Sign up to save your podcasts
Or
Share The Lighthouse That Hated Polka
Share to email
Share to Facebook
Share to X
Share to email
Share to Facebook
Share to X
Or
The Lighthouse That Hated Polka
Visit the “A Bedtime Story” show website to submit your story ideas for a future episode!
Old Silas Grumbles lived a solitary life in the ancient, craggy lighthouse on the edge of Wobbly Rock Point. He was a man of routine: polish the lens, trim the wick, and at precisely 7 PM, play his accordion, usually a lively polka. Silas loved a good polka.
One stormy evening, as Silas squeezed out a particularly bouncy tune, the lighthouse itself creaked and groaned. Not the usual old-house creaks, but a distinct, offended groan. “Oh, for the love of barnacles, Silas! Must it always be that awful ‘oom-pah-pah’ racket?” a deep, rumbling voice echoed through the stone walls.
Silas nearly dropped his accordion. “Who’s there? Is that you, Captain Seaworthy’s ghost?”
“Ghost? Nonsense! It’s me, Beacon! This lighthouse!” the voice boomed. “And I’ve had enough of your accordion. It rattles my very foundations. My light pulses in protest!”
Silas stared, wide-mouthed. His lighthouse was… talking? And it had opinions? “But… but I love polka! It’s cheerful!”
“Cheerful? It sounds like a drunk octopus falling down a flight of stairs while carrying a sack of accordions!” Beacon grumbled. “What about a nice sea shanty? Something with rhythm, a tale of the waves, a mournful lament of lost sailors?”
Silas, bewildered, tried a mournful shanty. He wasn’t very good at it. Beacon sighed, a sound like wind whistling through cracked stone. “Better, but needs more soul, Silas. Less… cat being squeezed in a door.”
From then on, Silas’s life was a constant musical negotiation. Beacon preferred the ancient, obscure shanties, often humming them softly through the wind, causing the glass of the lantern room to vibrate in approval. If Silas dared to play even a note of polka, Beacon would make the stairs creak menacingly, or worse, dim his powerful beam in protest, forcing Silas to hastily switch to something more to the lighthouse’s liking.
One night, a dense fog rolled in. A small fishing trawler, the Gull’s Glee, was lost. Silas, panicking, grabbed his accordion. “Beacon, we need a strong light! The Gull’s Glee is out there!”
“And you’re going to play polka to guide them?” Beacon scoffed. “No, Silas. Play the ‘Song of the Siren’s Sigh’! It’s haunting, yet comforting, and the vibrations will cut through this fog like a butter knife through… well, through butter!”
Silas, desperate, played the shanty, infusing it with all the worry he felt. The old lighthouse, encouraged, pulsed its light with unprecedented strength, guided by the melancholic melody. Moments later, the Gull’s Glee appeared out of the mist, safe and sound.
The captain hailed them. “Silas! That strange, beautiful music! It was like the ocean itself singing us home!”
Beacon vibrated with pride. “See, Silas? Told you polka was useless in a crisis.” Silas just smiled, wiping a tear from his eye. Maybe Beacon was right. A good shanty did have its uses. He still secretly hummed polka in the shower, though. Just in case.
View all episodes
By Matthew MitchellVisit the “A Bedtime Story” show website to submit your story ideas for a future episode!
Old Silas Grumbles lived a solitary life in the ancient, craggy lighthouse on the edge of Wobbly Rock Point. He was a man of routine: polish the lens, trim the wick, and at precisely 7 PM, play his accordion, usually a lively polka. Silas loved a good polka.
One stormy evening, as Silas squeezed out a particularly bouncy tune, the lighthouse itself creaked and groaned. Not the usual old-house creaks, but a distinct, offended groan. “Oh, for the love of barnacles, Silas! Must it always be that awful ‘oom-pah-pah’ racket?” a deep, rumbling voice echoed through the stone walls.
Silas nearly dropped his accordion. “Who’s there? Is that you, Captain Seaworthy’s ghost?”
“Ghost? Nonsense! It’s me, Beacon! This lighthouse!” the voice boomed. “And I’ve had enough of your accordion. It rattles my very foundations. My light pulses in protest!”
Silas stared, wide-mouthed. His lighthouse was… talking? And it had opinions? “But… but I love polka! It’s cheerful!”
“Cheerful? It sounds like a drunk octopus falling down a flight of stairs while carrying a sack of accordions!” Beacon grumbled. “What about a nice sea shanty? Something with rhythm, a tale of the waves, a mournful lament of lost sailors?”
Silas, bewildered, tried a mournful shanty. He wasn’t very good at it. Beacon sighed, a sound like wind whistling through cracked stone. “Better, but needs more soul, Silas. Less… cat being squeezed in a door.”
From then on, Silas’s life was a constant musical negotiation. Beacon preferred the ancient, obscure shanties, often humming them softly through the wind, causing the glass of the lantern room to vibrate in approval. If Silas dared to play even a note of polka, Beacon would make the stairs creak menacingly, or worse, dim his powerful beam in protest, forcing Silas to hastily switch to something more to the lighthouse’s liking.
One night, a dense fog rolled in. A small fishing trawler, the Gull’s Glee, was lost. Silas, panicking, grabbed his accordion. “Beacon, we need a strong light! The Gull’s Glee is out there!”
“And you’re going to play polka to guide them?” Beacon scoffed. “No, Silas. Play the ‘Song of the Siren’s Sigh’! It’s haunting, yet comforting, and the vibrations will cut through this fog like a butter knife through… well, through butter!”
Silas, desperate, played the shanty, infusing it with all the worry he felt. The old lighthouse, encouraged, pulsed its light with unprecedented strength, guided by the melancholic melody. Moments later, the Gull’s Glee appeared out of the mist, safe and sound.
The captain hailed them. “Silas! That strange, beautiful music! It was like the ocean itself singing us home!”
Beacon vibrated with pride. “See, Silas? Told you polka was useless in a crisis.” Silas just smiled, wiping a tear from his eye. Maybe Beacon was right. A good shanty did have its uses. He still secretly hummed polka in the shower, though. Just in case.