The piano in our sanctuary has been tuned free of charge since 1963.
Every work slip is still folded in the piano bench.
Sixty-three years of the same signature.
Each one is marked with a tiny cross.
Mr. Aldous has tuned her since he was twenty-one. He refuses payment to this day.
One line on every slip. A cross. The date.
The slips read like a town’s diary.
The year of the fire: tuning moved to the parsonage.
The year of the new roof: “She’ll sound loud for a month—enjoy it.”
Last Tuesday, our new music director went looking for a pencil and found the stack.
The newest slip was dated three weeks from now.
On the back, in pencil gone shaky, Mr. Aldous had written:
For whoever tunes her next. Start low. She likes to be woken gently.
He was not planning to stop.
He was planning ahead.
Mr. Aldous pulled up in his truck right on schedule that morning.
Tool case in hand.
Coat already on.
Part 2
The piano had been delivered to the sanctuary in 1963.
It was not new even then. The church bought it from a family who had moved west and could not take it with them.
The instrument was dark wood, heavy, and temperamental.
Its middle register was warm, but the lowest notes sometimes rattled. The pedals needed careful pressure. In winter, the keys responded slowly until the room warmed.
Mr. Aldous was twenty-one when he first opened the lid.
He had recently completed an apprenticeship with a piano technician in the city. The church treasurer asked whether he would tune the instrument before Christmas.
He agreed.
When the bill arrived, the treasurer discovered that Mr. Aldous had written “no charge.”
The pastor asked why.
“It belongs to the room,” he said.
He meant the piano belonged to everyone who entered the sanctuary.
He returned before every major service.
Christmas. Easter. Weddings. Funerals. School concerts. Memorials.
He tuned the piano before the first note and checked it after the last one.
The work slips accumulated in the bench.
At first, no one thought to preserve them.
Mr. Aldous folded each slip and placed it beneath the music books.
Then he began marking each one with a tiny cross.
No one knew whether the mark meant completed, blessed, or remembered.
When asked, he only said, “It helps me keep my place.”
Part 3
The slips became a record of the church.
One recorded the year a fire damaged the sanctuary. The piano survived, but the sanctuary was closed for months.
Mr. Aldous moved the tuning to the parsonage.
His note read, “Still singing, just elsewhere.”
Another marked the year the roof was replaced.
“ She’ll sound loud for a month—enjoy it.”
There were notes from years of heavy snow, a flood in the basement, and a long renovation that forced the congregation into the fellowship hall.
One slip mentioned a wedding.
The bride had been too nervous to sing, so her father played while Mr. Aldous stood beside the piano and adjusted the soft pedal.
Another mentioned a funeral.
“Keep the room quiet after,” he wrote.
The slips were never intended as a diary, but they recorded what the church remembered.
They also recorded what the piano endured.
Humidity changed its pitch. Heat dried its wood. Children pressed keys while waiting for choir practice. A wedding ring slipped behind the music desk and had to be retrieved with a ruler.
Mr. Aldous repaired what he could and noted what he could not.
He never complained about the instrument’s age.
“She’s earned her moods,” he said.
The congregation came to regard his visits as part of the building’s maintenance, like replacing bulbs or clearing snow from the steps.
No one noticed how much time had passed.
Then the new music director found the stack.
Part 4
The newest slip was dated three weeks in the future.
The date was written in Mr. Aldous’s familiar hand, though the letters had become less steady.
On the back was a message for whoever came after him.
For whoever tunes her next. Start low. She likes to be woken gently.
The music director brought the slip to the pastor.
They wondered whether Mr. Aldous had made a mistake.
Perhaps he had written the date incorrectly. Perhaps it was an old slip placed in the wrong order.
Then they noticed the date after that one.
It was also in the future.
The slips had been prepared in advance.
Mr. Aldous was planning appointments he might not be able to attend.
That morning, his truck arrived at the usual time.
He carried his tool case into the sanctuary and removed his coat.
The pastor asked about the future slips.
Mr. Aldous looked toward the piano.
“She’ll need someone,” he said.
The pastor asked whether he was ill.
“No more than the piano.”
He opened the lid and began tuning.
The sanctuary filled with single notes, each one tested and adjusted.
Mr. Aldous worked slowly. He listened closely. He leaned toward the strings as though they were speaking quietly.
When he finished, he folded the slip and placed it in the bench.
Then he took out another.
The date was three weeks away.
Part 5
Mr. Aldous continued tuning the piano.
He also began training the person who would eventually replace him.
The new technician sat nearby and took notes.
“Start low,” Mr. Aldous said. “She likes to be woken gently.”
He explained which keys needed patience, which pedal stuck in damp weather, and how the room changed the sound.
He taught the technician to listen before touching anything.
The future slips remained in the bench.
Each one carried a date and a small cross.
Some contained practical instructions. Others mentioned church events that had not yet happened.
Mr. Aldous was not pretending he knew the future.
He was making sure the piano would be cared for whether or not he could return.
The slips were his way of extending a promise beyond his own hands.
For sixty-three years, he had refused payment because he believed the piano belonged to the room.
Now he was preparing to leave the room without leaving the piano unattended.
The congregation eventually framed a copy of the first slip and placed it beside the instrument.
They did not frame the newest one.
It stayed in the bench with the others, folded among records of fires, roofs, weddings, funerals, and ordinary Sundays.
Mr. Aldous still arrives on schedule.
Sometimes he works alone. Sometimes the new technician joins him.
The piano’s notes are not perfect.
Neither is the room.
But the instrument is tuned, the slips are preserved, and the next appointment is waiting.
Before leaving, Mr. Aldous always marks the work slip with a tiny cross.
Then he places it beneath the music books for whoever comes after him.
