Madness in the streets. Bodies everywhere. Orange-skinned people clambering over each other to reach higher ground. A soulless, undead band begins to play music without melody. Welcome to Meaford, Ontario, the Land of the Dead. We like weird shit!
I recently took a trip to Meaford with my girlfriend. My bladder was bursting by the time we arrived, but luckily Meaford has at least one toilet. Once the matter of urination had been cleared up, it was time to roam. We were there to visit the annual scarecrow festival/odd bizarre tradition.
First we came across this man who seemed to have a hard time breathing:
He was very blue. Said his wife had left him.
Next we came upon a statue to a very important person. Winston Churchill? The Unknown Soldier? Margaret Atwood? Nope, nope, nope.
Schubird! Schubird the Scarecrow and Full-Time Children Terrifier. But look, he’s so little! (I also just now got the joke. If you haven’t got it, it’s hilarious. His name is like “Shoo, bird!” Because he’s a SCARECROW. Meaford likes scarecrows).
We continued on, and were actually joined by a couple other tourists (meaning we weren’t the only ones who thought this oddness was picture worthy).
Next we came upon this scene of quiet desperation:
The pithy. The Arrogance of Man. Was this poor soul perhaps searching for the proverbial “needle in a haystack?” I wondered, as we passed, if I was so very different from him. But, then again, of course I was. He was just a pair of jeans stuffed with hay with boots on top. I checked my limbs for straw. So far, I was clean.
The street was a panorama of desperation, catastrophe, and a lingering sense of unease.
Help, they screamed, though they had no voices.
Don’t let go, they whispered, though they could not move…
Why must we suffer? they asked, but no one could answer.
All in all, though I felt for the scarecrows, they couldn’t be saved. The fools had ventured into the human world and now they were paying the price. Should have stuck to scaring crows and making porch appearances on Halloween. We left them in their uncanny poses of mortal toil.
Of course, our trip was not over just because the scarecrows were. Meaford had a few more things to offer, like a beautiful beach, (which I of course opted to not take a picture of) a film festival, (with less films in it than you have saved on your phone) and a little gem of a park with a reassuring name and a big-ass chair.
We tried to defend this man’s last name. “Maybe it’s French?” my girlfriend said. We both suspected the name was not French.
But look at that big red chair!
If you’re interested, here’s a link to the Meaford Scarecrow Invasion. Definitely worth a visit. You can even meet a scarecrow!