April 15, 2024 • 30 mins
Our story tonight is called Piano Lessons, and it’s a story about a well-loved upright and the boy who plays it. It’s also about a little cottage where ivy grows up the bricks, middle C, lesson books and metronomes, and finding the things that feel like they were always meant for you.
We give to a different charity each week, and this week, we are giving to Save the Music Foundation. Helping kids, schools, and communities realize their full potential through the power of making music.
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Transcript
Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
Speaker 1 (00:01):
Welcome to bedtime Stories for Everyone, in which nothing much happens.
You'll feel good and then you fall asleep. I'm Katherine Nikolai.
I read and write all the stories you hear on
(00:24):
Nothing Much Happens with audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. We
give to a different charity each week, and this week
we are giving to the Save the Music Foundation, helping kids, schools,
and communities realize their full potential through the power of
(00:47):
making music. Learn more about them in our show notes.
Our stories are meant to ease you to sleep, but
they can also really help to you during the day,
to soothe a way anxiety, shift your mood, and just
(01:08):
for the enjoyment of a soft story with no conflict.
In fact, we made a whole show for it. It's
called Stories from the Village of Nothing Much. It's free
and you can find it on whatever app you are
listening to now. We just released an episode of Marmalade
(01:32):
and Crumb stories. I tell them in a more lively voice,
and Bob creates a beautiful soundscape to go with them.
Find more about Stories from the Village of Nothing Much,
as well as our premium channels through the links in
our show notes. Now, here's how this works. If we
(01:59):
can ace you your mind just enough, we can rock
it to sleep. That's sort of what This is. A
lullaby for your thinking mind. All you have to do
is attend, listen, follow along with the sound of my voice,
(02:25):
and we will get there. If you're new to this,
know that it is a kind of conditioning. It improves
with regular use, so be patient, keep tuning in. I'll
tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower
(02:46):
on the second read through. If you wake again in
the night, don't hesitate to turn a story right back on.
Most people fall back to sleep again within sane seconds.
Our story tonight is called Piano Lessons, and it's a
(03:09):
story about a well loved, upright piano and the boy
who plays it. It's also about a little cottage where
Ivy grows up the bricks, middle c lesson books and
metronomes and finding the things that feel like they were
(03:33):
always meant for you. Now, let's get comfortable. In fact,
make supreme comfort your number one priority. Right now, the
right pillow, the blanket just where you like it, and
(03:58):
let your muscles so often and relax. You have done
enough for the day. Truly it is enough. You can
stop now, draw a deep breath in through the nose,
(04:23):
and sigh from your mouth. One more in and out.
Good piano lessons. The bright spring sunshine was helping me
(04:52):
find the dust that needed clearing out in our house.
It always startles me that first sunny day when you
open the front door and pull back the curtains and
(05:13):
suddenly the air is filled with floating specks, the floorboards
crowded with dust bunnies big enough to pass for tumbleweeds.
So I'd been working my way through the front room,
(05:35):
running my dust cloth over the family photos on the bookshelves,
the lamp in the front window, the broad lid of
the piano. I noticed it was the least dusty thing
in the room, and I guess I wasn't surprised at that.
(06:03):
My youngest plays it nearly every day. We'd come across
the piano a couple of years before at a neighborhood
garage sale. I still remember the way my son's eyes
(06:23):
had gone wide when he'd seen it. He was a
quiet boy. There was a lot of magic inside of him,
and sometimes it stayed inside, but when he played, it
(06:44):
came out, and I got to enjoy it along with him.
The piano had come home the next day, a rather
complicated arrangement involving a borrowed truck, several friends, planks of
(07:06):
wood salvaged from the garage, and a not inconsiderable amount
of effort, But it had all been worth it. We'd
polished up the cabinet and the bench, the bottom of
which was about to fall out from all the scores
(07:29):
and lesson books it had come with. I'd organized the
lot of them into boxes he could work his way
through as his lessons progressed. Then I repaired the bench itself,
and now it held his first few books and performance pieces.
(07:56):
The piano had been badly in need of a tune
up when it came home, and my son had found
the process fascinating. He's often shy around new people, but
he'd met a kindred spirit and the woman who'd come
(08:19):
with a bag of tools to attend to the piano.
He'd watched as she'd opened up the soundboard and taken
her hammer, wrench and tuning key from her bag. She'd
patiently explained what she was doing as she isolated middle
(08:44):
c tuned it and set the pin. Then they'd worked
their way through the keys, playing, listening needs strings, or
loosening them. He had an ear for it, could hear
(09:07):
when a note was even just a fraction flat or sharp,
and he could name a note just by hearing it.
He knew it the same way I could tell an
orange cran from a red, with no hesitation and a
(09:30):
little confusion as to why others struggled to do the same.
The tuner came every six months, and he had it
marked down on the calendar on the fridge, and would
meet her at the door and reach for her tools,
(09:51):
slinging the strap of her bag over his own little shoulder.
He'd played his first recital last year, and the man
who owned the piano last, who had kindly given it
to us in exchange for an invitation to that recital,
(10:16):
had attended and sat proudly beside us. He'd taken pictures
and then listened to the music with his eyes closed,
a soft smile on his face. He'd also come for Thanksgiving,
(10:37):
and when the tables were full and we were beginning
to run out of seats, he'd mentioned that his wife
had always pulled up the piano bench when they needed
an extra spot. For someone. I looked at my son,
thinking he might not want anyone else sitting on his bench.
(11:06):
He'd leaned in close to my ear and whispered that
he could share the bench if it was with our
new friend. The two of them would fit, so we'd
move chairs around and they'd sat side by side, eating
(11:26):
their sweet potatoes and stuffing. During the school year, he
just had one lesson a week. There were lots of
other things to do, ways to play, and I wanted
him to have time to go to the library, to
(11:50):
ride his bike, to play video games with his friends,
and days when he had nothing scheduled at all. Now
that summer was coming, I'd left it up to him.
Did he want to play more piano, maybe have lessons
(12:14):
twice a week. He'd sat quiet for a minute or
two thinking it through, then nodded. Twice a week sounded
good to him. His piano teacher lived in a little
(12:34):
cottage in a pretty neighborhood north of town. Ivy grew
up the brick beside her front porch, and in the
yard was a small carved sign saying piano lessons. She
(12:55):
had come to our house a few times, but I
think we both liked going to her house instead. There
was a very comfortable space. She'd been a musician for years,
and her mantle was covered with pictures of her in
(13:18):
her youth, outside theaters and concert venues, pointing up to
her own name on the marquee, or crowded around a
microphone with others in a recording studio. When we showed
(13:40):
up on her front porch, him with his practice books
under his arm, me with whatever novel I'd been reading lately,
she'd opened the door and stepped back to let us in,
and it felt like being allowed into a sanctuary. Inside
(14:07):
the floors were laid with thick rugs, but I guessed
were knotted by hand somewhere far away. The air smelled
of sandal wood and green tea, and her furniture was
beautiful and comfortable. Her front window held creeping pathos and
(14:33):
a healthy asparagus fern. Here was a woman who had
built a life she loved, who knew how to protect
her peace. We were there for him, for him to
take lessons from her, but I often felt I was
(14:58):
learning as well, mentally taking notes. As I settled onto
a sofa out of the way, they'd open the books
on the stand and he'd warm up his fingers playing
through scales and exercises. I loved watching him set the metronome,
(15:25):
sliding the swinging arm out from behind its stopper, adjusting
the tempo and letting it tick, then watching him tap
his toe which barely reached the ground, to find a rhythm.
(15:45):
I'd prop my novel open on my lap, read a
few words, listen to his playing the quiet discussion. The
spring recital was going to be at the Inn by
the Lake this year, on their big back porch, where
(16:09):
he'd help turn pages for his teacher while she played
for a wedding the September before. I imagined him playing
the music echoing over the water, the birds stopping to
listen along with us, me holding tightly to a bouquet
(16:32):
of flowers to hand to him. After not everything we
try when we are young or when we are grown
suits us. I was so glad that we'd found something
that suited him so well. Piano lessons. The bright spring
(17:04):
sunshine was helping me find the dust that needed clearing
out in our house. It always startles me that first
sunny day when you open the front door and pull
(17:27):
back the curtains and suddenly the air is filled with
floating specks, the floor boards crowded with dust bunnies big
enough to pass for tumbleweeds. So I'd been working my
(17:52):
way through the front room, running my dust cloth over
the family photos on the bookshelves, the lamp in the
front window, and the broad lid of the piano. As
(18:14):
I did, I noticed it was the least dusty thing
in the room, and I guess I wasn't surprised at that.
My youngest plays it nearly every day. We'd come across
(18:38):
the piano a couple of years before at a neighborhood
garage sale. I still remember the way my son's eyes
had gone wide when he'd seen it. He was a
(18:59):
quiet boy. There was a lot of magic inside him,
and sometimes it stayed inside, but when he played, it
came out, and I got to enjoy it along with him.
(19:24):
The piano had come home the next day, a rather
complicated arrangement involving a borrowed truck, several friends, planks of
wood salvaged from the garage, and a not inconsiderable amount
(19:49):
of effort, but it had all been worth it. We
polished up the cabinet and bench, wh the bottom of
which was about to fall out from all the scores
(20:09):
and lesson books it had come with. I'd organized the
lot of them into boxes he could work his way
into as his lessons progressed. Then I repaired the bench itself.
(20:32):
Now it held his first few books and performance pieces.
The piano had been badly in need of a tune
up when it came home, and my son had found
(20:52):
the process fascinating. He's often shy around new people, but
he'd met a kindred spirit in the woman who'd come
with a bag of tools to attend to the piano.
(21:15):
He'd watched as she'd opened up the soundboard and taken
her hammer, wrench and tuning key from her bag. She'd
patiently explained what she was doing as she isolated middle
(21:36):
c tuned it, and set the pin. Then they'd worked
their way through the keys, playing, listening, tightening strings, or
loosening them. Had an ear for it, could hear when
(22:03):
a note was even just a fraction flat or sharp,
and he could name a note just by hearing it.
He knew it in the same way I could tell
(22:24):
an orange crayon from red with no hesitation and a
little confusion as to why others struggled to do the same.
The tuner came every six months, and he had it
(22:47):
marked down on the calendar on the fridge, and would
meet her at the door and reach for her tools,
slinging the strap of her bag over his own little shoulder.
(23:11):
He'd played his first recital last year, and the man
who'd owned the piano last who'd kindly given it to
us in exchange for an invitation to that recital, had
(23:32):
attended and sat proudly beside us. He'd taken pictures and
then listened to the music with his eyes closed and
a soft smile on his face. He'd also come for Thanksgiving,
(24:00):
and when the tables were full and we were beginning
to run out of seats, he'd mentioned that his wife
had always pulled up the piano bench when they'd needed
an extra spot for someone. I'd looked at my son,
(24:27):
thinking he might not want anyone else sitting on his bench.
He'd leaned in close to my ear and whispered that
he could share the bench if it was with our
(24:51):
new friend. The two of them would fit. So we'd
moved chairs around and they'd sat side by side, eating
their sweet potatoes and stuffing. During the school year, he'd
(25:15):
had just one lesson a week. There were lots of
other things to do, ways to play, and I wanted
him to have time to go to the library, to
ride his bike, to play video games with his friends,
(25:42):
and days when he had nothing scheduled at all. Now
that summer was coming, but left it up to him.
Did he want to play more piano, maybe have lessons
(26:03):
twice a week. He'd sat quiet for a minute or
two thinking it through, then nodded. Twice a week sounded
good to him. His piano teacher lived in a little
(26:27):
cottage in a pretty neighborhood north of town. Ivy grew
up the brick beside her front porch, and in the
yard was a small carved sign saying piano lessons. She
(26:52):
had come to our house a few times, but I
think we both liked going to her house instead. It
was a very comfortable space. She'd been a musician for years,
(27:13):
and her mantle was covered with pictures of her in
her youth, outside theaters and concert venues, pointing up to
her own name on the marquee, or crowded around a
(27:34):
microphone with others in recording studios. When we showed up
on her front porch, him with his practice books under
his arm, me with whatever novel I'd been reading lately.
(27:58):
She'd open the door and stepped back to let us in,
and it felt like being allowed into a sanctuary. Inside,
the flowers were laid with thick rugs that I guessed
were knotted by hand somewhere far away. The air smelled
(28:26):
of sandal wood and green tea, and her furniture was
beautiful and comfortable. Her front window held creeping pathos and
a healthy asparagus fern. Here was a woman who had
(28:51):
built a life she loved, who knew how to protect
her peace. We were there for him, for him to
take lessons from her, but I often felt like I
(29:14):
was learning as well, mentally taking notes as I settled
onto a sofa out of the way. The recital was
going to be at the Inn by the Lake this year,
(29:37):
on their big back porch, where he'd help turn pages
for his teacher while she'd played for a wedding the
september before. I imagined him playing, the music echoing over
(29:58):
the water, the birds stopping to listen along with us,
ME holding tightly to a bouquet of flowers to hand
to him after not everything we try when we are
(30:21):
young or when we are grown suits us I was
so glad we'd found something that suited him so well.
Sweet Dreams
Welcome to bedtime Stories for Everyone, in which nothing much happens.
You'll feel good and then you fall asleep. I'm Katherine Nikolai.
I read and write all the stories you hear on
(00:24):
Nothing Much Happens with audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. We
give to a different charity each week, and this week
we are giving to the Save the Music Foundation, helping kids, schools,
and communities realize their full potential through the power of
(00:47):
making music. Learn more about them in our show notes.
Our stories are meant to ease you to sleep, but
they can also really help to you during the day,
to soothe a way anxiety, shift your mood, and just
(01:08):
for the enjoyment of a soft story with no conflict.
In fact, we made a whole show for it. It's
called Stories from the Village of Nothing Much. It's free
and you can find it on whatever app you are
listening to now. We just released an episode of Marmalade
(01:32):
and Crumb stories. I tell them in a more lively voice,
and Bob creates a beautiful soundscape to go with them.
Find more about Stories from the Village of Nothing Much,
as well as our premium channels through the links in
our show notes. Now, here's how this works. If we
(01:59):
can ace you your mind just enough, we can rock
it to sleep. That's sort of what This is. A
lullaby for your thinking mind. All you have to do
is attend, listen, follow along with the sound of my voice,
(02:25):
and we will get there. If you're new to this,
know that it is a kind of conditioning. It improves
with regular use, so be patient, keep tuning in. I'll
tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower
(02:46):
on the second read through. If you wake again in
the night, don't hesitate to turn a story right back on.
Most people fall back to sleep again within sane seconds.
Our story tonight is called Piano Lessons, and it's a
(03:09):
story about a well loved, upright piano and the boy
who plays it. It's also about a little cottage where
Ivy grows up the bricks, middle c lesson books and
metronomes and finding the things that feel like they were
(03:33):
always meant for you. Now, let's get comfortable. In fact,
make supreme comfort your number one priority. Right now, the
right pillow, the blanket just where you like it, and
(03:58):
let your muscles so often and relax. You have done
enough for the day. Truly it is enough. You can
stop now, draw a deep breath in through the nose,
(04:23):
and sigh from your mouth. One more in and out.
Good piano lessons. The bright spring sunshine was helping me
(04:52):
find the dust that needed clearing out in our house.
It always startles me that first sunny day when you
open the front door and pull back the curtains and
(05:13):
suddenly the air is filled with floating specks, the floorboards
crowded with dust bunnies big enough to pass for tumbleweeds.
So I'd been working my way through the front room,
(05:35):
running my dust cloth over the family photos on the bookshelves,
the lamp in the front window, the broad lid of
the piano. I noticed it was the least dusty thing
in the room, and I guess I wasn't surprised at that.
(06:03):
My youngest plays it nearly every day. We'd come across
the piano a couple of years before at a neighborhood
garage sale. I still remember the way my son's eyes
(06:23):
had gone wide when he'd seen it. He was a
quiet boy. There was a lot of magic inside of him,
and sometimes it stayed inside, but when he played, it
(06:44):
came out, and I got to enjoy it along with him.
The piano had come home the next day, a rather
complicated arrangement involving a borrowed truck, several friends, planks of
(07:06):
wood salvaged from the garage, and a not inconsiderable amount
of effort, But it had all been worth it. We'd
polished up the cabinet and the bench, the bottom of
which was about to fall out from all the scores
(07:29):
and lesson books it had come with. I'd organized the
lot of them into boxes he could work his way
through as his lessons progressed. Then I repaired the bench itself,
and now it held his first few books and performance pieces.
(07:56):
The piano had been badly in need of a tune
up when it came home, and my son had found
the process fascinating. He's often shy around new people, but
he'd met a kindred spirit and the woman who'd come
(08:19):
with a bag of tools to attend to the piano.
He'd watched as she'd opened up the soundboard and taken
her hammer, wrench and tuning key from her bag. She'd
patiently explained what she was doing as she isolated middle
(08:44):
c tuned it and set the pin. Then they'd worked
their way through the keys, playing, listening needs strings, or
loosening them. He had an ear for it, could hear
(09:07):
when a note was even just a fraction flat or sharp,
and he could name a note just by hearing it.
He knew it the same way I could tell an
orange cran from a red, with no hesitation and a
(09:30):
little confusion as to why others struggled to do the same.
The tuner came every six months, and he had it
marked down on the calendar on the fridge, and would
meet her at the door and reach for her tools,
(09:51):
slinging the strap of her bag over his own little shoulder.
He'd played his first recital last year, and the man
who owned the piano last, who had kindly given it
to us in exchange for an invitation to that recital,
(10:16):
had attended and sat proudly beside us. He'd taken pictures
and then listened to the music with his eyes closed,
a soft smile on his face. He'd also come for Thanksgiving,
(10:37):
and when the tables were full and we were beginning
to run out of seats, he'd mentioned that his wife
had always pulled up the piano bench when they needed
an extra spot. For someone. I looked at my son,
thinking he might not want anyone else sitting on his bench.
(11:06):
He'd leaned in close to my ear and whispered that
he could share the bench if it was with our
new friend. The two of them would fit, so we'd
move chairs around and they'd sat side by side, eating
(11:26):
their sweet potatoes and stuffing. During the school year, he
just had one lesson a week. There were lots of
other things to do, ways to play, and I wanted
him to have time to go to the library, to
(11:50):
ride his bike, to play video games with his friends,
and days when he had nothing scheduled at all. Now
that summer was coming, I'd left it up to him.
Did he want to play more piano, maybe have lessons
(12:14):
twice a week. He'd sat quiet for a minute or
two thinking it through, then nodded. Twice a week sounded
good to him. His piano teacher lived in a little
(12:34):
cottage in a pretty neighborhood north of town. Ivy grew
up the brick beside her front porch, and in the
yard was a small carved sign saying piano lessons. She
(12:55):
had come to our house a few times, but I
think we both liked going to her house instead. There
was a very comfortable space. She'd been a musician for years,
and her mantle was covered with pictures of her in
(13:18):
her youth, outside theaters and concert venues, pointing up to
her own name on the marquee, or crowded around a
microphone with others in a recording studio. When we showed
(13:40):
up on her front porch, him with his practice books
under his arm, me with whatever novel I'd been reading lately,
she'd opened the door and stepped back to let us in,
and it felt like being allowed into a sanctuary. Inside
(14:07):
the floors were laid with thick rugs, but I guessed
were knotted by hand somewhere far away. The air smelled
of sandal wood and green tea, and her furniture was
beautiful and comfortable. Her front window held creeping pathos and
(14:33):
a healthy asparagus fern. Here was a woman who had
built a life she loved, who knew how to protect
her peace. We were there for him, for him to
take lessons from her, but I often felt I was
(14:58):
learning as well, mentally taking notes. As I settled onto
a sofa out of the way, they'd open the books
on the stand and he'd warm up his fingers playing
through scales and exercises. I loved watching him set the metronome,
(15:25):
sliding the swinging arm out from behind its stopper, adjusting
the tempo and letting it tick, then watching him tap
his toe which barely reached the ground, to find a rhythm.
(15:45):
I'd prop my novel open on my lap, read a
few words, listen to his playing the quiet discussion. The
spring recital was going to be at the Inn by
the Lake this year, on their big back porch, where
(16:09):
he'd help turn pages for his teacher while she played
for a wedding the September before. I imagined him playing
the music echoing over the water, the birds stopping to
listen along with us, me holding tightly to a bouquet
(16:32):
of flowers to hand to him. After not everything we
try when we are young or when we are grown
suits us. I was so glad that we'd found something
that suited him so well. Piano lessons. The bright spring
(17:04):
sunshine was helping me find the dust that needed clearing
out in our house. It always startles me that first
sunny day when you open the front door and pull
(17:27):
back the curtains and suddenly the air is filled with
floating specks, the floor boards crowded with dust bunnies big
enough to pass for tumbleweeds. So I'd been working my
(17:52):
way through the front room, running my dust cloth over
the family photos on the bookshelves, the lamp in the
front window, and the broad lid of the piano. As
(18:14):
I did, I noticed it was the least dusty thing
in the room, and I guess I wasn't surprised at that.
My youngest plays it nearly every day. We'd come across
(18:38):
the piano a couple of years before at a neighborhood
garage sale. I still remember the way my son's eyes
had gone wide when he'd seen it. He was a
(18:59):
quiet boy. There was a lot of magic inside him,
and sometimes it stayed inside, but when he played, it
came out, and I got to enjoy it along with him.
(19:24):
The piano had come home the next day, a rather
complicated arrangement involving a borrowed truck, several friends, planks of
wood salvaged from the garage, and a not inconsiderable amount
(19:49):
of effort, but it had all been worth it. We
polished up the cabinet and bench, wh the bottom of
which was about to fall out from all the scores
(20:09):
and lesson books it had come with. I'd organized the
lot of them into boxes he could work his way
into as his lessons progressed. Then I repaired the bench itself.
(20:32):
Now it held his first few books and performance pieces.
The piano had been badly in need of a tune
up when it came home, and my son had found
(20:52):
the process fascinating. He's often shy around new people, but
he'd met a kindred spirit in the woman who'd come
with a bag of tools to attend to the piano.
(21:15):
He'd watched as she'd opened up the soundboard and taken
her hammer, wrench and tuning key from her bag. She'd
patiently explained what she was doing as she isolated middle
(21:36):
c tuned it, and set the pin. Then they'd worked
their way through the keys, playing, listening, tightening strings, or
loosening them. Had an ear for it, could hear when
(22:03):
a note was even just a fraction flat or sharp,
and he could name a note just by hearing it.
He knew it in the same way I could tell
(22:24):
an orange crayon from red with no hesitation and a
little confusion as to why others struggled to do the same.
The tuner came every six months, and he had it
(22:47):
marked down on the calendar on the fridge, and would
meet her at the door and reach for her tools,
slinging the strap of her bag over his own little shoulder.
(23:11):
He'd played his first recital last year, and the man
who'd owned the piano last who'd kindly given it to
us in exchange for an invitation to that recital, had
(23:32):
attended and sat proudly beside us. He'd taken pictures and
then listened to the music with his eyes closed and
a soft smile on his face. He'd also come for Thanksgiving,
(24:00):
and when the tables were full and we were beginning
to run out of seats, he'd mentioned that his wife
had always pulled up the piano bench when they'd needed
an extra spot for someone. I'd looked at my son,
(24:27):
thinking he might not want anyone else sitting on his bench.
He'd leaned in close to my ear and whispered that
he could share the bench if it was with our
(24:51):
new friend. The two of them would fit. So we'd
moved chairs around and they'd sat side by side, eating
their sweet potatoes and stuffing. During the school year, he'd
(25:15):
had just one lesson a week. There were lots of
other things to do, ways to play, and I wanted
him to have time to go to the library, to
ride his bike, to play video games with his friends,
(25:42):
and days when he had nothing scheduled at all. Now
that summer was coming, but left it up to him.
Did he want to play more piano, maybe have lessons
(26:03):
twice a week. He'd sat quiet for a minute or
two thinking it through, then nodded. Twice a week sounded
good to him. His piano teacher lived in a little
(26:27):
cottage in a pretty neighborhood north of town. Ivy grew
up the brick beside her front porch, and in the
yard was a small carved sign saying piano lessons. She
(26:52):
had come to our house a few times, but I
think we both liked going to her house instead. It
was a very comfortable space. She'd been a musician for years,
(27:13):
and her mantle was covered with pictures of her in
her youth, outside theaters and concert venues, pointing up to
her own name on the marquee, or crowded around a
(27:34):
microphone with others in recording studios. When we showed up
on her front porch, him with his practice books under
his arm, me with whatever novel I'd been reading lately.
(27:58):
She'd open the door and stepped back to let us in,
and it felt like being allowed into a sanctuary. Inside,
the flowers were laid with thick rugs that I guessed
were knotted by hand somewhere far away. The air smelled
(28:26):
of sandal wood and green tea, and her furniture was
beautiful and comfortable. Her front window held creeping pathos and
a healthy asparagus fern. Here was a woman who had
(28:51):
built a life she loved, who knew how to protect
her peace. We were there for him, for him to
take lessons from her, but I often felt like I
(29:14):
was learning as well, mentally taking notes as I settled
onto a sofa out of the way. The recital was
going to be at the Inn by the Lake this year,
(29:37):
on their big back porch, where he'd help turn pages
for his teacher while she'd played for a wedding the
september before. I imagined him playing, the music echoing over
(29:58):
the water, the birds stopping to listen along with us,
ME holding tightly to a bouquet of flowers to hand
to him after not everything we try when we are
(30:21):
young or when we are grown suits us I was
so glad we'd found something that suited him so well.
Sweet Dreams
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