One Day With Clem

In late October 2002, my husband Steve decided to make a Halloween scarecrow for our daughter Annie. At four, she was old enough to look forward to trick-or-treating and to appreciate the decorations at our home: jack-o’-lanterns on the front porch railing, Indian corn tied to porch posts, and a yard display that featured a bale of straw garnished by mums, pumpkins, and striped gourds.

“We’ll need to find some clothes to put on the scarecrow,” Steve said, and the three of us searched through our bedroom closet to find a pair of Steve’s Pointer overalls and a red-and-gray flannel shirt. After he wired together two poplar saplings to form a frame he dressed it in his clothes, stuffing them with straw. He hammered the partially finished form into the yard beside our harvest display and then mounted a jack-o’-lantern at the top of the vertical pole. A straw hat embellished with a turkey feather, a pair of green work gloves, and a pair of high-top work boots completed the outfit. As a final effect, Steve stuck a pitchfork in the ground and positioned the scarecrow’s gloved fingers and thumb to grasp the handle.

“He looks like Feathertop!” Annie said as we stood back and surveyed Steve’s creation.

I had just been reading Annie the book Feathertop, which is based on a Nathaniel Hawthorne tale. Feathertop was the story of a witch’s scarecrow—his head a carved pumpkin and a rooster feather in his hat—who was magically transformed into an elegant young man.

“He does look like Feathertop,” I agreed. “But I don’t think he’ll turn into a man.”  

We called him Clem.

Annie enjoyed standing on our front porch and looking at Clem in the yard below. I think at first she was a little wary of the stout figure with the smiling jack-o’-lantern face, but she warmed to him quickly and was proud he was made especially for her.

We took pictures of Annie, wearing her orange sweat suit, and Clem. Annie’s beaming smile in these photographs showed her happiness as she posed with Clem: standing in front of him, her head just reaching his rounded belly; sitting on the straw bale close by him; and sitting cross-legged in the grass at his knee. 

That night before bed, Annie and I looked out our living room window to see Clem illuminated by the streetlight.

“Goodnight, Clem,” we said, and Annie added, “See you tomorrow!”

The next morning we stepped out onto our front porch.

“Where’s Clem?” Annie asked, looking at the deserted pitchfork.

“I don’t know, honey,” I said. Surely someone didn’t steal him, I thought.

We headed down the porch steps to the yard. Beside the straw bale two boots lay abandoned, and nearby on the trail that led up to our barn, we found Clem’s overalls and shirt, ripped and tossed in a heap. Farther up the trail, we discovered more remnants of Clem, including his head that had been cracked open and the fragments gnawed on.

“Poor Clem,” I said. 

When Steve came to inspect the scene, he said, “It was a bear that got him.”

Our home was in Western McDowell County, North Carolina, in a woodsy neighborhood where black bears had been seen. Within a short hiking distance was the Pisgah National Forest, which contained a bear sanctuary, indicated by signs posted on trees. In the past, one of our collies frequently came in contact with bears while on jaunts in the woods. Often he would return home, reeking with a pungent odor and wounded with a torn ear or lacerated muzzle. When Steve saw and smelled Laddie, he would say, “Laddie’s tangled with a bear again.”  

Though black bears were common in our section of the county, we didn’t anticipate such a brazen visit.

We were sad for Annie that she had lost her friend Clem so soon and in such a violent way. Thankfully, she took the loss in stride and was intrigued that a bear had come into our yard.

Though Clem wasn’t with us long—just a day in October—he was a scarecrow we will never forget.