0:01

Welcome to bedtime

0:03

stories for grown ups in

0:07

which nothing much happens, you

0:10

feel good, and then

0:12

you fall asleep. I'm

0:15

Catherine Nikolay. I

0:18

read and write all the stories you

0:20

hear on Nothing Much Happens

0:24

Audio Engineering is by Bob Widersheim.

0:28

Thank you for listening and

0:31

for sharing our stories with anyone you

0:33

know who likes relaxation and

0:35

good sleep. You

0:39

can also follow us on Instagram and

0:41

Facebook and Twitter for

0:43

a bit of extra coziness.

0:47

And if you need a little more nothing much

0:49

in your life, head

0:52

to Nothing Much Happens dot com,

0:54

where you can find some special pieces inspired

0:57

by the show have

1:00

finally arrived. Now

1:04

let me explain a bit about how to use

1:06

this podcast. Our

1:09

minds have a tendency to race

1:11

and roam, and

1:14

this, more than anything else, is

1:16

what prevents us from finding good rest

1:18

at night. The

1:22

story I'm about to tell you is a place

1:24

to rest your mind,

1:27

a relaxing, peaceful spot to

1:30

focus on, so

1:32

that instead of racing, you

1:35

will rest. I'll

1:37

tell the story twice, and

1:39

I'll go a bit slower the second time through.

1:43

If you're still awake at the end of the second telling,

1:47

you could listen again or

1:49

just think your way through the details that you

1:51

can remember. This

1:55

will also put you back to sleep if

1:57

you wake in the middle of the night. This

2:01

is a kind of grown up sleep training, and

2:05

you will see your sleep continually improve

2:07

over time. Be

2:10

patient if you are new to this. Now

2:17

it's time to turn off the light. Settle

2:21

your body deeply into your sheets, and

2:25

get as comfortable as you can. Pull

2:29

the blanket over your shoulder and

2:33

feel your muscles relax. Let's

2:38

take a deep breath in through the nose

2:44

and a sigh out of the mouth. Good.

2:51

Do that one more time. Breathe

2:54

in and

2:59

out. Our

3:07

story tonight is called Over

3:09

the River and Through the Woods,

3:13

and it's a story about going home for Thanksgiving.

3:18

It's also about fresh rolls from the bakery,

3:21

late night card games, and

3:23

sitting at a long kitchen table with

3:26

people who know you well. Over

3:32

the River and through the Woods,

3:38

it was the day before Thanksgiving, and

3:41

the dogs and I stepped out into

3:43

the morning air to

3:47

find a thick frost on the ground and

3:50

the sweet, stinging scent of

3:52

coming snow in the air. The

3:57

dogs chased and crunched through the leaves,

4:01

leaving behind prints of their warm paws

4:04

in the white frost. I

4:09

stood with a quilt I pulled

4:11

from the sofa and hastily wrapped

4:13

around myself, and

4:16

watched my breath crystallizing in the air.

4:22

Though it was cold, the sun

4:24

was coming up, and I turned

4:26

my face toward it, closing

4:29

my eyes against the brightness and

4:33

watching the shifting colors through

4:35

my eyelids. I

4:41

kept my eyes closed and

4:43

listened. I

4:48

could hear the dogs in their play, the

4:53

very slight sound of wind in

4:55

the empty branches, and

5:00

the hopping and rustling of birds

5:02

out for their morning meal. I

5:07

whistled for the dogs and

5:09

held the kitchen door open. They

5:14

raced through with a buzz of canine excitement,

5:19

and I was excited too. To

5:23

day we were packing up the car and

5:26

driving out over the river and

5:29

through the woods for Thanksgiving

5:31

on the family farm. I

5:35

had grocery sacks ready at the door,

5:38

full of all the good things that would make

5:40

our meal. There

5:43

were butternut squashes to be blended

5:46

into a rich soup, bright

5:49

red cranberries that we'd stew into a

5:51

sauce with honey, crisp

5:53

apples, and walnuts.

5:58

There were jars of pickles that I'd canned. My ready

6:02

to be laid out on trays alongside crackers

6:04

and warm toasted nuts.

6:10

I had bundles of thyme and

6:12

rosemary, and

6:14

wide stippled leaves of sage

6:19

from the bakery. I'd bought heaps of dinner

6:21

rolls and pecan pies,

6:24

all tied into white boxes with string,

6:29

along with a few loaves of day old

6:31

bread, which

6:33

I'd let dry on the counter for stuffing. I

6:38

had mushrooms that smelled of the forest floor

6:40

to be made into a thick gravy, and

6:43

of course bags and bags of

6:46

potatoes. We'd

6:50

laughed at all the food as we packed it up, knowing

6:55

that every other member of the family was

6:57

likely to come with just as much, and

7:00

my poor aunt, the

7:02

current caretaker of the old white clambered

7:05

farmhouse, would

7:07

have to get very creative when

7:10

it came to storing, cooking,

7:13

and serving it. All. The

7:17

sacks of groceries went into the car and

7:21

we wedged in our bags and tucked

7:23

the dogs into the back seat. We

7:28

made ourselves cups of hot tea and

7:31

coffee to keep us company on the

7:33

long drive. Fiddled

7:36

with the radio till we found a station of old

7:38

songs we could sing along to, and

7:42

backed the car out on to the road.

7:47

It was a few hours out to the farm, but

7:52

the way was lovely, soft

7:55

sloping hills,

7:59

stand of beech trees, and fields

8:03

tilled over after the harvest, and

8:05

sometimes dotted in the distance with parcels

8:07

of deer as they bent their necks

8:09

to find lost years of corn and

8:12

left over shafts of wheat. There

8:16

were a few geese and ducks

8:18

still floating on the river, postponing

8:22

their flight south till after

8:24

the holiday. I imagined. The

8:29

dogs gave over to the rocking sway

8:31

of the car and were soon

8:33

snoring in the back while

8:36

we watched the scenery go by,

8:41

sometimes quiet with our own

8:43

thoughts, and

8:45

sometimes talking and laughing remembering

8:50

other years at the farm. The

8:54

house stood well back from the road, with

8:57

fields all around it, a

9:00

long, fading red barn at its back.

9:04

It had a wide front porch that my

9:07

cousins and I had jumped from his children

9:10

on broad window sills that I'd

9:12

sat on to read books in the summers

9:14

of my teenage years.

9:18

The driveway was full of cars, and

9:21

through the lit windows of the house I

9:24

could see our family gathered

9:28

in clumps, spread from the kitchen

9:30

to the front room. The

9:34

dogs flew out of the car when we opened

9:36

the doors and went racing

9:39

through the yard. They

9:43

knew this place and loved

9:45

to run till they couldn't run anymore.

9:51

They'd eventually duck in through the doggy

9:53

door in the back and find

9:55

a friendly lap, or stretch a floor

9:58

by the fire, or hand

10:00

sneaking a treat under the kitchen table to

10:03

cozy up to. We

10:07

loaded our arms with sacks and

10:09

stepped up onto the porch to

10:11

happily enter the melee of a

10:13

bustling family. Holiday embraces,

10:19

jokes, our names

10:22

being called from every corner of the room. As

10:24

happened whenever someone new came in, We

10:29

turned over our burdens and shut

10:31

our coats. Little

10:35

ones raced up to show us how much

10:37

they'd grown, to

10:40

tell us the name of their favorite teacher, to

10:43

grab our hands and show us the secret

10:45

door in the back of the coat closet that,

10:50

though it simply hid an old, disconnected

10:53

panel of fuses, in their

10:55

minds, could possibly lead to

10:57

Narnia.

11:00

A cousin squeezed my hand and

11:03

winked twice, a

11:06

secret signal we'd used since we were

11:08

both eight years old,

11:11

which had then meant something like hello,

11:16

but had evolved as we aged, to

11:18

mean something more like meet

11:20

me on the back porch later for a good gossip

11:23

and a glass of wine.

11:27

Making my way through nephews and nieces,

11:30

cousins and family friends who had been

11:32

adopted in years ago, I

11:36

eventually got to the kitchen, where

11:38

my aunt, keeper of the family

11:41

treasures, wrapped her

11:43

arms around me and squeezed

11:45

my still cold fingers until they were

11:47

warm. The

11:51

kitchen counters were full of dishes, casseroles

11:54

with spoons sticking out, ready

11:58

to feed the next hungry person to find their

12:00

way in, salads

12:04

made with dark greens and dried cherries

12:06

and nuts, breads

12:10

baked and brought just for today,

12:13

and trays of cookies and sweets.

12:18

My aunt looked at the two of us and

12:21

said, what must be the friendliest

12:23

sentence anyone can ever hear. Sit

12:28

down, and I'll fix you a plate. We

12:32

scooted into some mismatched chairs,

12:34

probably brought up from the basement or

12:37

down from the attic as part of the youngest

12:39

cousin's chores that day, and

12:43

space was made for us at the long wooden table,

12:46

where various relatives were digging in or

12:49

pushing back well scraped plates, bouncing

12:52

kids on their knees, or arguing

12:55

over the next day's menu. My

12:59

aunt set down plates in front of us, and

13:02

we grinned up better. Having

13:05

someone fix you a plate is

13:07

always better than doing it yourself. They'll

13:12

give you loving portions and

13:14

cram every inch of the plate with

13:17

what they know you like best.

13:21

Even if I'd filled my plate the same way,

13:24

it wouldn't have tasted as sweet.

13:29

We pulled forks from an old coffee mug

13:31

full of them in the center of the table, and

13:34

we're happy to sit back and fill

13:36

our stomachs. I

13:39

just listen to the overlapping conversation

13:42

of all these people who

13:44

knew us in a way that no one else

13:46

did, in

13:49

the way that family does. Later

13:54

there would be a walk out in

13:56

the brisk air with the dogs,

13:59

and then some pretty serious card games

14:01

would go until late the

14:04

rivalries of decades carried out

14:06

in hand after hand.

14:11

The children, worn out from the excitement,

14:14

would fall asleep on sofas and be carried

14:16

up to bed. Tomorrow,

14:21

a group of us, the early

14:23

risers, would be up before the sun

14:25

to start coffee, flip pancakes

14:28

and divvy up the work of the big meal of

14:30

the day.

14:34

Someone would organize a nature walk or

14:38

a treasure hunt for the kids.

14:41

Someone would turn on old movies. Someone

14:45

would nap all day on a couch.

14:51

Together. We'd all be grateful, certainly

14:54

for the big things each other,

14:57

health, food, this

15:00

place, but

15:03

also for the millions of little things

15:06

that we were learning to pay more attention to as

15:09

the years passed, the

15:12

paw prints and the frost, the

15:16

plate fixed for you, the

15:21

quiet cup of coffee after

15:23

it was all done, and put away

15:30

over the river and through the

15:32

woods. It

15:37

was the day before Thanksgiving, and

15:41

the dogs and I stepped out into

15:44

the morning air to

15:48

find a thick frost on the ground and

15:51

the sweet, stinging scent of

15:55

coming snow in the air. The

16:01

dogs chased and crunched

16:03

through the leaves, leaving

16:07

behind prince of their warm paws

16:09

in the white frost.

16:15

I stood with quilt I'd pulled

16:17

from the sofa and hastily

16:20

wrapped around myself, and

16:24

watched my breath crystallizing

16:26

in the air. Though

16:31

it was cold, the

16:34

sun was coming up, and

16:37

I turned my face toward it, closing

16:41

my eyes against the brightness

16:46

and watching the shifting colors through

16:49

my eyelids. I

16:54

kept my eyes closed and listened.

17:00

I could hear the dogs in their play, the

17:05

very slight sound of wind in the

17:07

empty branches, and

17:11

the hopping and rustling of birds

17:14

out for their morning meal. I

17:19

whistled for the dogs and held

17:21

the kitchen door open. They

17:27

raced through with a buzz of canine

17:29

excitement, and

17:32

I was excited too. To

17:37

day we were packing up the car and

17:40

driving out over

17:42

the river and through the woods

17:46

for Thanksgiving on the family farm.

17:53

I had grocery sacks ready at

17:55

the door, full

17:57

of all the good things that would make our

17:59

meal. There

18:04

were butternut squashes to be blended

18:06

into a rich soup, bright

18:10

red cranberries that we'd stew into

18:13

a sauce with

18:15

honeycrisp apples, and walnuts.

18:20

There were jars of pickles that I'd canned

18:23

myself, ready

18:26

to be laid out on trays alongside

18:29

crackers and warm toasted

18:31

nuts. I

18:35

had bundles of thyme and

18:38

rosemary, and

18:40

wide stippled leaves of sage

18:47

from the bakery. I'd bought

18:49

heaps of dinner rolls and

18:52

pecan pies, all

18:55

tied into white boxes with string,

19:00

along with a few loaves of day old bread

19:04

which I had let dry on the counter for

19:06

stuffing. I

19:11

had mushrooms that smelled of the forest

19:13

floor to be made

19:15

into a thick gravy, and

19:18

of course bags

19:21

and bags of potatoes. We'd

19:27

laughed at all the food as we packed it up,

19:31

knowing that every other member

19:34

of the family was likely to come

19:37

with just as much, and

19:41

my poor aunt, the

19:43

currant caretaker of the old white

19:45

clappered farm house, would

19:48

have to get very creative when

19:52

it came to storing, cooking,

19:55

and serving it. All the

20:00

sacks of groceries went into the car

20:04

and we wedged in our bags and

20:08

tucked the dogs into the back

20:10

seat. We

20:14

made ourselves cups of hot tea and

20:17

coffee to keep us company on

20:19

the long drive. Fiddled

20:23

with the radio till we found a station of

20:25

old songs we could sing along to, and

20:30

backed the car out on to the road. It

20:36

was a few hours out to the farm,

20:41

but the way was lovely, soft

20:45

sloping hills, stands

20:48

of beech trees, and fields tilled

20:52

over after the harvest,

20:57

and sometimes dotted in the distance with

21:01

parcels of deer as

21:03

they bent their necks to find lost ears

21:05

of corn and

21:08

left over shafts of wheat.

21:14

There were a few geese and ducks

21:16

still floating on the river, postponing

21:19

their flight south till after

21:22

the holiday, I imagined. The

21:28

dogs gave over to the rocking sway

21:30

of the car and

21:33

were soon snoring in the back while

21:36

we watched the scenery go by, sometimes

21:41

quiet with our own thoughts,

21:45

and sometimes talking and laughing

21:50

remembering other years at

21:52

the farm. The

21:57

house stood well back from the road,

22:01

with fields all around it and

22:06

a long, fading red barn

22:08

at its back, and

22:14

had a wide front porch that

22:17

my cousins and I had jumped

22:19

from as children, and

22:23

broad window sills that

22:26

I had sat on to read books in

22:28

the summers of my teenage years.

22:35

The driveway was full of cars,

22:40

and through the lit windows of the house I

22:43

could see our family gathered

22:48

in clumps, spread

22:52

from the kitchen to the front room. The

22:57

dogs flew out of the car when

23:00

we opened the doors and

23:02

went racing through the yard.

23:07

They knew this place and

23:10

loved to run till they couldn't run any more.

23:18

They'd eventually duck in through the doggy

23:20

door in the back and

23:24

find a friendly lap or

23:26

stretch a floor by the fire, or

23:30

a generous hand sneaking

23:33

a treat under the kitchen table to

23:35

cozy up to. We

23:41

loaded our arms with our sacks and

23:43

stepped up onto the porch to

23:47

happily enter the melee of

23:49

a bustling family holiday embraces

23:57

jokes, our names

23:59

being called from every corner of

24:01

the room has

24:03

happened whenever someone new came in. We

24:09

turned over our burdens

24:12

and shut our coats. Little

24:17

ones raced up to

24:20

show us how much they'd grown, to

24:26

tell us the name of their favorite teacher, to

24:30

grab our hands and show

24:32

us the secret door in the back

24:34

of the coat closet that,

24:37

though it simply hid an old,

24:39

disconnected panel, effuses in

24:43

their minds could possibly

24:45

lead to Narnia. A

24:51

cousin squeezed my hand and

24:53

winked twice,

24:56

a secret signal we'd used since

24:58

we were both eight years old old, which

25:03

had then meant something like hello,

25:08

but had evolved as we aged to

25:11

mean something more like meet

25:14

me on the back porch later for

25:16

a good gossip on a glass

25:18

of wine.

25:23

Making my way through nephews and

25:25

nieces, cousins

25:28

and family friends who had been adopted

25:31

in years ago. I

25:34

eventually got to the kitchen or

25:37

my aunt, keeper

25:40

of the family treasures,

25:43

wrapped her arms around me and

25:47

squeezed my still cold fingers

25:50

until they were warm. The

25:56

kitchen counters were full of dishes,

26:01

casseroles with spoons sticking

26:03

out of them, ready to feed

26:05

the next hungry person to find their

26:07

way in, salads

26:12

made with dark greens and dried

26:15

cherries and nuts,

26:19

breads baked and brought

26:22

just for today, and

26:25

trays of cookies and sweets.

26:31

My aunt looked at the two of us and

26:34

said, what must be the friendliest

26:36

sentence anyone can ever

26:38

hear. Sit

26:43

down, and I'll fix you a plate. We

26:50

scooted into some mismatched chairs,

26:53

probably brought up from the basement

26:56

or down from the attic as

26:58

part of the youngest cousins chores

27:00

that day, and

27:04

space was made for us at

27:07

the long wooden table, where

27:10

various relatives were digging in or

27:14

pushing back well scraped plates,

27:19

bouncing kids on their knees, or

27:23

arguing over the next day's menu.

27:31

My aunt set down plates in front of us,

27:34

and we grinned up at her. Having

27:38

someone fix you a plate is

27:42

always better than doing it yourself. They'll

27:48

give you loving portions

27:51

and cram every inch of the plate with

27:53

what they know you'll like best.

28:01

Even if I'd filled my plate the same way,

28:04

it wouldn't have tasted as sweet.

28:10

We pulled forks from an old coffee mug

28:13

full of them in the center of the table and

28:16

were happy to sit back and

28:19

fill our stomachs and

28:23

just listen to the overlapping

28:25

conversations of

28:28

all these people who knew us in

28:30

a way that no one else

28:33

did, in

28:37

the way that family does. Later

28:45

there would be a walk out

28:48

in the brisk air with the dogs,

28:53

and then some pretty serious card games

28:56

that would go until late the

29:00

rivalries of decades carried

29:03

out in hand after hand.

29:09

The children, worn out

29:11

from the excitement, would

29:14

fall asleep on sofas and

29:17

be carried up to bed. Tomorrow,

29:24

a group of us, the early

29:27

risers, would

29:29

be up before the sun to start

29:31

coffee, flip

29:33

pancakes, and

29:36

divvy up the work of the big meal of

29:38

the day.

29:42

Some one would organize a nature

29:45

walk or treasure

29:47

hunt for the kids. Some

29:51

one would turn on old movies, some

29:57

one would nap all day on

29:59

a together.

30:04

We'd all be grateful, certainly

30:08

for the big things each

30:10

other, health food,

30:15

this place, but

30:19

also for the millions of little things that

30:23

we were learning to pay more attention to as

30:26

the years passed, the

30:30

paw prints and the frost, the

30:33

plate fixed for you, a

30:39

quiet cup of coffee after

30:41

it was all done, and put away

30:48

sweet dreams.