Scarecrows ... or BUDDYcrows??

At least a month ago, I was driving around the north country, and happened to pass a farm - not, in itself, surprising - that was swarming with guys putting up scarecrows. But they weren't putting them up in the fields, in the hopes of scaring away deer or crows or whatever other animals plague farmers. They were arranging them in scenes - painting the barn or sitting next to it or looking at other scarecrows and one clearly about to fall off his ladder.

Needless to say, I was amused. And curious. And then life got in the way and I forgot all about it.

Then that farm and I crossed paths again, and I stopped to see what was going on. In addition to a great story, I met some of the kindest people I've ever met in my life.

It seems to be a theme here that despite having a slight - and hopefully benign - superiority complex, I somehow get sucked into the culture up here and end up loving it. Well, this farm and the people creating a whole new city of scarecrows were no exception.

It was a Friday afternoon and I was all about going home and getting my weekend started right, but I ended up hanging out with the Maslins for at least two hours. And trekking all over their fields in two-and-a-half-inch heels. Because I'm really good at planning, sometimes.

But I digress. In my two hours hanging out with this family - which consists of five sons and six grandchildren - I really felt like I became part of them. They were telling me all about themselves - their past, which is colorful, to say the least. And how Andy Sr.'s wife died tragically and suddenly of cancer over the summer and how all they want to do is make people happy. But people say that all the time and you can tell they don't mean it. The Maslins do.

To that end, Andy Sr. takes all the crap he's accumulated over the years - he's a pack rat to the nth degree - and makes games and attractions out of it. So the old exercise equipment becomes a couple scarecrows working out at an outdoor gym. And a bunch of old saws become an exhibit on wood chopping through the years, as demonstrated by scarecrows. And an old washing machine and a big tub are a history lesson about dirty laundry.

Scarecrows are sitting or leaning on fences along the path of the wagon ride - I thought one looked like Tom Sawyer and a friend thought another looked like it had drank too much tequila. Both observations delighted Andy, because he wants people to come up with stories about these silly hay-stuffed people dressed in old clothes he couldn't bear to throw away. So much so that he's been talking to a writer about doing a children's book about his buddycrows, as he calls them. So named because he doesn't believe in all the scary stuff that has come to be synonymous with Halloween.

The next week, Andy called me to thank me for coming out and talking to them. He then told me that I should consider myself a part of the family and feel free to come over and hang out with them whenever I want. I've already done it a few times, and had a great time both times I saw them.

When my friend Kaitlyn went over to do a story about Scarecrow Fantasyland, Andy sent her home with a box of organic apples and pears for the two of us to share, since she mentioned we were friends, and a similar invitation to be a part of the family.

I also can't wait to go back and see the site, now that it's all completed. I'm most excited for the corn maze. The Maslins, of course, were amazed when I told them I'd never been in a cornfield before. I wonder if I'll meet Shoeless Joe Jackson.

Things like this would never happen downstate.

Of smiles. And strangers.

As my mother is from Yonkers and my father from Long Island, I am not used to friendly strangers. I know all about the "You talkin' ta Me?" guido with the pinky ring and more hair than is quite natural. I understand him. I see him coming and promptly look at the ground, in case my heel gets stuck in a grate. Or, more likely, I trip over something.

So it was strange to me when I got up here to discover that people say hello to strangers on the sidewalk. Of course, the towns up here are so small that no one really stays a stranger for long, and odds are good that you will bump into someone you know every time you go to the gas station. Because you know there's only one or two in each town.

Nor to people lock their doors - of either houses or cars. My landlord's fiancee never locks her house door. And when the two of them go to Florida for the winter, she leaves her car unlocked, with the keys inside! I lock my car when I'm running into Stewart's for ice cream. And there's no one else in the parking lot.

But here, they trust each other. In fact, they have no reason not to - the only crime up here is drunk driving. And drug smuggling.

I live next door to a bait shop, run by a really nice guy. He rents out the apartment above the shop to fishermen - or anglers, as some prefer to be known. There are these two guys from the Bronx - or maybe Brooklyn, I can't remember - and they are like fish out of water up here, if you'll forgive the pun. But they come up a few times a year. They've already been here twice since I moved in. One morning, I was hanging out outside on the communal patio furniture, and one of them came out to throw some trash away. I decided to take the leap into north country culture and said hello. And like any normal southern new yorker, he looked askance at me and muttered "hi" while looking into the trash can as if he expected to find buried treasure. Later, when I actually met him, I called him out on it and he was properly embarrassed. Quite funny. But I didn't blame him.

My neighbor downstairs, however, simply does not understand their reticence. This is the woman who bakes every week for friends and neighbors, even though she and her boyfriend both hate sweets. She is going to buy pumpkins, hay bales, and corn stalks to decorate our little communal patio area for Halloween, her favorite holiday. She loves people, says hi to everyone who walks by and constantly tries to set me up with her son. But I digress. We were sitting outside one afternoon and got to talking about the Bronx/Brooklyn guys and she just didn't understand that where they're from, you simply don't talk to strangers. I tried to explain it to her - we just inherently don't trust other people. She looked at me like I was crazy. I just laughed and told her she's been living up here too long.