Chapter 11
That afternoon, Noah left the shop for a little while after lunch so he could deliver the Secret Saint items to Mr. Peterson.
"You said this was from who?" Mr. Peterson said, leaning on his cane at the front door, looking at the bag of items that Noah carried in each hand.
"The Secret Saint. He's an anonymous person who donates to folks in town around Christmas time. You've heard of him."
"I sure have. But I don't understand how he knew that my children were coming in to eat, and I didn't have a lot of money to spend on groceries. How did that happen?"
Noah shrugged, waiting patiently until Mr. Peterson had rolled things over in his mind long enough, and then realized he was standing in the doorway.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be rude. Come on in."
"Thanks," Noah said, walking into the house. The living room was covered in photos of Mr. Peterson's late wife, who used to be the pianist at the church.
Maybe Mr. Peterson noticed Noah looking at the photos.
"It sure upset me when I heard that we weren't going to have the community Christmas concert this year.
My wife loved them so much, even the concerts that were a monthly thing there for a while back in the day.
People gathered in the square, and I remember seeing it filled with people standing shoulder to shoulder, enjoying the music on the stage.
My wife lived for those things. She picked the most popular music, and there was always some kind of spirit behind her playing, whatever it is that makes people sit up and listen and want more. "
"I remember. She was really good, and I loved sitting in the yard. My parents would always do a picnic in the summer months. It was something we would look forward to for weeks prior."
"Me too. It's too bad they went the way things go. I guess that happens. Progress and change, they say. I don't know that I call it progress as much as I call it regress."
Noah had set the bags on the kitchen table and got the cold things out so he could set them in the refrigerator.
"People carry their music around with them on their devices now," Noah said, knowing that Mr. Peterson probably had an opinion about that.
But that was why live concerts weren't really a thing anymore.
That, and there weren't a whole lot of people who were learning how to play instruments anymore either.
After all, why did one need to do that when, with a touch of a button, a person could have any instrument they wanted playing in their ear.
"That's sad. There's just something about a live concert that brings the community together. It gives everyone something to look forward to and a reason to gather together and talk to each other. We don't do that anymore."
Noah nodded, glad that they had brought the groceries, since Mr. Peterson's refrigerator was completely empty, other than a jug of milk that looked like it might have expired the week prior.
"It used to be that people loved doing those kinds of things.
Anymore, all we do is go to sports games and watch people chasing a ball around on a field.
Where's the class in that? It doesn't appeal to our higher side, it doesn't lift our spirits and bring glory to God.
It's just a bunch of men grunting around. "
Noah might not have agreed completely with Mr. Peterson, but the man was entitled to his opinion. And he was right about the arts being good for people and elevating them. Music did that in a way that he couldn't really explain.
Still, as he left Mr. Peterson's house and walked slowly back to his store, which he hadn't bothered to close—he'd just put a sign on the counter that said "Will be back in ten minutes"—he thought about how right Mr. Peterson was, and how.
.. Maybe he could create something even better than what they used to do. Then it would be progress.