I rolled up the door of unit 22, dreading the worst, and the cool air rolled out, and the light fell on instruments. Guitars, a mandolin, a fiddle, and one gleaming, half-finished instrument on a workbench, along with fine tools and curls of fragrant wood shavings.
I stood in that doorway, my dread turning to wonder.
Couldnt take the heat or the cold, the woman had said, and now it made perfect sense, fine tonewood warps and cracks with every swing in heat and humidity, a luthiers instruments must be kept climate-steady, and my Gerald had been building instruments by hand.
The man who told me when he changed a light bulb had a secret gift I never knew. For thirteen years, in that climate-controlled room, my Gerald had been teaching himself to build stringed instruments, beautiful ones, from raw wood, by hand.
His notebooks were a craftsmans loving logs, sketches and measurements and notes on how the wood must be kept, never too hot, never too dry, or the instruments would ruin.
His letter, on the workbench, read: Old girl, you know how I always loved music but never could afford a fine instrument. Well, I decided to build them myself. Took me years to learn. Wood is a living thing, it hates the heat and the cold, so I keep them steady here. The one on the bench is nearly done. It is for our granddaughter, who has music in her the way I always wished I had. Finish it for her if I could not, and put an instrument in the hands of every grandchild who wants one. Music is the best thing I know. Love, Gerald.
I wept in that cool room among my husbands hand-built instruments, the secret music of a man I thought I knew completely.
Couldnt take the heat or the cold, because fine wood is delicate, and Gerald built with the patience of true love.
I had one of Geralds fellow woodworkers finish the guitar on the bench, exactly to his notes, and we gave it to our granddaughter. She plays it every day now, and she says she can feel her grandfather in the wood.
His other instruments I gave to grandchildren and to a music school for children who cannot afford one, so Geralds craftsmanship makes music in young hands all over town.
My son did not know why I drove out toward the airport. Now he knows his daddy was a maker of music. Couldnt take the heat or the cold, because he built delicate, beautiful things by hand. His instruments sing now, in the hands of children. My quiet, gifted Gerald plays on.