Elias Gaines was a man of few words and fewer faults. Naturally, as a farmer, the idea of wasting energy in fruitless ventures was akin to wasting energy in slothful languish. Elias Gaines did much of what any farmer did, he woke with the sun, worked himself to the quick, and went to bed as the sun did.
His good wife, Amelia, cared very much for him, often working herself through the house just as hard as Elias did in the fields. Yet no matter how hard she worked, she could never keep up. Even as a young newly wedded bride, she could feel the dark shudders of cold much harder than they ever could have been. When she passed, Elias found her laying in the pantry.
Elias never really talked much before his wife passed and after, his lips remained just as welded shut as they had been if not more so. He went about the chores as usual, he went about his life as usual, and yet rarely did he spend time at the pub. Rarely did he spend time at church in spite of Father Logan’s insistence. Rarely did Elias receive mail, but when he did, it was always packages from France.
While post from France was hardly news worthy, it was for a small farming town in Texas. He never said much when he picked his mail up from the post office but simply smiled. Each package was a small smile, a gift to grace us from the hard, sun-scorched skin of the old farmer. His aged, callous, and worry-worn hands gripping the edges of the packages. Fingers inspecting the edges for damage, identifying any faults in the surface, and when satisfied, he would always nod and thank us, thank the world for his gift. It was always a strange moment when he left the room with his package. It was as if we had missed some strange joke that the old man had played on us.
It was rumored that the packages were letters from some long-lost love. Gifts from a French gendarme who he saved the life of in the trenches at the Somme was another story. Another story was each package was a painting from a French artist he patronizing.
Each story, although riveting, was far from the truth. The truth was far less interesting, far more mundane, and when that truth came out, the townsfolk could only nod and smile.
Every day, after tending the fields, fixing his tools, going into town, making dinner, and after finally kicking off his boots Elias sat in his living room and listened to the sound of Mozart. His antique phonograph softly filling that old farm house with the sound of masterful violins, enchanting piano, and the gentle notes of woodwinds that floated from across the sea into Elias’ eager and overjoyed ears. Each night he would choose from his collection, choose a master of music and enjoy their craft to their fullest extent. Handel, Chopin, Mozart, Beethoven, Bach, Schubert, Brahms, Debussy, Tchaikovsky. A wall of his house had grown fat with their collected works, shelves packed to sagging with vinyl records for his enjoyment, and enjoy them Elias did.
Elias passed with a soft smile at his lips and his record player skipping on the last line of Chopin. His house filled with the crackle of the needle, covered in dust from France and Texas, and yet still, this farmhouse might have rivaled the grandest of conservatories.
