0:01

Welcome to bedtime stories

0:03

for grown ups in

0:05

which nothing much happens, You

0:09

feel good, and then you

0:11

fall asleep. I'm

0:14

Catherine Nikolai. I

0:16

write and read all the stories

0:18

you hear on Nothing Much Happens.

0:21

Audio Engineering is by Bob Wittersheim.

0:26

My book, also called Nothing

0:29

Much Happens, is available wherever

0:31

books are sold. Thank

0:34

you for your support. Your

0:37

mind needs a place to rest.

0:41

Without one, it will likely wander

0:43

off and keep you up. The

0:48

story I'm about to tell you is

0:50

like a nest to settle your mind

0:53

into. Just

0:55

by listening to the sound of my voice

0:58

and the simple shape of the tale,

1:02

you'll begin to train your brain to

1:05

stay in the nest, to

1:08

rest and to sleep. I'll

1:12

tell the story twice, going

1:14

a little slower the second time through. If

1:18

you wake in the middle of the night, try

1:21

thinking your way back through any

1:24

parts of the story you can remember,

1:29

or even just walking yourself through

1:31

a fond memory. We're

1:34

building better sleep habits, and

1:37

that takes a bit of time and patience,

1:40

but you'll notice that as you go you'll

1:43

fall asleep faster and

1:46

return to sleep more easily. Our

1:50

story tonight is

1:53

called The Lake at the Inn,

1:57

and It's a story about a misty summer

1:59

morning in the water. It's

2:03

also about a mug of coffee poured

2:05

by a friend, the

2:09

sounds you hear when you truly stop

2:11

to listen, and

2:14

a rowboat just waiting

2:17

to be pushed out away from the

2:19

shore. Now

2:25

lights out, campers, snuggle

2:29

down into your sheets and

2:31

get the right pillow in the right

2:34

spot, and

2:36

let your whole body relax. Whatever

2:40

you have done today, it

2:43

is enough. I

2:46

am here and

2:48

I will watch over so

2:52

you can let go of even that

2:54

last spoonful of alertness

2:59

and just wrask. Let's

3:02

take a deep breath in through

3:04

the nose and

3:08

sigh through the mouth. Nice,

3:15

Let's do one more in

3:22

and out good.

3:31

The lake at the inn mist

3:37

was thick in the trees. It

3:42

shifted slowly through the backyard,

3:46

clinging to the towels

3:48

I'd forgotten on the clothesline the night

3:51

before. I

3:54

made the air thick and

3:57

sweet, smelling like

4:00

deep woods, like

4:03

when you're so far into the

4:05

forest that

4:08

there isn't a bit of man made

4:11

anything anywhere around

4:13

you, and

4:16

you breathe in the layered scents

4:19

of fallen trees and grasses

4:22

and hidden pools of water. Watching

4:28

the mist recede through the hedges

4:31

made me want to chase it. I

4:36

thought of the lake at the

4:38

end of the lane,

4:42

wondering if the fog was still

4:44

thick on the surface. I

4:49

was tying the laces on my sneakers

4:52

a few minutes later, and

4:54

pulling the screen door closed

4:57

behind me. Eager

5:00

as a child, I raced

5:02

down the drive and

5:05

onto the dirt road. I

5:10

liked away the gravel and grit

5:13

crunched under my souls,

5:16

and whenever I found a larger stone

5:18

in my path, I kicked it forward,

5:23

skidding it along the surface, hopping

5:27

it over the puddles in

5:29

wheel ruts. It

5:33

must have rained overnight. I

5:37

had slept through it all, with the

5:39

bedroom windows cracked open a

5:41

few inches and

5:44

the ceiling fan turning in

5:46

lazy circles. Now,

5:51

the grass and the fields, the

5:54

growing stalks of corn and beans,

5:59

and the cage tomato plants on

6:01

the front porches of my neighbors,

6:06

we're all dripping wet, And

6:10

I thought of how good it feels to

6:13

have a long drink of water when

6:16

your throat is dry, and

6:19

found myself being happy for

6:21

the plants, happy

6:25

for the blades of grass, and flowering

6:27

fruits. It

6:31

doesn't take much to

6:33

celebrate someone else's good fortune,

6:38

just a moment's awareness outside

6:40

of yourself and

6:44

a recollection that were all connected.

6:49

At the end of the lane,

6:52

I followed a grass path down

6:55

toward the lake. Was

7:00

still sitting on top of the water,

7:05

and though the lake wasn't that

7:07

big, I

7:09

couldn't quite make out the shore

7:12

on the other side.

7:16

The sun was just starting to

7:19

burn through the cloudy haze,

7:23

and I had a sudden urge to

7:26

get closer to the mist

7:28

before it was gone.

7:33

I wanted to float right through the

7:35

center of it, as

7:38

if I were being borne along inside

7:41

a cloud. I

7:45

kneaded a boat. I

7:49

smiled, thinking of

7:51

where I could get one.

7:55

Just across a stretch of bare grasses

7:58

and scrub was

8:01

the neatly trimmed lawn of the inn.

8:06

I would go see the innkeeper. We

8:11

were childhood friends.

8:15

We'd ridden the bus back and

8:17

forth to school together each

8:20

day, and

8:22

spent summer mornings with bad mitten

8:24

rackets down by the lake, hitting

8:28

the birdie back and forth between us.

8:33

Once dressed in our Halloween

8:36

costumes, we'd

8:38

snuck away from the party on the main

8:40

floor of the inn to

8:43

creep up into the attic with

8:46

shaky flashlights, jumping

8:49

out from behind old trunks

8:53

and armchairs draped in sheets

8:56

to scare one another. Shrieked

9:00

and laughed and shrieked

9:03

some more, until we'd

9:05

thoroughly spooked ourselves and

9:08

run down the attic stairs into

9:10

the light of the hall, not

9:14

stopping until we got to the library,

9:17

where we could soothe our jangled

9:19

nerves with candy

9:22

apples and

9:24

pretend we'd never really been

9:26

scared at all. I

9:31

saw her, the innkeeper,

9:35

on the back porch of the inn. She

9:39

had a caraffe of coffee in her hand

9:44

and was chatting with a guest whose

9:46

table was spread with breakfast dishes.

9:52

When she looked up at me, she

9:54

winked and turned toward

9:57

the steps. She

10:00

stopped at a table stacked

10:02

with clean plates and mugs

10:06

and rolls of silverware.

10:10

She flipped over one of the mugs

10:13

and filled it with the hot coffee.

10:19

She set the carafe down and

10:21

carried the mug down the steps

10:24

and across the lawn to meet me, where

10:27

I was leaning one shoulder

10:30

against the boat house. I

10:34

reached out for the coffee and wrapped

10:37

my hands around the thick ceramic

10:39

mug. It

10:42

had the name and logo of the

10:44

inn printed in

10:46

faded dark blue,

10:49

and I thought that probably every one

10:52

in our village had

10:54

at least one of these mugs in

10:57

their cupboard. They

11:00

gave them away to guests, sold

11:04

them in the little shop in the front office,

11:09

but I doubted that was how most of

11:11

us got our hands on them. More

11:16

likely, it was just

11:19

like this moment now. The

11:23

innkeeper spotted you kneading

11:26

a cup of coffee,

11:28

and she handed one over, and

11:32

at some point you'd realized

11:35

you'd come home with it. She

11:40

turned toward the water, leaned

11:44

her own back against the boat house,

11:48

and pointed to a bevy of swans

11:51

at the edge of the water. The

11:56

parents had long, regal

11:58

necks and sharp

12:00

eyes that scanned

12:02

back and forth as

12:05

their gray, fluffy signets

12:09

clumsily dunked and

12:12

played in the lake. The

12:15

innkeeper laughed watching

12:18

them and asked, did

12:21

you want to take a rowboat out? Are

12:25

you chasing the

12:27

mist today? She

12:32

always saw right through me. I

12:35

nodded, smilingly behind

12:37

my mug. If

12:39

you've got one despair, I

12:42

said, in my best Ladie

12:45

Dah voice.

12:48

She gestured to the half dozen

12:50

or so boats pulled up on the shore

12:54

and told me to take my pick. She

12:58

bumped one elbow against mine

13:02

and turned to get back to the breakfast

13:04

crowd. I

13:08

stood watching the swans,

13:12

finishing my coffee

13:15

and breathing in the good smell

13:17

of the lake for a moment, and

13:22

I set my mug in the grass beside

13:24

the edge of the water and

13:27

picked my way carefully around the

13:30

swans to the boats.

13:34

From the random fax file in

13:37

my brain, I

13:39

retrieved the memory that

13:41

male swans are called cobs

13:46

and females called pens,

13:51

and wondered who had come up with such

13:53

words, and then who

13:55

had gone along with it. The

14:00

row boats were old, the

14:03

varnished wood, smelling sweet and dusty

14:06

even in the open air, and

14:08

each with the name of a tree stenciled

14:11

on the bough. I'd

14:14

been out on all of them in my

14:17

time, the horn

14:19

beam, the catalpa,

14:22

the paw Paw, the

14:25

hawthorn. But

14:27

my favorite, and the last

14:30

one in the row at the water, was

14:33

the Sycamore. I

14:37

left my shoes at the shore and

14:40

stepped into the shallow water, where

14:42

minnows were swimming in tiny streams.

14:48

The water was cool from the rain

14:50

over night, and

14:52

clear straight to the bottom.

14:57

With slow wobbly movements,

15:00

I inched my way into the seat well

15:04

and used the oars to push from

15:07

the land. My

15:11

back was turned to the center

15:13

of the lake, where

15:16

the mist was still floating, though

15:19

beginning to fade in

15:22

the increasing sunlight, and

15:26

as I pulled on the oars, I

15:29

watched the inn and the people

15:31

on the porch shrinking away.

15:37

Sound on water echoes. So

15:42

many times as a kid on the shore,

15:46

I'd heard early morning boaters

15:49

conversing from the other side of the lake

15:53

as if I'd been on board with them,

15:59

And as I made made my way into the mist,

16:03

I pulled in my oars and

16:07

opened my ears. I

16:12

listened for the water

16:14

lapping against the side of the boat,

16:19

for the call of water birds overhead,

16:24

and for insects buzzing in the air

16:27

or skittering across the lake's surface.

16:33

Though I had headed for the thickest

16:36

pockets of fog, as

16:38

soon as I entered one,

16:41

it seemed to disappear to

16:45

shift around me. While

16:50

I couldn't seem to sit right

16:52

in the cloud, I

16:56

could see it circled far out

16:58

around me. I

17:02

stayed, not rowing, just

17:07

letting the boat turn and

17:09

drift as she would. I

17:14

watched the sun come out and fall,

17:17

and the last bit of mist dissolve

17:20

in the warm light. I

17:25

looked to shore

17:28

saw guests at the inn with

17:31

towels slung over their

17:33

shoulders, coming down to

17:35

the beach. I

17:39

thought of my shoes and the

17:41

coffee mug in the grass.

17:45

I decided it was time to

17:48

take the sycamore back in and

17:51

see if the innkeeper was

17:53

up for a game of badminton. The

18:00

lake at the inn, mist

18:06

was thick in the trees. It

18:12

shifted slowly through

18:14

the backyard, clinging

18:19

to the towels I'd

18:21

forgotten on the clothesline the

18:24

night before. It

18:29

made the air thick and

18:31

sweet, smelling like

18:34

deep woods, like

18:39

when you're so far into

18:41

the forest that

18:44

there isn't a bit of

18:47

man made anything anywhere

18:51

around, and

18:55

you breathe in the layered

18:58

sense a fallen tree

19:01

and grasses and

19:04

hidden pools of water. Watching

19:10

the mist recede through

19:12

the hedges made

19:15

me want to chase it. I

19:21

thought suddenly of the lake at

19:23

the end of the lane,

19:27

wondering if the fog was still

19:29

thick on the surface. I

19:35

was tying the laces on my sneakers

19:38

a few moments later, and

19:43

pulling the screen door closed behind

19:45

me, eager

19:48

as a child, I

19:51

raced down the drive and

19:54

on to the dirt road. I

19:58

liked the way the gravel and grit

20:02

crunched under my souls, and

20:07

whenever I found a larger stone

20:09

in my path, I

20:12

kicked it forward,

20:14

skidding it along the surface,

20:19

hopping it over the puddles in

20:21

wheel ruts. It

20:25

must have rained over night. I

20:30

had slept through it all, with

20:33

the bedroom windows cracked open

20:35

a few inches and

20:38

the ceiling fan turning

20:40

in lazy circles.

20:45

Now, the grass in

20:48

the fields, the

20:50

growing stalks of corn and

20:53

beans, and

20:56

the caged tomato plants on

20:59

the front porches of my neighbors,

21:04

we're all dripping wet, and

21:09

I thought of how good it feels to

21:13

have a long drink of water when

21:16

your throat is dry. And

21:21

I found myself being happy

21:23

for the plants, happy

21:27

for the blades of grass and

21:30

flowering fruits.

21:35

It doesn't take much to

21:38

celebrate someone else's good

21:40

fortune,

21:43

just a moment's awareness outside

21:46

of yourself, and

21:49

a recollection that we're all connected.

21:56

At the end of the lane,

22:00

a grass path down

22:03

toward the lake. The

22:08

fog was still sitting on top

22:10

of the water, and

22:14

though the lake wasn't

22:16

that big, I

22:19

couldn't quite make out the shore

22:23

on the other side.

22:28

The sun was just starting

22:31

to burn through the cloudy

22:33

haze,

22:37

and I had a sudden urge to

22:39

get closer to the mist

22:43

before it was gone.

22:48

I wanted to float right

22:52

through the center of it, as

22:57

if I were being borne

23:00

along inside

23:02

a cloud. I

23:07

kneaded a boat, I

23:12

smiled, thinking

23:14

of where I could get

23:16

one.

23:20

Just across a stretch of bare

23:22

grasses and scrub was

23:26

the neatly trimmed lawn of

23:28

the inn. I

23:33

would go see the innkeeper.

23:40

We were childhood friends.

23:44

We'd ridden the bus back

23:46

and forth to school together

23:49

each day, and

23:51

spent summer mornings with

23:54

bad mitten rackets down

23:57

by the lake, hitting

24:01

the birdy back and forth

24:03

between us. Once

24:08

dressed in our halloween costumes,

24:13

we'd snuck away from the party on the

24:15

main floor of the inn to

24:19

creep up into the attic with

24:23

shaky flashlights,

24:27

jumping out from behind old

24:29

trunks and armchairs

24:32

draped in sheets to scare

24:34

one another. We'd

24:39

shrieked and laughed

24:43

and shrieked some more. Until

24:46

we'd thoroughly spooked ourselves

24:51

and run down the attic stairs

24:54

into the light of the hall, not

25:00

stopping until we got to the library,

25:05

where we could soothe our jangled

25:07

nerves with candy

25:09

apples and

25:12

pretend we'd

25:14

never really been scared at all.

25:20

I saw her, the

25:22

innkeeper, on

25:25

the back porch of the inn. She

25:29

had a caraffe of coffee in her hand

25:34

and was chatting with a guest whose

25:37

table was spread with breakfast

25:39

dishes. When

25:44

she looked up at me, she

25:46

winked and

25:48

turned toward the steps.

25:54

She stopped at a table stacked

25:56

with clean plates and mugs and

25:59

rolls of silverware. She

26:05

flipped over one of the mugs

26:09

and filled it with the hot coffee.

26:14

She set the caraffe down and

26:18

carried the mug down the

26:20

steps and across

26:22

the lawn to

26:24

meet me, where

26:27

I was leaning one shoulder

26:30

against the boat house. I

26:36

reached out for the coffee

26:39

and wrapped my hands around the thick

26:41

ceramic mug. It

26:46

had the name and the logo

26:48

of the inn printed

26:52

in faded dark blue.

26:58

It had the name and logo

27:00

of the inn printed

27:03

in faded dark blue,

27:07

and I thought that probably

27:10

everyone in our village

27:13

had at least one of these mugs

27:16

in their cupboard. They

27:20

gave them away to guests,

27:24

sold them in the little shop in

27:27

the front office,

27:31

But I doubted that was how most

27:34

of us got our hands

27:36

on them. More

27:40

likely, it

27:42

was just like this moment now. The

27:47

innkeeper spotted you needing

27:50

a cup of coffee,

27:54

and she handed one over, and

27:57

at some point I

28:00

realize you'd

28:02

come home with it. She

28:07

turned toward the water, leaning

28:11

her own back against the boat

28:13

house, and

28:17

pointed to a bevy of swans

28:20

at the edge of the water. The

28:25

parents had long regal

28:28

necks and

28:30

sharp eyes that

28:32

scanned back and forth

28:36

as their gray, fluffy signets

28:41

clumsily dunked and played

28:43

in the lake. The

28:48

innkeeper laughed watching them,

28:53

then asked, did

28:55

you want to take a rowboat out?

28:59

Are you chasing the mist today?

29:05

She always saw right through me. I

29:10

nodded, smilingly behind

29:12

my mug. If

29:16

you've got one to spare, I

29:19

said, in my best la de

29:21

da voice.

29:26

She gestured to the half dozen

29:29

or so boats pulled

29:31

up on the shore and

29:35

told me to take my pick. She

29:41

bumped an elbow against mine and

29:44

turned to get back to the breakfast

29:47

crowd. I

29:50

stood watching

29:52

the swans, finishing

29:56

my coffee and

29:59

breathing and the good smell

30:01

of the lake. For a moment. I

30:08

set my mug in the grass beside

30:11

the edge of the water and

30:14

picked my way carefully around

30:19

the swans to the boats.

30:26

From the random facts file

30:29

in my brain, I

30:33

retrieved the memory that

30:37

male swans are called cobs

30:41

and females called pens, and

30:47

wondered who had come up with such

30:49

words, and then who

30:51

had gone along with it. The

30:57

rowboats were old, varnished

31:00

woods, smelling sweet and

31:03

dusty even in the open

31:05

air, and

31:08

each with the name of a tree

31:11

stenciled on its bough. I'd

31:17

been out on all of them

31:19

in my time, the

31:21

horn beam, the Catalpa,

31:26

the Papa, the hawthorn. But

31:30

my favorite, and the

31:32

last one in the row at the water, was

31:36

the Sycamore. I

31:41

left my shoes at the shore and

31:45

stepped into the shallow water, where

31:49

minnows were swimming in

31:51

tiny streams. The

31:56

water was cool from

31:58

the rain overnight and

32:02

clear straight to the bottom.

32:08

With slow wobbly

32:10

movements, I

32:13

inched my way into

32:15

the seat well and

32:19

used the oars to

32:21

push back from the land. My

32:27

back was turned to the center

32:30

of the lake, where

32:33

the mist was still floating, though

32:37

beginning to fade

32:40

in the increasing sunlight, and

32:46

as I pulled on the oars, I

32:49

watched the inn and

32:52

the people on the porch shrinking

32:54

away on

33:00

water echoes. So

33:05

many times as a kid on the shore,

33:09

I'd heard early morning boaters

33:13

conversing from the other side of

33:15

the lake, as

33:18

if I'd been on board with them, And

33:23

as I made my way into

33:26

the mist, I

33:29

pulled in my oars and

33:32

opened my ears. I

33:38

listened for the water lapping against

33:40

the side of the boat, for

33:46

the call of water birds overhead,

33:51

and for insects buzzing

33:53

in the air skittering

33:57

across the lake's surface. Though

34:03

I'd headed for the thickest

34:06

pockets of fog, as

34:09

soon as I entered one,

34:12

it seemed to disappear to

34:16

shift around me, and

34:21

while I couldn't seem to sit

34:24

right in the cloud, I

34:29

could see it circled on

34:32

all sides. I

34:37

stayed, not

34:40

rowing, just

34:43

letting the boat turn and

34:46

drift as she would. I

34:51

watched the sun come out in full

34:55

and the last bit of mist

34:58

dissolve in the warm light. I

35:03

looked to shore, saw

35:08

guests at the inn with

35:13

towels slung over their shoulders.

35:16

Coming down to the beach, I

35:22

thought of my shoes, and

35:25

the coffee mug and the grass, and

35:29

decided it was time

35:31

to take the sycamore back in and

35:36

see if the innkeeper was

35:39

up for a game of badminton. Sweet

35:45

Dreams,