The Wind Phone

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I like the idea of learning something new every day, I just don't always have an hour

to sit down and do it.

“That's why I like everything everywhere daily.”

Each episode is about 10 minutes, and you walk away knowing something you didn't before. It covers everything from history and science to geography, and really interesting people, so it never feels repetitive. I especially like their episode on the history of pizza, and NASA's human computers.

They're short, but they stick with you.

And they're the kind of thing you end up bringing up later in conversation. It's one of the most popular daily education podcasts out there, and it's easy to see why. You can listen in the car while you're making dinner, or when you want a small, satisfying dose of curiosity.

“Learn something new every single day, with everything everywhere daily,”

find it on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, or wherever you get your podcasts. Welcome to bedtime stories for everyone, in which nothing much happens. You feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Katherine Nikolai. I write and read all the stories you hear on nothing much happens.

Audio engineering is by Bob Woodersheim. We give to a different charity each week, and this week, we are giving to hot mess. Express. They are a woman-led, non-profit, serving the women in our communities, with no judgment, through cleaning, organizing, and offering a fresh start. Learn more about them in our show notes.

For ad-free episodes, subscribe to our premium feed at nothing much happens.com. This is a form of brain training, more conditioning, a response that will improve over time.

“So all you need to do is listen. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower.”

The second time through, our story tonight is called The Wind Phone,

and it's a story about a gentle way to say what's heavy on your heart. It's also about wood chips and lilacs, a private spot protected by trees and lifting a handset to set down some grief. When I started building this show and my shop, it really felt like I had to figure everything out on my own, and there are so many pieces it can get overwhelming fast.

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$1 per month trial today at Shopify.com/nothingmuch. Go to Shopify.com/nothingmuch. That's Shopify.com/nothingmuch. So into bed, lights out, pull the blanket up over your shoulder, and let everything relax. Draw a deep breath in through your nose, and sigh from your mouth. One more time, breathe in, and let it out. Good. The wind phone.

May was shining today, showing off. When I stepped out of my car, in the small gravel lot, and started down the path,

and let each sense have its fill. Bird singing, grass, rustling in the breeze,

“bright blue skies, and the perfume of so many plants, and flowers, and trickles of moving water.”

I was still getting used to all the activity after a quiet winter. There was so much to hear, and smell, and touch, and look at, so many textures and layers. The winter is beautiful, but in a spare way, shades of white, and icy gray, fewer sense, stillness, and silence. Now I was in a kaleidoscope, a swatch book of paints, patterns, and sounds,

“may apples grew thick, along the borders of the trail,”

trillium, and wild violets among them. The path itself was made of a fresh carpet of wood chips, and the smell that rose from them, as I walked, was sweet and resony. It was edged with long split rails, and along its north side, bright green moss grew in patches.

“In the meadow to one side, I could see red winged blackbirds,”

flitting through the tall grasses, and could hear the echoing call of a morning dove. Beneath the bird's song was a low thrum of insects, and buzzing things, and further out the occasional snap of a twig, a squirrel's chaste, and deer stepped among the trees. I made almost no sound. My feet quiet against the wood shavings.

There was just the gentle thump of my pack against my hip, and my breath rising, as I got warmer, and walked farther. My chuckled, thinking of a friend, I sometimes hiked with, who, when I'd expressed a bit of embarrassment about having a red face, and loud breath, as we walked, had said quickly,

"It's because your heart is beating silly." That's a good thing. It's supposed to. We do sometimes feel embarrassed for having beating hearts.

Don't we? Hearts that hope and break, and don't always learn from a lesson.

I tried lifting my head a bit higher, even as my breath got louder, tilting my warming face to the sky with pride. I hoisted my pack a bit higher on my shoulder, feeling the things inside, tumble, and not together.

In the first week of each month, I made this walk.

I'd learned what I might find handy along the way.

“Turning with the path, I passed a lilac bush that was in full bloom,”

and stopped to fish out one of my needful things. The garden clippers had slipped down behind a few rags in the pack, and it took me a moment to wiggle them loose.

If I found flowers along the way, I'd always clipped some.

In the cold months, sometimes I could find some holly or pine boughs.

“If there was nothing, if snow covered too much, I always had the painted stones”

in the bottom of the bag. They would do in a pinch, but these lilacs were a lovely, early summer treat. They smelled bright and sweet, and looked like they'd been piped from an icing bag. I gathered a solid handful of stems and walked on. It was just a little farther.

When the wind bone had first been proposed, we weren't sure where to put it.

“We wanted it to be a spot with some privacy, and in the end we'd found it.”

There's a horseshoe shaped, cops of trees, the open bit of the shoe, looks out over a valley, so when you stand with the trees at your back, you feel like you've got the coverage and protection of their branches, and all the space in front of you to cast your words. The phone is the kind that you used to find in a booth with a folding door and a coin slot for

your quarters. The booth isn't there now. Seemed like it would have just been asking for some recoon-related trouble if we kept it. We just brought out the phone. It's on a post, driven deep into the ground, so it won't tip even when the rain comes, and with a little awning above to keep out the weather. I came through the trees and spotted it.

My approach slowly, in case it was in use, but no one was there. The phone wasn't hooked up to a live line, but you could still place a call. It was a phone for communicating heavy things. A place to send a message to someone lost. To leave worries and troubles, like a message on a cosmic recording machine.

That was why it was called a wind phone, because you let the wind take your words and carry them away. My own contribution to its upkeep, lay in a small addition, I'd made to the handset. The sound of wind is so soothing, isn't it? And I wanted, say if someone came to place a call on a still day, for them still to feel the presence of it, to hear the whistling one way or another.

I'd played a steady and varying stream of sound, wind from all over the world.

“I stepped up to the phone and lifted the handset from the cradle.”

When I pressed it to my ear, I could hear the soft howl of breezes, and I let out a sigh, still working just fine. There was a mason jar I detached to the side of the post with a bit of steel strapping.

And I lifted out the dried out for Cynthia Stems, I'd put in last month.

And exchanged them for the lilacs.

“I took my water bottle from my bag and gave them a drink.”

Then with a few spare rags from my pack, my polish stopped the plaque that wished comfort to those who placed calls and peaceful rest, to those who received them.

There was nothing to tidy, what still I did, wiped the handset,

polished the metal numbered pushpad, in that tiny space above the buttons, and below the hook switch, where in another life the number of this payphone would have been printed

“out on a piece of paper. Someone had scrolled a small note that just said, "Take your time."”

I didn't need to place a call today, but my turn would come. My hopes that when it did, the wind would carry away the hurt, but not the memories. My turned away and looked out over the valley, and the wind began to blow. The wind phone, May was shining today, showing off. When I stepped out of my car in the small gravel lot and started down the path,

there was so much to take in and notice that I'd had to stand still for a few moments. And let each sense have its fill, there were birds singing, grass ruffling in the breeze, bright blue skies, and the perfume of so many plants and flowers. And trickles of moving water. I was still getting used to all the activity after a quiet winter.

There was so much to hear, and smell, and touch, and look at now. So many textures and layers. The winter is beautiful, but in a spare way, shades of white, and icy gray. Fewer sense, stillness, and silence. Now I was in a kaleidoscope, a swatch book of paints, patterns, and sounds.

May apples grew thick along the border of the trail,

The path itself was made of a fresh carpet of wood chips,

“and the smell that rose from them, as I walked, was sweet and resony.”

It was edged with long, split rails, and along its north side, bright green moss grew in patches. In the meadow to one side, I could see red-winged blackbirds, flitting through the tall grasses, and could hear the echoing call of a morning dove. Beneath the bird song was a low throm of insects, and buzzing things.

“And further out, the occasional snap of a twig, a squirrel's chaste, and deer stepped”

among the trees. I made almost no sound. My feet quiet against the wood shavings. There was just the gentle thump of my pack, against my hip, and my breath rising, as I got warmer, and walked further. I chuckled, thinking of a friend I sometimes hiked with, who, when I'd expressed a bit of embarrassment, about having a red face and loud breath as we

“walked, and said quickly, "It's because your heart is beating silly."”

That's a good thing. It's supposed to. We do sometimes feel embarrassed for having beating hearts, don't we? Hearts that hope, and break,

and don't always learn from a lesson. I tried lifting my head a bit higher,

even as my breath got louder, tilting my warming face to the sky with pride. I hoisted my pack, bit higher on my shoulder, feeling the things inside, tumble, and knocked together. In the first week of each month, I made this walk, and over the years I've been doing it, I've learned what I might find handy along the way, turning with the path. I passed a lilac bush that was in full bloom,

and stopped to fish out one of my needful things. The garden clippers had slipped down behind a few rags in the pack, and it took me a moment to wiggle them loose.

If I found flowers along the way, I'd always clip some.

In the cold months, sometimes I could find some holly or pine boughs, but if there was nothing, if snow covered too much, I always had the painted stones in the bottom of the bag. They would do an a pinch,

and looked like they'd been piped from a niceing bag.

“I gathered a solid handful of stems and walked on.”

It was just a little farther. When the wind phone had first been proposed,

we weren't sure where to put it. We wanted it to be a spot with some privacy, and in the end, we'd found it. There's a horseshoe shaped cops of trees. The open bit of the shoe looks out over a valley. So when you stand with the trees at your back, you feel like you've got the coverage and protection of their branches.

“And all the space in front of you, the cast your words.”

The phone is the kind that you used to find in a booth,

with a folding door, and a coin slot for your quarters. The booth isn't there now seems like it would have been just asking for some raccoon-related trouble if we'd kept it. We just brought out the phone. It's on a post, driven deep into the ground. So it won't tip even when the rain comes,

and with a little awning above to keep out the weather.

I came through the trees and spotted it. I approached slowly, in case it wasn't used, but no one was there. The phone wasn't hooked up to a live line, but you could still place a call. It was a phone for communicating heavy things. The place to send a message to someone lost to leave worries and troubles

on a cosmic recording machine. That was why it was called a wind phone, because you let the wind take your words and carry them away. My own contribution to its upkeep lay in a small addition.

“I'd made to the handset. Sound of wind is so soothing, isn't it?”

And I wanted to say if someone came to place a call on a still day, for them to feel the presence of it, to hear the whistling one way or another. So I'd rigged a small pickup inside the earpiece. It played a steady and varying stream of sound,

wind from all over the world. I stepped up to the phone, lifted the handset from the cradle. When I pressed it to my ear, I could hear the soft howl of breezes and let out a sigh, still working just fine.

with a bit of steel strapping.

“And I lifted out the dried out forset theostems.”

I'd put in last month and exchanged them for the lilacs.

I took my water bottle from my bag and gave them a drink.

Then, with a few spare rags from my pack,

“I polished up the plaque that wished comfort”

to those who placed calls

and peaceful rest to those who received them. There was nothing to tidy, but still I did.

“Wipe the handset, polished the metal numbered pushpad,”

in that tiny space above the buttons, and below the hook switch. Where, in another life, the number of this payphone would have been printed out on a piece of paper. Someone had placed a small note. It just said, "Take your time."

I didn't need to place a call today, but my turn would come. I hoped that when it did, the wind would carry away the hurt, but not the memories. I turned away, and looked out over the valley,

and the wind began to blow. Sweet dreams.