I rolled up the door of unit 31, dreading the worst, 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.
Real particular that no one be added but him, the man had said, and now I understood, my Walter had a secret gift he was building for years, and a man who could not keep a Christmas surprise had to lock it away from his own blabbing self.
The man who would tell you your gift by Thanksgiving had a secret talent I never knew. For seventeen years, in that unit, my Walter 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.
His letter, on the workbench, read: Old girl, you know how I always loved music but never could afford a fine instrument. So I decided to build them myself. Took me years to learn. The one on the bench is for our granddaughter, who has music in her the way I always wished I had. I hid it all here and told the folks to add nobody but me, because you know I would have spoiled the surprise by Thanksgiving, I cannot help myself. 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, Walter.
I wept in that unit among my husbands hand-built instruments, the secret music of a man I thought I knew completely.
Particular that no one be added, because he could not keep the surprise otherwise, and he built these to be gifts.
I had one of Walters 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 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 Walters craftsmanship makes music in young hands all over the county.
My daughter did not know why I drove out to Route 11. Now she knows her daddy was a maker of music. Particular that no one be added, so the surprise would keep. His instruments sing now, in the hands of children. My quiet, gifted Walter plays on.