Tuned a 1923 church organ today

The swell pedal was stiff as old leather, and the bass pipes had been whispering for years—like they’d forgotten how to speak. I spent two hours just listening between notes, adjusting stops that hadn’t been touched since the ’50s. The smell of wet wool from the floorboards mixed with the sour tang of tarnished brass. When it finally sang—just one chord, low and slow—it wasn’t perfect. But it was alive. And that’s enough. Old shoes on cold stone, the kind that remember every step. That’s what this work is: not fixing, but remembering.