The Hand Pruner Mystery

The other day, Gavin and I were trimming the boxwood shrubs that line the walkway to the pavilion.  While he was excitedly using his new hedge trimmer, I was shuffling behind him picking up the fallen branches and throwing them onto the fire.

Back and forth from the walkway to the fire, I passed the bedraggled lawn jockey that ceaselessly held out his arm with no lantern to show for. This statue is also part of my childhood for it has stood the test of time since I can remember.

What happened next though, I still can’t explain.

On my next pass to the shrubs, I mentioned to Gavin that I wished I had a pair of hand pruners to snip off the bottom branches that he couldn’t reach.  The boxwoods looked great besides the few lower limbs that stuck out between the lining rock. Then on my way to the fire with an armful of branches I passed the lawn jockey yet again, but this time, there sat perfectly placed at the foot of him was a pair of rusted hand pruners. They weren’t Gavin’s or anyone else’s that had been out to the house. Where did they come from?

I was sure they weren’t there a minute ago.  I gingerly picked them up and told Gavin I felt as though my grandpa had put them there for me, happy that we were trimming up his forgotten yard. He replied, “Probably,” with a smile.

Later that evening I wondered if I imagined it all. Maybe they were sitting there the whole time and I just hadn’t noticed them. By the way the pruners looked, it seemed like they could have been out in the elements for some time.

To finally solve the mystery, I wanted proof. I remembered then that I had taken a picture of the lawn jockey only a week before. They must have been sitting there the whole time.  I scanned through my photos until I arrived at the one of the statue. At the base of where he stood,  it was empty.

Maybe my grandpa had put them there after all.