One year we moved next door to a very elderly couple. I
figured they were about a hundred years old. Give or take. Mr. Twitchell shuffled
with a lean. Mrs. Twitchell also walked with a lean, and a shuffle.
The day they came over to welcome us into the neighbourhood I
watched them scuffle along the sidewalk. Took them about fifteen minutes. Then another
ten to get to the door. Mr. Twitchell wobbled a bit on the front steps. Mrs. Twitchell
held his hand.
He told me he was the retired Scissor King of Ruby Falls.”Next town over”, he said. “
Population 500 about 50 years ago.”
Mr. Twitchell had designed and made scissors most of his
life. When we moved in that day they
gave us a pack ofabout twenty different kinds.
He was especially proud of his red-handled pair that he and his wife used to
prune things with.
They were avid gardeners apparently. Spent all the nice
afternoons outside.
The Twitchells both had three legged gardening stools. Their
favourite thing to do was to place them at opposite ends of the front lawn . Then
they each took a pair of scissors and cut the edges as close to the driveway as
possible.That was their gardening. This activity would take most of the
morning. Mrs.Twitchell would have to help Mr. Twitchell up. He would teeter and
totter about till he got his bearings.
She would move the stools into the garage, then they’d hold
hands getting back into their little house.
In the summer, Mrs. Twitchell put a straight back chair on
the front lawn by the overgrown bushes
under the cherry trees, thick with fruit. She’d
guide Mr. Twitchell to the chair and give him a pair of scissors. He’d trim and
cut those bushes till they were carved down into round balls.
He’d fall asleep in the shade. We always saw him, sitting up,
scissors dangling from his weathered hand. The bees buzzed around him in the warmth
of the day. Mrs. Twitchell woke him by placing a hand on his shoulder. She always
had two iced teas. He sat on his chair,
and she sat on one of the stools. She’d
hold his hand.
One day, Mrs. Twitchell decided to cut her husband’s hair. It
was getting long.He once again sat on the straight back chair, while she took
her gardening scissors, with the red handles, and hacked at his locks. He fell
asleep. She continued on, scattering the spent grey hair far and wide. For the
birds to find. For their nests.
Sometime later, in the fall, at a Block Watch meeting they
started a campaign to rid the neighbourhood of peanuts. They said they knew
someone was plying the local Blue Jays with the kind that had shells. They wanted
that someone caught. It was making a mess of their front lawn. There was even a sign up sheet. Everyone who
signed got a pair of scissors. I heard,
via the grapevine, they had boxes and
boxes of scissors in their garage. Leftover from when he retired a million
years ago from Ruby Falls.
I never did sign their
petition. Nor did I offer information about who was secretly hoarding peanuts for
the Blue Jays. They never did catch the person responsible. Good thing. I had a
huge bag of peanuts to get rid of…..
That Christmas, Mr. and Mrs. Twitchell had a party for the
neighbours. We were all squashed into their house like sardines on toast. He gave out nail scissors in little boxes tied with red ribbon. They offered tea and coffee, fruitcake that
looked like it had been in the freezer for about thirty years, and bowls of
peanuts. “Found a bag on our front door step,” said Mr. Twitchell. Everyone
sang carols. Everyone ate peanuts and old fruitcake.
In the spring, Mrs. Twitchell once again shuffled out the
straight back chair to the front lawn, as soon as the weather was nice. He had
his gardening scissors with him. He was tired this day, but he sat in the shade, in the warm afternoon. Mrs. Twitchell cut his hair. She threw his
locks to the wind.
Mr. Twitchell fell
asleep in his chair, with cherry blossoms falling over him. Mrs. Twitchell sat
beside him, with her hand in his, while he slept on into twilight……
What a great story! Wish I had met them. Xo
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