Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - The Piano

Episode Date: May 15, 2023

Our story tonight is called The Piano and it’s a story about an out-of-tune instrument ready for a new owner. It’s also about birds with glimmering feathers, an old Victorian house full of treasures, and a friendship formed from an act of generosity. We give to a different charity each week. This week we are giving to the janegoodallinstitute.org. They find practical ways to make the greatest lasting impact on people, animals, and the environment. Subscribe to our ad-free and bonus feeds at nothingmuchhappens.com.Purchase Our Book: https://bit.ly/Nothing-Much-HappensSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Everyone, in which nothing much happens. You feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Catherine Nicolai. I read and write all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. We give to a different charity each week, and this week we are giving to the Jane Goodall Institute at janegoodallinstitute.org.

They find practical ways to make the greatest lasting impact for people, animals, and the environment. Find a link in our show notes. Did you know that we have a YouTube channel? Well, we do. And our bedtime story videos all have closed captioning, so they are a lovely way for deaf and hard of hearing folks to use the podcast we also have a daytime channel where you can listen to my meditation show first this and a series of episodes that Bob has compiled, which consist entirely of bloopers and goofs from my recording sessions. Just search Nothing Much Happens on YouTube or click the link in our show notes. Now, your brain needs something to focus on in order for you to fall asleep.

And when the something is simple and pleasant and relaxing, bedtime becomes something you look forward to. So that's what my stories are. Just soft places to rest your mind. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake later in the night, you can just listen again, or try thinking your way through any of the enjoyable details. Now, it's time. Your day is over, and deep rest lays ahead of you. Set everything down and get as comfortable as you can.

I'll be here, a voice in the darkness, to watch over you and guard you as you sleep. Take a deep breath in through your nose. And let it out with a soft sigh. One more in. And out. Good.

Our story tonight is called The Piano. And it's a story about an out-of-tune instrument ready for a new owner. It's also about birds with glimmering feathers, an old Victorian house full of treasures, and a friendship formed from an act of generosity. The Piano an act of generosity. The piano. It had been almost a year since we'd brought it home, and now we had a promise to keep. It had all started at the neighborhood rummage sale last year. We'd been meandering along the sidewalks,

stopping to look at comic books and pretty old faces and pruning shears when we heard there was a piano for sale. Not out on the street, obviously, but in the front room of a big old Victorian that I'd frankly always wanted to see inside of. As soon as he heard the word piano, my little boy squeezed my hand. He looked up at me with excited, wide eyes. He wasn't the type of kid to beg for something he wanted.

He didn't jump up and down and tug on my arm. He was a quiet kid. But when he found something he was interested in, he became enthralled by every part of it. When he was younger, he'd developed a love for trains. That was all-encompassing. He knew the mechanical differences between engines that hadn't run on tracks for decades. And we checked out every single train book in the library.

Until we'd gone through them all, and the librarian kindly ordered us more. Then, once his brain had finally gotten enough of trains, he fell in love with birds, and we started birding on the weekends. He knew the names and songs of so many, and could spot them with his young eyes better than I could. I told him about the birds of paradise living in Indonesia and Papua New Guinea and eastern Australia, and how their plumage is like no other birds we know, how they dance and make beautiful spectacles of their iridescent feathers,

and soon he could pick out most of the 45 species just by their pictures. His brain amazed me. And it reminded me of how excited I could become when I was his age. For some new genre of interesting thing. It made me wonder if I had forgotten as I'd grown older, to find new passions, to unabashedly give in to curiosities and interests. Hobbies, right? There was supposed to be time to have them and enjoy them.

He inspired me to make the time. And lately, he'd been talking about music. We'd seen someone playing piano in the center of the mall. A big, shiny, grand piano. And the sound had been majestic and electric to him. He'd watched videos about how pianos work and could explain how they were tuned.

He liked to talk about the hammers and strings and the damper and pedals. Then, a month ago, his class had taken a field trip to hear the symphony, and he'd been annoyed at the other kids talking over the music, but otherwise ecstatic to feel all those vibrations thrumming through him. He'd talked about the big timpani drums and giant harp that he'd seen tipped into the hands of the harpist to be plucked. All things considered, I thought logistically a piano would be the most manageable for all of us. So that day, when we heard about the used one,

and he'd squeezed my hand, I hoped it would be within our budget. I wanted to give it to him. We'd gone up onto the front porch and knocked lightly on the screen door. We could see the piano in its place, with family photos balanced on its lid, a piece of sheet music on the rack.

We heard some shuffling and a man came into view older and moving a bit slowly but with a big smile on his face. Come in, come in, he called and we pushed the screen open and stepped into the front room it had tall ceilings and shiny dark wood floors

I am nosy about houses, I admit it. I have a long mental list of houses in the village that I've always wanted to see, and this one did not disappoint. a point. The ceilings were coved, and the doorways arched and surrounded by wood trim in a way that you just don't see anymore. The room was a bit crowded with old furniture and more photos and paintings on the walls, but it felt cozy and lived in like a happy, relaxing home. We introduced ourselves and explained our errand. He said that he'd had a few other people stop by, but no serious buyers yet. That it had seemed they were more curious about the house than interested in the piano.

I cleared my throat and felt my cheeks burn a bit. My son squeezed my hand again, reminding me not to get caught up in small talk, at least not before he'd gotten to touch the piano. May we take a look? I asked, and the man gestured for us to step up to the upright. He rolled back the fallboard to show us the keys underneath. I squeezed my son's hand, but it had become part of our secret language,

and he understood and let go to place his fingers lightly on the keys. One at a time, he played them. From the videos he'd watched, he'd learned a couple of scales and slowly played them out. The man smiled at me, and we backed up a bit

to talk without breaking his concentration. Does he take lessons? He asked. Not yet, but he's been asking. Do you play? No. I was never the musician in the family. He had a small, sad smile on his face as he remembered.

But it is nice to hear it again, even if it is pretty out of tune. We both winced as a particularly sharp note was struck. I'm surprised he's not trying to take it apart to fix it, I chuckled. Oh, he'll be an excellent student then, the man said. He's really interested in every part of it. I agreed that he was, and inquired how much he was asking for it. He scrubbed his hand down his face, as he thought, then whispered back, If you think he'd like it, it's yours. My eyes brimmed for a moment

at his kindness and generosity. I tried to find a middle ground to offer something back, but he said he had a house full of things, and most of them were only good now for the joy they could bring to others. But once he gets lessons, will you invite me to his first

concert? I promised that I would, and we shook on our agreement. Now, nearly a year later I was sending out a card with that promised invitation as I wrote out the address and hunted through the junk drawer for a stamp I heard music coming from the next room the concert piece he'd been playing for weeks sounded perfect to me,

and I couldn't wait for our new friend to hear it too. The piano. It had been almost a year since we'd brought it home. And now we had a promise to keep. It had all started at the neighborhood rummage sale last year. We'd been meandering along the sidewalks,

stopping to look at comic books and pretty old vases and pruning shears when we heard that there was a piano for sale. Not out on the street, obviously, but in the front room of a big old Victorian that I'd frankly always wanted to see inside of. As soon as he heard the word piano, my little boy squeezed my hand. He looked up at me with excited, wide eyes.

He wasn't the type of kid to beg for something he wanted. He didn't jump up and down and tug on my arm. He was a quiet kid, but when he found something he was interested in, he became enthralled by every part of it. When he was younger, he'd developed a love for trains that was all-encompassing. differences between engines that hadn't run on tracks for decades. And we checked out every single train book in the library until we'd gone through them all and the librarian kindly ordered us more. Then, once his brain had finally gotten enough of trains, he fell in love with birds, and we started birding on the weekends.

He knew the names and songs of so many and could spot them with his young eyes better than I could. I told him about the birds of paradise living in Indonesia and Papua New Guinea and eastern Australia and how their plumage is like no other birds we know, how they dance and make beautiful spectacles of their iridescent feathers. And soon he could pick out most of the 45 species by their pictures. His brain amazed me, and it reminded me of how excited I could become when I was his age for some new genre of interesting thing.

It made me wonder if I had forgotten as I'd grown older. To find new passions. To unabashedly give in to curiosities and interests. Hobbies, right? There was supposed to be time to have them and enjoy them. He inspired me to make the time. And lately, he'd been talking about music. We'd seen someone playing piano in the center of the mall. A big, shiny, grand piano.

And the sound had been majestic and electric to him. He'd watched some videos about how pianos work and could explain how they were tuned. He liked to talk about the hammers and strings and the damper and pedals. Then, a month ago, his class had taken a field trip to hear the symphony, and he'd been annoyed at the other kids talking over the music, but otherwise ecstatic to feel all those vibrations thrumming through him. He talked about the big timpani drums and the giant harp he'd seen tipped into the hands of the harpist to be plucked. All things considered,

I thought, logistically, a piano would be the most manageable option for all of us. So that day, when we heard about the used one, and he'd squeezed my hand, I'd hoped it would be within our budget. I wanted to give it to him. we'd gone up onto the front porch and knocked lightly on the screen door. We could see the piano in its place, with family photos balanced on its lid and a piece of sheet music on the rack.

We heard some shuffling, and a man came into view, older and moving a bit slowly, but with a big smile on his face. Come in, come in, he called. And we pushed the screen open and stepped into the front room. It had tall ceilings and shiny dark wood floors. I am nosy about houses. I admit it. I have a long mental list of houses in this village that I've always wanted to see,

and this one did not disappoint. The ceilings were coved, and the doorways arched, and surrounded by wood trim, in a way that you just don't see anymore. The room was a bit crowded with old furniture and more photos and paintings on the walls, but it felt cozy and lived in,

and like a happy, relaxing home. We introduced ourselves and explained our errand. He said that he'd had a few other people stop by, but no serious buyers yet, and that it had seemed they were more curious about the house than interested in the piano. I cleared my throat and felt my cheeks burn a bit. My son squeezed my hand again, reminding me

not to get caught up in small talk, at least not before he'd gotten to touch the piano. May we take a look? I asked. And the man gestured for us to step up to the upright. He rolled back the fallboard to show us the keys underneath it. I squeezed my son's hand.

It had become part of our secret language, and he understood and let go to place his fingers lightly on the keys. One at a time, he played them. From the videos he'd watched, he'd learned a couple of scales and slowly played through them. The man smiled at me, and we backed up a bit to talk without breaking his concentration. Does he take lessons? he asked. Not yet, but he's

been asking. Do you play? No, I was never the musician in the family. He had a small, sad smile on his face as he remembered. But it is nice to hear it again, even if it's pretty out of tune. We both winced as a particularly sharp note was struck. I'm surprised he's not trying to take it apart to fix it, I chuckled. Oh, he'll be an excellent student then, the man said. He's really interested in every part of it I agreed that he was and inquired

how much he was asking for it he scrubbed his hand down his face as he thought then whispered back, If you think he'd like it, it's yours. My eyes brimmed for a moment at his kindness and generosity. I tried to find a middle ground

to offer something back, but he said he had a house full of things and most of them were only good for the joy they could bring to others. But once he gets lessons, will you invite me to his first concert? I promised that I would, and we shook on our agreement.

Now, nearly a year later, I was sending out a card with that promised invitation. As I wrote out the address and hunted through the junk drawer for a stamp, I heard music coming from the next room. through the junk drawer for a stamp. I heard music coming from the next room. The concert piece he'd been playing for weeks sounded perfect to me, and I couldn't wait for our new friend to hear it too.

Sweet dreams.