Speaker 1: Welcome to bedtime Stories for Everyone, in which nothing much happens.
Speaker 1: You'll feel good and then you fall asleep. I'm Katherine Nikolai.
Speaker 1: I read and write all the stories you hear on
Speaker 1: Nothing Much Happens with audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. We
Speaker 1: give to a different charity each week, and this week
Speaker 1: we are giving to the Save the Music Foundation, helping kids, schools,
Speaker 1: and communities realize their full potential through the power of
Speaker 1: making music. Learn more about them in our show notes.
Speaker 1: Our stories are meant to ease you to sleep, but
Speaker 1: they can also really help to you during the day,
Speaker 1: to soothe a way anxiety, shift your mood, and just
Speaker 1: for the enjoyment of a soft story with no conflict.
Speaker 1: In fact, we made a whole show for it. It's
Speaker 1: called Stories from the Village of Nothing Much. It's free
Speaker 1: and you can find it on whatever app you are
Speaker 1: listening to now. We just released an episode of Marmalade
Speaker 1: and Crumb stories. I tell them in a more lively voice,
Speaker 1: and Bob creates a beautiful soundscape to go with them.
Speaker 1: Find more about Stories from the Village of Nothing Much,
Speaker 1: as well as our premium channels through the links in
Speaker 1: our show notes. Now, here's how this works. If we
Speaker 1: can ace you your mind just enough, we can rock
Speaker 1: it to sleep. That's sort of what This is. A
Speaker 1: lullaby for your thinking mind. All you have to do
Speaker 1: is attend, listen, follow along with the sound of my voice,
Speaker 1: and we will get there. If you're new to this,
Speaker 1: know that it is a kind of conditioning. It improves
Speaker 1: with regular use, so be patient, keep tuning in. I'll
Speaker 1: tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower
Speaker 1: on the second read through. If you wake again in
Speaker 1: the night, don't hesitate to turn a story right back on.
Speaker 1: Most people fall back to sleep again within sane seconds.
Speaker 1: Our story tonight is called Piano Lessons, and it's a
Speaker 1: story about a well loved, upright piano and the boy
Speaker 1: who plays it. It's also about a little cottage where
Speaker 1: Ivy grows up the bricks, middle c lesson books and
Speaker 1: metronomes and finding the things that feel like they were
Speaker 1: always meant for you. Now, let's get comfortable. In fact,
Speaker 1: make supreme comfort your number one priority. Right now, the
Speaker 1: right pillow, the blanket just where you like it, and
Speaker 1: let your muscles so often and relax. You have done
Speaker 1: enough for the day. Truly it is enough. You can
Speaker 1: stop now, draw a deep breath in through the nose,
Speaker 1: and sigh from your mouth. One more in and out.
Speaker 1: Good piano lessons. The bright spring sunshine was helping me
Speaker 1: find the dust that needed clearing out in our house.
Speaker 1: It always startles me that first sunny day when you
Speaker 1: open the front door and pull back the curtains and
Speaker 1: suddenly the air is filled with floating specks, the floorboards
Speaker 1: crowded with dust bunnies big enough to pass for tumbleweeds.
Speaker 1: So I'd been working my way through the front room,
Speaker 1: running my dust cloth over the family photos on the bookshelves,
Speaker 1: the lamp in the front window, the broad lid of
Speaker 1: the piano. I noticed it was the least dusty thing
Speaker 1: in the room, and I guess I wasn't surprised at that.
Speaker 1: My youngest plays it nearly every day. We'd come across
Speaker 1: the piano a couple of years before at a neighborhood
Speaker 1: garage sale. I still remember the way my son's eyes
Speaker 1: had gone wide when he'd seen it. He was a
Speaker 1: quiet boy. There was a lot of magic inside of him,
Speaker 1: and sometimes it stayed inside, but when he played, it
Speaker 1: came out, and I got to enjoy it along with him.
Speaker 1: The piano had come home the next day, a rather
Speaker 1: complicated arrangement involving a borrowed truck, several friends, planks of
Speaker 1: wood salvaged from the garage, and a not inconsiderable amount
Speaker 1: of effort, But it had all been worth it. We'd
Speaker 1: polished up the cabinet and the bench, the bottom of
Speaker 1: which was about to fall out from all the scores
Speaker 1: and lesson books it had come with. I'd organized the
Speaker 1: lot of them into boxes he could work his way
Speaker 1: through as his lessons progressed. Then I repaired the bench itself,
Speaker 1: and now it held his first few books and performance pieces.
Speaker 1: The piano had been badly in need of a tune
Speaker 1: up when it came home, and my son had found
Speaker 1: the process fascinating. He's often shy around new people, but
Speaker 1: he'd met a kindred spirit and the woman who'd come
Speaker 1: with a bag of tools to attend to the piano.
Speaker 1: He'd watched as she'd opened up the soundboard and taken
Speaker 1: her hammer, wrench and tuning key from her bag. She'd
Speaker 1: patiently explained what she was doing as she isolated middle
Speaker 1: c tuned it and set the pin. Then they'd worked
Speaker 1: their way through the keys, playing, listening needs strings, or
Speaker 1: loosening them. He had an ear for it, could hear
Speaker 1: when a note was even just a fraction flat or sharp,
Speaker 1: and he could name a note just by hearing it.
Speaker 1: He knew it the same way I could tell an
Speaker 1: orange cran from a red, with no hesitation and a
Speaker 1: little confusion as to why others struggled to do the same.
Speaker 1: The tuner came every six months, and he had it
Speaker 1: marked down on the calendar on the fridge, and would
Speaker 1: meet her at the door and reach for her tools,
Speaker 1: slinging the strap of her bag over his own little shoulder.
Speaker 1: He'd played his first recital last year, and the man
Speaker 1: who owned the piano last, who had kindly given it
Speaker 1: to us in exchange for an invitation to that recital,
Speaker 1: had attended and sat proudly beside us. He'd taken pictures
Speaker 1: and then listened to the music with his eyes closed,
Speaker 1: a soft smile on his face. He'd also come for Thanksgiving,
Speaker 1: and when the tables were full and we were beginning
Speaker 1: to run out of seats, he'd mentioned that his wife
Speaker 1: had always pulled up the piano bench when they needed
Speaker 1: an extra spot. For someone. I looked at my son,
Speaker 1: thinking he might not want anyone else sitting on his bench.
Speaker 1: He'd leaned in close to my ear and whispered that
Speaker 1: he could share the bench if it was with our
Speaker 1: new friend. The two of them would fit, so we'd
Speaker 1: move chairs around and they'd sat side by side, eating
Speaker 1: their sweet potatoes and stuffing. During the school year, he
Speaker 1: just had one lesson a week. There were lots of
Speaker 1: other things to do, ways to play, and I wanted
Speaker 1: him to have time to go to the library, to
Speaker 1: ride his bike, to play video games with his friends,
Speaker 1: and days when he had nothing scheduled at all. Now
Speaker 1: that summer was coming, I'd left it up to him.
Speaker 1: Did he want to play more piano, maybe have lessons
Speaker 1: twice a week. He'd sat quiet for a minute or
Speaker 1: two thinking it through, then nodded. Twice a week sounded
Speaker 1: good to him. His piano teacher lived in a little
Speaker 1: cottage in a pretty neighborhood north of town. Ivy grew
Speaker 1: up the brick beside her front porch, and in the
Speaker 1: yard was a small carved sign saying piano lessons. She
Speaker 1: had come to our house a few times, but I
Speaker 1: think we both liked going to her house instead. There
Speaker 1: was a very comfortable space. She'd been a musician for years,
Speaker 1: and her mantle was covered with pictures of her in
Speaker 1: her youth, outside theaters and concert venues, pointing up to
Speaker 1: her own name on the marquee, or crowded around a
Speaker 1: microphone with others in a recording studio. When we showed
Speaker 1: up on her front porch, him with his practice books
Speaker 1: under his arm, me with whatever novel I'd been reading lately,
Speaker 1: she'd opened the door and stepped back to let us in,
Speaker 1: and it felt like being allowed into a sanctuary. Inside
Speaker 1: the floors were laid with thick rugs, but I guessed
Speaker 1: were knotted by hand somewhere far away. The air smelled
Speaker 1: of sandal wood and green tea, and her furniture was
Speaker 1: beautiful and comfortable. Her front window held creeping pathos and
Speaker 1: a healthy asparagus fern. Here was a woman who had
Speaker 1: built a life she loved, who knew how to protect
Speaker 1: her peace. We were there for him, for him to
Speaker 1: take lessons from her, but I often felt I was
Speaker 1: learning as well, mentally taking notes. As I settled onto
Speaker 1: a sofa out of the way, they'd open the books
Speaker 1: on the stand and he'd warm up his fingers playing
Speaker 1: through scales and exercises. I loved watching him set the metronome,
Speaker 1: sliding the swinging arm out from behind its stopper, adjusting
Speaker 1: the tempo and letting it tick, then watching him tap
Speaker 1: his toe which barely reached the ground, to find a rhythm.
Speaker 1: I'd prop my novel open on my lap, read a
Speaker 1: few words, listen to his playing the quiet discussion. The
Speaker 1: spring recital was going to be at the Inn by
Speaker 1: the Lake this year, on their big back porch, where
Speaker 1: he'd help turn pages for his teacher while she played
Speaker 1: for a wedding the September before. I imagined him playing
Speaker 1: the music echoing over the water, the birds stopping to
Speaker 1: listen along with us, me holding tightly to a bouquet
Speaker 1: of flowers to hand to him. After not everything we
Speaker 1: try when we are young or when we are grown
Speaker 1: suits us. I was so glad that we'd found something
Speaker 1: that suited him so well. Piano lessons. The bright spring
Speaker 1: sunshine was helping me find the dust that needed clearing
Speaker 1: out in our house. It always startles me that first
Speaker 1: sunny day when you open the front door and pull
Speaker 1: back the curtains and suddenly the air is filled with
Speaker 1: floating specks, the floor boards crowded with dust bunnies big
Speaker 1: enough to pass for tumbleweeds. So I'd been working my
Speaker 1: way through the front room, running my dust cloth over
Speaker 1: the family photos on the bookshelves, the lamp in the
Speaker 1: front window, and the broad lid of the piano. As
Speaker 1: I did, I noticed it was the least dusty thing
Speaker 1: in the room, and I guess I wasn't surprised at that.
Speaker 1: My youngest plays it nearly every day. We'd come across
Speaker 1: the piano a couple of years before at a neighborhood
Speaker 1: garage sale. I still remember the way my son's eyes
Speaker 1: had gone wide when he'd seen it. He was a
Speaker 1: quiet boy. There was a lot of magic inside him,
Speaker 1: and sometimes it stayed inside, but when he played, it
Speaker 1: came out, and I got to enjoy it along with him.
Speaker 1: The piano had come home the next day, a rather
Speaker 1: complicated arrangement involving a borrowed truck, several friends, planks of
Speaker 1: wood salvaged from the garage, and a not inconsiderable amount
Speaker 1: of effort, but it had all been worth it. We
Speaker 1: polished up the cabinet and bench, wh the bottom of
Speaker 1: which was about to fall out from all the scores
Speaker 1: and lesson books it had come with. I'd organized the
Speaker 1: lot of them into boxes he could work his way
Speaker 1: into as his lessons progressed. Then I repaired the bench itself.
Speaker 1: Now it held his first few books and performance pieces.
Speaker 1: The piano had been badly in need of a tune
Speaker 1: up when it came home, and my son had found
Speaker 1: the process fascinating. He's often shy around new people, but
Speaker 1: he'd met a kindred spirit in the woman who'd come
Speaker 1: with a bag of tools to attend to the piano.
Speaker 1: He'd watched as she'd opened up the soundboard and taken
Speaker 1: her hammer, wrench and tuning key from her bag. She'd
Speaker 1: patiently explained what she was doing as she isolated middle
Speaker 1: c tuned it, and set the pin. Then they'd worked
Speaker 1: their way through the keys, playing, listening, tightening strings, or
Speaker 1: loosening them. Had an ear for it, could hear when
Speaker 1: a note was even just a fraction flat or sharp,
Speaker 1: and he could name a note just by hearing it.
Speaker 1: He knew it in the same way I could tell
Speaker 1: an orange crayon from red with no hesitation and a
Speaker 1: little confusion as to why others struggled to do the same.
Speaker 1: The tuner came every six months, and he had it
Speaker 1: marked down on the calendar on the fridge, and would
Speaker 1: meet her at the door and reach for her tools,
Speaker 1: slinging the strap of her bag over his own little shoulder.
Speaker 1: He'd played his first recital last year, and the man
Speaker 1: who'd owned the piano last who'd kindly given it to
Speaker 1: us in exchange for an invitation to that recital, had
Speaker 1: attended and sat proudly beside us. He'd taken pictures and
Speaker 1: then listened to the music with his eyes closed and
Speaker 1: a soft smile on his face. He'd also come for Thanksgiving,
Speaker 1: and when the tables were full and we were beginning
Speaker 1: to run out of seats, he'd mentioned that his wife
Speaker 1: had always pulled up the piano bench when they'd needed
Speaker 1: an extra spot for someone. I'd looked at my son,
Speaker 1: thinking he might not want anyone else sitting on his bench.
Speaker 1: He'd leaned in close to my ear and whispered that
Speaker 1: he could share the bench if it was with our
Speaker 1: new friend. The two of them would fit. So we'd
Speaker 1: moved chairs around and they'd sat side by side, eating
Speaker 1: their sweet potatoes and stuffing. During the school year, he'd
Speaker 1: had just one lesson a week. There were lots of
Speaker 1: other things to do, ways to play, and I wanted
Speaker 1: him to have time to go to the library, to
Speaker 1: ride his bike, to play video games with his friends,
Speaker 1: and days when he had nothing scheduled at all. Now
Speaker 1: that summer was coming, but left it up to him.
Speaker 1: Did he want to play more piano, maybe have lessons
Speaker 1: twice a week. He'd sat quiet for a minute or
Speaker 1: two thinking it through, then nodded. Twice a week sounded
Speaker 1: good to him. His piano teacher lived in a little
Speaker 1: cottage in a pretty neighborhood north of town. Ivy grew
Speaker 1: up the brick beside her front porch, and in the
Speaker 1: yard was a small carved sign saying piano lessons. She
Speaker 1: had come to our house a few times, but I
Speaker 1: think we both liked going to her house instead. It
Speaker 1: was a very comfortable space. She'd been a musician for years,
Speaker 1: and her mantle was covered with pictures of her in
Speaker 1: her youth, outside theaters and concert venues, pointing up to
Speaker 1: her own name on the marquee, or crowded around a
Speaker 1: microphone with others in recording studios. When we showed up
Speaker 1: on her front porch, him with his practice books under
Speaker 1: his arm, me with whatever novel I'd been reading lately.
Speaker 1: She'd open the door and stepped back to let us in,
Speaker 1: and it felt like being allowed into a sanctuary. Inside,
Speaker 1: the flowers were laid with thick rugs that I guessed
Speaker 1: were knotted by hand somewhere far away. The air smelled
Speaker 1: of sandal wood and green tea, and her furniture was
Speaker 1: beautiful and comfortable. Her front window held creeping pathos and
Speaker 1: a healthy asparagus fern. Here was a woman who had
Speaker 1: built a life she loved, who knew how to protect
Speaker 1: her peace. We were there for him, for him to
Speaker 1: take lessons from her, but I often felt like I
Speaker 1: was learning as well, mentally taking notes as I settled
Speaker 1: onto a sofa out of the way. The recital was
Speaker 1: going to be at the Inn by the Lake this year,
Speaker 1: on their big back porch, where he'd help turn pages
Speaker 1: for his teacher while she'd played for a wedding the
Speaker 1: september before. I imagined him playing, the music echoing over
Speaker 1: the water, the birds stopping to listen along with us,
Speaker 1: ME holding tightly to a bouquet of flowers to hand
Speaker 1: to him after not everything we try when we are
Speaker 1: young or when we are grown suits us I was
Speaker 1: so glad we'd found something that suited him so well.
Speaker 1: Sweet Dreams