Joseph hollered a “Hi” toward the kitchen and went to wash up. Washing his hands and splashing cold water on his face, he wondered how much to tell of this day’s events.
   It seemed that every day this week (only one week?) had some mixture of events that included everything from the miraculous and inconceivable to something along the lines of unpredictable and indescribable.
   Just maybe most events in life were equally describable in all of those terms, and you’ve just slid right past ‘em….
   Joseph stepped outside the back door just as his dad was taking the burgers off the grill. The cheese was already melted on them as they were put on the platter. Yes!
   They got through the guy conversation of how the day went – “Good,” and “The usual” – in the brief moment as Joseph held the door back into the kitchen for his father carrying the platter.
   After they had been through the buffet set up on the kitchen table, preparing their burgers and adding fries and slaw, they sat at the dining room table. It was going to be another of those conversation filled meals that extended into the evening.
   Unable to think how to start his own day’s story, Joseph asked his dad about his day immediately after the blessing.
   Dad obliged by telling them about the daylong conference on cover crops at the university’s organic research farm outside of Smithfield. His dad could make a talk on almost anything interesting and a little prodding kept it going, but it was clear both parents were interested in Joseph’s day…again.
   By then, Joseph had pretty well formulated his description of the job offer from Barney Franklin, and the visit with Don about advertising.
   He did hold back one thing. The visit with Jerry might be one story too far. The talk about the woman in the field nagged at him. She must be the scarecrow, but was she really a woman or just Jerry’s imagination?
   Although that sounded like a fairly eventful day, he felt he ought to tell some about the tea (no need to mention the pie) with Claire Jacobs. But let’s ease into it….
   “Dad, I’m curious about the lots for sale up at Eagles Nest, near Community Valley. What’s all that about?”
   "I don’t know a lot about them. Why do you ask?”
   Way to go. Smooth transition. Not!
   “I talked with Claire Jacobs. It turns out she is the real estate agent for the lots at Eagles Nest. There is always a generic ad for the lots in The Bee, but I looked at the lot prices and you could buy the lot and the three bedroom house down our road for less than one of those bare lots.”
   “Yeah, those lots are zoned for residential dwellings, but I have heard that the covenants for the community require that housing be of a certain size and value that is way out of the normal range for the county. Apparently, there is something drawing the wealthy away from the culture and refinements of city life.
   “I don’t really know much about the development, now that I think about it. Seems like The Bee had something about it when the land was rezoned residential, but I don’t know anything more about it. What has you interested?”
   “I just thought there might be a story there. Are we going to look at the scarecrow when we finish dinner?”
   “Sure.” Looking at Linda, his dad asked, “Would going to see a scarecrow liven up your Friday night?”
   “Sounds intriguing, but maybe I’ll just clean up the kitchen and watch something on the tube, you know, see something that moves.”
   And so it was that he and his dad rode in the pickup to the other side of New Deal to see the scarecrow.
New Deal was fairly quiet as they passed through.
   Lights were already on beside the flags at New Used Cars. Don’s was closed, and Dell’s seemed to still have a good dinner crowd, street parking full and perhaps more around back.
   Across the street from the car lot was Dollar Variety, a chain specializing in little except relatively low prices. It was open, of course, with a handful of cars out front. The A.M.E. Church to its right, the building on this edge of New Deal, had an empty parking lot.
   The next three stores past the Dollar Variety were closed for the day.
   Tide and Tiger Insurance, an independent insurance agent trying to side with both Alabama and Auburn fans, was flanked by New Deal Collectibles.Next in line was And Back Again (“gently used clothes”), completing the New Deal line-up. Fifty yards away, like an after thought, the independent gas station, usually about 20 cents higher than in Corn Maize, had a customer filling up.
   At the slight rise in the road, Stan Crispin pulled the car over on the wide shoulder. The scarecrow still kept vigil over his grain domain.
   “Well, son, let’s go see what this scarecrow looks like up close.” Joseph could hear the background music from an Indiana Jones movie.
   They got out and crossed the road after waiting for a single car to pass. Walking down the slight embankment, they headed toward the edge of the field where there was a wet weather creek bed. Quite dry after no rain for a week, they walked easily alongside the rows of corn until they reached the row that was home to the scarecrow.
   His dad led the way, commenting on the progress of the corn, noting their stage of growth like a scholastic assessment of their education.
   “They have a good crop here. Stalks are firm…looks like they’ve lost the bottom 3 leaves.’ He bent down to confirm. “Yep, and got about a dozen more leaves above them. They’ll be ready to tassel within the week.”
   His dad sighted the scarecrow, barely visible through the leaves of the stalks, perhaps 50 yards or so ahead in between the two rows of corn.
   Joseph followed him into the dense forest of cornstalks, the green tops a good foot or more above his father’s head.  The air was still, humid, and hot in spite of the green giants’ shading of the low sun.
   His dad stopped suddenly, exclaiming, “Good God!”
   They were close enough now to see more detail of the side view of the body rising from the cornstalks. The support for the scarecrow was the standard wooden cross, a post in the ground with the body attached. A crossbeam supported the arms with the help of some bailing wire.
   The figure was surprisingly well dressed for its – her – lonely duty. There were token amounts of straw peeking out from beneath the hat, the neck opening, and the ends of the shirt and pants, giving the traditional appearance of a scarecrow until seen from up close.
   His father had stood stock still for only a moment before bursting into a run to quickly cover the short distance. They stopped short of the uplifted figure.
   The low sun shone brightly on the right side of the head that stared steadily at the light traffic on the highway. The half mouth that could be seen was adorned with a bright red. The dark mascara and black eyebrow of the right eye were more discernible from six feet away.
   The exposed skin was smooth and light brown. The bits of straw were outreached by the straight silky black hair falling from beneath a wide brimmed hat. The hat appeared at a distance to be only traditional straw hat, but now they saw a festive orange ribbon.
   A green and orange plaid shirt was tucked neatly into jeans with signs of only modest wear. What appeared to be black slippers, partially covered by the long legs of the jeans, dangled a foot or two above the low dirt mound encircling the post.
   A body for a scarecrow? Is this the woman with whom Jerry had sung? Joseph’s heart froze with the next thought. Is this the work of some evil spirit?
   Or is it a murder intended to send a signal, a warning of what could happen if someone did not cooperate with some villainous plan?
   There were a long few seconds of shared horror until Joseph’s dad stepped closer to the body and then expelled a huge sigh of relief.
   “It’s a mannequin.”
   He touched an exposed hand hanging down to assure himself this was true. The fiberglass was cool in the shade of the neighboring stalks and reassured him that there was nothing human about the body.
   Joseph came up and touched it, also, looking up at the lifeless face. The unhuman nature of the model was so apparent now that he wondered how they could have ever thought otherwise, and yet this was very well staged to be taken as reality.
   Except that the left side of the face had a large crack across its cheek and that the left hand was missing all of its fingers. And a close up frontal view showed the paint used for makeup and eyebrows to be rather sloppily applied. And the black hair was a wig of Halloween costume quality.
   “Who would go to this trouble for a scarecrow?” His father’s question echoed the same one in Joseph’s mind.
   Stan checked the pockets, looking for clues, but there was nothing that gave a hint as to the purpose behind the illusion of a beautiful and well-dressed woman posing as a scarecrow.
   Joseph stepped back and took several pictures with his phone. He got a couple of different angles and a couple with his father beside the scarecrow to give some perspective. Their original view of her right side from far enough away to hide the artificial clues looked pretty good.
   “Dad, let me tell you a little more of what happened today.” And he told of Jerry and the woman in the field. The story provoked some conversation, but far more thoughts than were spoken.
   Taking one last look up at the scarecrow, his father turned to Joseph. “I guess sometimes a scarecrow is just a scarecrow. Let’s head back.” He started toward the pickup.
   “We have to admit that the scarecrow did its job, at least in scaring people. But maybe we don’t have to tell everything about this discovery to your mom, what do you think?”
   Joseph nodded. “But I still wonder why it’s here.”
   “Maybe that’s your next newspaper article. I think this land belongs to the Rodgers family. Maybe you could interview them.”
   At home, they reassured Joseph’s mom that, indeed, the scarecrow was just a scarecrow, although a bit different from the usual, and it was just as well that she had not wasted her time on a rather uneventful trip.
   “It’s just as well I was here,” she said to Joseph. “Don called. He said he’d like to talk to you about an ad. Tuesday mornings are slow if you want to drop by the hardware store then.”
   That brought a smile to Joseph’s face and seemed to make a good end to his short work week.
   “That’s great! I’ll see him Tuesday. But tomorrow I’m going to find out why the Rodgers put up such an unusual scarecrow.”
   Then he added, “But now, I’m going to see if Kevin is available for a computer game.”
   He had not even thought about gaming with all that had been happening, but a game would help to take his mind off events for a while. Right now, a little Call of Duty for some action, or Elvenar for the concentration on building a city, seemed like great distractions.
 
   The pleasant aroma of breakfast crept through his closed door as softly as the early sunlight through the window. Saturday morning was a full real breakfast rather than everyone fending for themselves as they did during the week. It was well worth getting up earlier than he might have otherwise.
   Joseph figured just dropping by the Rodgers’ house in the middle of the morning would be reasonable, no need to call ahead. And about 10 he left in the Corolla for the Rodgers’ house just past New Deal.
   He pulled into the gravel driveway, a strip of green grass growing down the middle of two tracks of well packed white gravel.
   The front of the house was dominated by a full length covered porch that extended out over the drive and created a carport in front of the open garage that housed a red F-150 truck. He parked in the shade of the carport and went up the porch steps to the front door.
   Seconds after he knocked, a woman came to the door. There was the sound of cartoons from a TV competing with the sounds of children’s voices.
   “Hi, Mrs. Rodgers? I’m Joseph Crispin. Is that your scarecrow out by the highway? I was just curious about it.”
   She laughed. “You’re not the first one. It’s a little noisy in there. Why don’t we sit out here?”
   She motioned him to the chair while she took the porch swing, her feet just touching the floor to give the swing a little movement.
   “What did you think when you first saw it?” she asked.
   “At first I was just curious. But when I started getting close to it, well, frankly, I was a little concerned it was real. It was a relief to see it was a mannequin, but I still wondered why all the trouble for a single scarecrow that will do little to protect such a big field.”
   “I’ve had three people to ask about it, and two of them were pretty much like you. I think the third one just didn’t want to admit that moment of eerie fear when it seemed the body might be real.
   “Scaring people was not the intent. It was just part of the boys’ punishment to make use of something they had damaged.”
   “I’m lost. How did they damage a scarecrow?”
   “Yes, I jumped to the end of the story.
   “I had the boys with me when I stopped into the And Back Again store to look for new used clothes for them. They outgrow things so quickly and I can’t always put the older boy’s clothes on the younger one because of differences in waist.
   “Anyway, I was talking with the owner about some jeans and they were running around being crazy when they knocked over a mannequin. The thing banged its head on the edge of a table and broke a hand in the fall. Well, I ended up owning a broken mannequin, which was fair enough.
   “For punishment, I made them think of a way we could use what they almost destroyed. Eventually, ‘we’ came up with the idea of a scarecrow. They had to make the scarecrow, with some help, of course. Since it was a female, they had to make it look like a woman, further punishment.
   “So what you saw is the end result of a lesson about not wasting things, especially the things you just destroyed.”
   “And here I was thinking that you were starting a scarecrow fashion contest.” As often happens with teenage boys, the words preceded the thought, and after the words came an idea for The Bee.
   “Well,” she said emphatically, “anyone is welcome to compete, but that’s our entry and I’m done. And my husband is done, even though I think he kinda enjoyed taking the boys out in the field and helping them set her up.”
   They visited only a few more minutes before the sounds of the boys arguing breached the closed front door. Joseph said goodbye after securing agreement from her to put the picture in the paper. The story would call it a family project, which was true, but without the backstory from the store.
   The rest of Saturday was normal. It rained that night and into early Sunday morning. Sunday morning at church completed the cycle of back to the normal that had existed before the previous week.
   And normal is not bad!

A Bee Writes Again
   Being a quiet Sunday afternoon, perhaps this was the time to renew the conversation with his dad about Jerry. He hadn’t felt it the right moment to bring up a conversation about the nice but a little disturbed old man since they had left the cornfield.
   Dad was reading the Sunday Montgomery Advertiser on the front porch swing, ice pretty well melted in a forgotten iced tea.
   “Hey, Dad! Have you thought much about Jerry again?”
   His father, lowered the paper, thinking for a few seconds. “A little bit. It’s hard to know what to think about somebody who is so…different.”
   “Yeah, I know what you mean. But I didn’t really get into why I met him.
   “I stopped out of curiosity Friday because the sign on his door said, ‘Being You.’ On Thursday it had said, ‘Being Whole.’ I’m curious what today’s sign will be, but more wondering about what he is trying to accomplish with them.”
   “So, is your reporter hat on?” smiled his father. “Ready to reveal the mysteries of the county?”
   “Yeah, maybe. Just wondered if you have any thoughts about Jerry and his message, especially considering his conversation with the woman who is actually a scarecrow.”
   “Undoubtedly, Jerry needs some help. He has help from Dell’s with the food. But it may be that he has a story he needs to tell.
   “But that’s a job for the ace reporter for The Bee. I think the scarecrow investigation was enough excitement for me for a while. Let me know what you discover.”
   Before he opened the paper again, he added, “And keep in mind that he most likely needs professional help.” The newspaper opened like a shield around him.
   It felt a little like when Joseph was a kid and his dad just wanted a little space. End of conversation.
   “Maybe that can be part of my work week,” Joseph said to the newspaper. And he went and got his own glass of tea.

   He took his tea to his room and started thinking seriously about scarecrows and the next article.
   “Next article” is a little presumptuous, dude. You’ve been given no promise of that.
   Still, if the article is good….
   And so Joseph started writing and thinking, more or less in that order since the writing part was so much easier.
   The Choctaloosa Bee; Friday, June 25; Page 1 – “Choctaloosa CORN CHIC.” By Joseph Crispin
   Drivers headed north on the highway out of New Deal, toward Blue Tail and Community Valley, may not have noticed a new arrival to Choctaloosa County.
   From a distance, this new resident may have looked like an ordinary scarecrow, a hallmark of cornfields for centuries. But closer inspection shows a bit of style, a touch of class, not common to these typical crop guardians.
   The Rodgers family created a rural work of art. They have raised the bar for our unarmed sentries of the fields. Is this the beginning of a new era for the scarecrow, an era of fashion?
   True, a stylish scarecrow has no advantage over a style-less scarecrow, unless….
   Might we imagine a tiara of sparkling cut glass reflecting the sun; aluminum earrings dancing in the breeze; a bright thin piece of fabric waving from one hand, a set of sleigh bells hanging and clanging from the other; and what else might you imagine?
   Guys, this is not just for the gals. What can you do to spice up your Mr. Scarecrow and scare off the pests with your creation?
   This can be a family event, combining scarecrow fashion and fear (to the birds) to create a scenic work of art for people who pass by.
   Some cornfields have mazes, some have designs, and others just have corn. What if Choctaloosa County was known for its Corn Chic? 
   Send in a photo of your contribution. The photo voted best by the staff of The Bee will be in the newspaper.
   The end.

   That ought to generate some interest! Now what is Mr. Franklin going to think of that?
   Joseph went to bed, slept well, and woke refreshed. Looking at his article on the scarecrow in the full light of the morning sun, Joseph knew a bad piece of writing when he saw it.
   An old song came to mind, one he’d heard several times in his dad’s pickup, tuned to Choctaloosa County’s only radio station, WCAW (Country And Western). Waylon Jennings’ refrain was, “I don’t think Hank (Williams) done it thissa way.”
   No, you don’t think Woodward and Bernstein done it thissa way, either. What were you thinking? NOT! You were just writing….
   So what would the star reporter do on a Monday with one not-very-good story all that he had to show for the next edition?
   Mom’s car was available, so maybe a visit with Jerry and finding out about “Being” would be good. Maybe there was an interesting story hidden there.
   Or maybe a visit with the scarecrow (she needs a name!), a visit like Jerry had with her and let her tell her story to him. (Now that is more than a little crazy….)
   So where to start and how? (Mr. Franklin wants names, so start with a name.)
   But the grass needed mowing. 
   And so it was after Cheerios, cutting the yard, and then a shower that his real work day could begin.
   And with nothing in his mind beyond “scarecrow” and “article,” Joseph went to the cornfield.
   He made his way alongside the columns of green giants until he could see the scarecrow mounted on her supporting scaffold. He retraced the steps of him and his dad from Friday evening until he stood beside her, on her good side.
   He looked at her good side, but that was only part of the story. Life had its days of sweet tea and cream pie, and they were good and newsworthy.
   But life also had its days of pop quizzes and running laps around the field.
   If you want to write about life, you need to look it full in the face, see both its beauty and ugliness, its joys and sorrows.
   He thought about an article titled, A Dozen Ways to See a Scarecrow. Or maybe, Getting to Know Your Scarecrow.
   Maybe his own getting to know this scarecrow would be a start.
   “Hello, Dorothy. I am Joseph. Passing by, I saw you standing here alone. Would you like some company, maybe to talk a little?”
   “Dr. McCoy, Come to the bridge as soon as possible with your tricorder. Repeat, Dr. McCoy to the bridge for a medical mental emergency!”
   Joseph settled himself between the two cornstalks directly in front of Dorothy. He felt like a munchkin as he looked up at the towering female figure.
   He was quiet.
   She was quiet.
   He could see that he would have to initiate the conversation.
   “Jerry said that you and he had a very nice visit last week.”
   Her eyes were still aimed well above him, her painted lips shut tight.
   Joseph looked at her cracked cheek marring her otherwise perfect complexion. This did not take into account the unevenly applied lipstick, mascara, and brows, but those were only meaningless externals. But then, the crack was external, also, not an indicator of what lay beneath the surface.
   What would it be like to have a self-image that was so damaged on the outside? Would that keep not only other people from seeing what was inside, but would it also keep Dorothy from seeing what was inside her, who she was apart from her outer shell?
   The morning sun had long since risen to shine fully on Dorothy’s damaged left side.
   Joseph looked at the immobile left arm ending in a fingerless hand. What could this hand hold? Nothing.
   He looked at his own left hand. It had held many things, but was empty now. Holding and letting go, that’s what a hand did.
   Joseph looked at her left side. Any damage was hidden by her clothing. But the scars would still be there, no need to expose them.    They were now a part of her, and always would be.
   God had taken a side from Adam, and thus came into being Eve. And from Eve had come a son, a part of her. And to what could Dorothy give birth, lifeless as she was?
   He sat in the humid warmth of mid-morning, sheltered between the two stalks. The gentle sounds of the insects of the field were like a lullaby. The thick air swaddled him in a warm blanket. And the very slight wind rustling the long leaves about him gave the illusion that it was he who was gently swaying, rocking.
   A voice spoke to him, its tone tender but firm, descending on Joseph like a gentle cool mist.
   “It’s not Joseph’s story. It’s Jerry’s story.
   “Look at what came to life within Jerry when he encountered a lonely woman in a field.
   “One life mirrors another life. That is what happened between Jerry and me, the one you now call ‘Dorothy.’ Jerry saw his own hurt in Dorothy.
   “What is the hand when it has lost its fingers?
   “Without the individuality of fingerprints, the hand is as anonymous as a scarecrow. Maybe as anonymous as an old man whose wounds have never healed as he stands still while the world passes by him.
   “Life passes by all of us, even for the most whole of us. But without fingers, we do not get the touch, the feel of the moment, before it slips away.
   “The hand expresses the thoughts of the mind in the work that it does. What does the mind do when it cannot make known its thoughts, has no work that the hands can do?
   “And the immobilized arm cannot reach out for an embrace.
   “What of the damaged side?
   “The ribcage protecting the heart is broken. It leaves a gaping hole from which the life pours out too soon.
   “The heart is exposed and vulnerable.
   “The lung is punctured and life-giving air escapes unused, the voice muted for lack of breath.
   “The lungs are the seat of grief, and the body bleeds grief with every breath.
   “And now the face, the part of us that is exposed for the whole world to see.
   “There is no cosmetic that can hide forever what lies beneath the mask. And when the superficial covering of the face is exposed to reveal what lies beneath, we may think that we are seeing the ugliness of the outer self.
   “No. The crack in my cheekbone is how the light gets in. The light is cleansing and purifying. With a little patience, you see that the light comes in and goes back out again to others. And from this light others see things differently.
   “You may think that I must turn the other cheek to hide the damage, but is it not better that this other cheek, this thin veneer over my identity, become broken, also? Then the light pours in and out more freely, unhindered by the mask given to me to wear.
   “Always move toward the light.
   “Joseph, you have slept and are now awake.”
   A bee buzzed above him, no doubt examining the progress of the planted field. He brought his focus on the bee. It would return to the others with the message, “Not much here. Flowers hold the nectar. Go to the flowers.”
   The thought, “It is Jerry’s story,” flitted through his mind. Suddenly, it was as if the story had written itself.
   He looked up at Dorothy. He could have sworn her eyes were looking down at him, but when he stood, her vacant stare was well above his head.
   A cold drink and a sandwich sounded very good in a field that now seemed stifling and suffocating. Dorothy’s head was above it all, and he bid a goodbye to the silent watchwoman.
   Joseph forgot to see Jerry to find out what the “Being” signs meant.
 
   Later in the afternoon, Joseph typed on his computer.
   The Choctaloosa Bee; Friday, June 27; Wisdom from a Scarecrow; by A Bee.
   In a cornfield beside a major road in Choctaloosa County stands a scarecrow. I have seen many scarecrows on many roads many times without really seeing them.
   Maybe I didn’t really pay attention. I didn’t notice what made the figure unique, not noticing its clothing, much less its identifying features.
   I was too far away, or I was going too fast, or, I was just too busy to slow down.
   I met a stranger beside a major road in Choctaloosa County. He has lived there a long time, so I guess I just have not paid attention. I don’t remember what he was wearing (if I had even seen him), and I certainly did not know who he was or what he was like.
   I was always too far away, or going too fast, or just too busy to slow down.
   One day last week I slowed down. I even came to a stop. And I heard the story of a stranger and a scarecrow, neither of whom had been any more real to me than the other.
   I learned their names. But I will call him (the man) “Leo,” and I will call her (the scarecrow) “Dorothy.” No stereotyping please – a scarecrow can be either sex. But, yes, Leo is for a lion, a gentle lion.
   Leo, a veteran now in his 70’s, went for a walk one day and saw a woman standing in a nearby field. He wanted to meet her, so he made his way through the stalks towering above him until he came to her.
   This is Leo’s story:
   “So I made my way through the corn, thick as a jungle. I wished I’d had the bayonet I used in the Vietnamese jungle. But I fought my way through the foliage bare handed until I reached her.
   “She stood tall and proud, but so very sad. She was without hope. I asked her what was wrong, and she just cried silent tears.
   “She looked like she had been physically abused. She was showing the world what had been done to her. She was wearing her wounds like badges of honor. I had a lot of respect for her.
   “And then, I’ll never forget this, she looked at me, pleading for help, help against the loneliness. Tears were coming from her eyes.
   “By then, I was crying with her. But I knew what I had to do. I knew the only solution.
   “And then I started singing:
   “’Jesus loves me! This I know, for the Bible tells me so; little ones to Him belong; we are weak, but He is strong.
   “’We are all little ones,’ I said to her.
   “She smiled and sang, ‘Yes, Jesus loves me! Yes, Jesus loves me! Yes, Jesus loves me! The Bible tells me so.’
   “And we sang all 4 of the verses after that. And then her tears were gone and she was smiling and happy.
   “She said, ‘Thank you,’ and I said ‘Thank Him!’
   “And she knew she was going to be OK, and I knew she was going to be OK. She was smiling and the sun made her look so pretty…. I knew I could leave her, and I was as happy as she was.”
   Leo was changed by this encounter. He had helped someone. He had given hope and assurance, offered a friendly hand of love from the heart to assuage the grief of a woman who felt alone.
   “But she was just a scarecrow,” you protest.
   Was she?
   She was as real to Leo as every woman he had ever met.
   How many real people have I passed by as if they were but as scarecrows in the fields of life?
   How many Leo’s and Dorothy’s have each of us passed, leaving only a trail of dust to settle over them as our offering?
   Or have we sometimes stopped to listen to their stories, to learn from them what life can teach us from a different point of view?
   Perhaps we then find that it is ourselves who have come away with a new blessing and a new friendship.
   The End
   One scarecrow with two stories as different as Mars and Venus.
   He was ready to go ahead and email them to Mr. Franklin now, but he had the time so maybe he should sleep on the stories in case something changed.
   “I’ll offer them both to Mr. Franklin tomorrow, Tuesday. He will be happy with a choice of stories two days early,” Joseph thought.
   Who knows, Mr. Woodward, by Thursday you may have two more, the way things are going!
   Indeed he might! Tomorrow was the meeting with Don. If he advertised with The Bee, Joseph would be obligated to write the free story about Don’s Hardware.
   Tomorrow will be another day, but this moment is now. Good night, Mr. Woodward.
 
   Tuesday morning did come, and Joseph was had no reason not to send the articles to The Bee.
   No one knew he wrote the article about the birth of a child in a car on the side of the road. He was glad not to be questioned about who the woman was. Mrs. Rodgers could figure out who A Bee was, but he hoped it would not occur to her.
   He sent both articles on the one scarecrow to Mr. Franklin.
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