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 frogs. And jumping.

Mark Twain wrote "The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County." Never having been much of a Twain fan, I've never read it. But I never stopped to think that frog jumping had more of an impact on society than that story.

Then I came here.

I was desperate for something to do after I came up here. I was living in a variety of hotels at the time, as my apartment wasn't ready for me yet. So I couldn't distract myself with cleaning or shopping or decorating.

So I ended up at a frog jumping contest on a Thursday, surrounded by dozens of kids under 13 and their slimy green companions. And their patient, long-suffering parents, some of whom actually caught the frogs their kids were using in the contest.

I expected to walk into a brightly-lit gym, perhaps with the court divided up into lanes, with a kid eagerly holding his frog, waiting for the signal to release and let the little thing make its bid for freedom.

That, however, was not the case.

The hockey/lacrosse/soccer/whatever-else arena was dim and nearly empty. I walked in to find a group of parents and their children surrounding a circle about 15 feet in diameter. Each familial cluster had some kind of container alongside it. Every group had a bucket, tackle box, Tupperware, or even in one case a pink plastic hamper with a pig on it, holding at least one frog. Some kids had even decorated their containers with paint, glitter or stickers for the occasion. They were the ones who clearly did this often. And they were really into it.

They had strategies - picking a certain size frog. Some preferred using the straw to blow, some slapped the ground to get them to move. Some poked the poor captive's rumps when the judges weren't looking (that's against the rules).

The kids - and their frogs - went one at a time. The children had to coax their frogs to leap out of the circle faster than any other frog in the age group. There was a time limit, which was good, because some frogs had no interest in moving, no matter how hard their captors slapped or blew. And some kids, adorably, just froze up once they found themselves in the limelight, away from the shelter of Mom's or Dad's legs in the crowd of strangers.

At the end of the event, which took a couple hours, there was an awards ceremony. It was kind of cute - they had prizes and trophies with little rubber frogs on top. Of course, no trophy manufacturer makes such things. The organizers get them made specially by a trophy shop where the owner is willing to go out and buy frogs (think rubber duckies but a different species) to glue on top of the pedestals.

After the whole crazy spectacle, the kids were reminded to let their frogs go where they were caught. As opposed, I guess, to throwing a barbecue of frog legs.