0:01

Welcome to bedtime stories

0:03

for grown ups in

0:05

which nothing much happens,

0:09

you feel good, and then

0:11

you fall asleep. I'm

0:14

Catherine Nikolay. 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. Let

0:37

me say a little about

0:39

how to use this podcast.

0:43

When your mind wanders and

0:46

then races at night,

0:48

keeping you up, making

0:51

you feel anxious and exhausted,

0:55

you need a way to guide it, to

0:58

steer it into calm waters.

1:02

And that's what these stories are. They

1:06

are quiet, simple places

1:10

to rest your mind.

1:13

Just by following along with

1:15

the sound of my voice,

1:17

you'll begin to train your brain for

1:20

better sleep. I'll

1:23

read the story twice,

1:26

and I'll go a little slower on the

1:28

second time through. If

1:31

you wake in the middle of the night, think

1:34

back to any part of the story

1:36

that you can remember, Lean

1:39

into whatever details you can recall

1:42

or create, and

1:44

you'll drop right back off. Our

1:48

story tonight is called

1:51

from the Hammock, and

1:54

it's a story about naps and

1:57

where and when and

2:01

under what circumstances we

2:03

take them. It's

2:06

also about a slow walk through

2:09

the garden, jars

2:12

of pickles put up in the cellar, and

2:17

knowing that what you seek is

2:19

seeking you. It's

2:24

time turn

2:27

off your light, settle

2:30

down into your favorite sleeping

2:32

position. You

2:35

have done enough for today.

2:40

It is enough. Now.

2:43

It is time to sleep, and

2:47

I'll be here watching

2:49

over as you drift off. Take

2:53

a slow breath in through your

2:55

nose and

2:59

sigh out through your mouth again,

3:06

in and

3:10

out.

3:16

Good from

3:20

the hammock. There

3:24

are different kinds of

3:26

naps. There

3:29

is the accidental nap, the

3:33

one you didn't see coming,

3:37

when you've settled in to watch a movie

3:40

or read your book and

3:44

suddenly you find yourself sliding

3:47

deeper into the sofa,

3:51

the book falling from your hands,

3:55

or the movie playing on without

3:57

you as you drop off. Then

4:03

there is the car nap. This

4:07

one is particularly sweet

4:10

when you're on a lengthy road trip

4:15

or the way home from a long

4:17

day out,

4:20

curled up in the passenger seat

4:24

or in the back, with

4:26

an equally sleeping kiddo's head

4:29

on your shoulder, a

4:31

belly full of Thanksgiving dinner, and

4:36

the radio on quietly as

4:38

street lights roll past.

4:43

Sometimes a nap is

4:45

fully planned. You

4:49

pull the shades in the bedroom and

4:53

get out of your clothes at two in the afternoon

4:58

and slide between the sheets, which

5:03

in that moment has never

5:05

felt better in your life.

5:11

You stretch out and take

5:13

up the whole bed and

5:16

just register the sound of cars

5:19

passing on the street before

5:23

you slip into sleep. But

5:28

the best nap, at

5:31

least in my opinion, is

5:34

the nap after a day in

5:36

the sun, swimming

5:39

and playing, gardening

5:42

or walking. Maybe

5:46

you've even had a shower, undressed

5:50

and clean soft clothes. I

5:55

found that irresistible heaviness

5:58

pulling you down into a or

6:02

some other shady spot where

6:05

you sleep until

6:08

someone wakes you to

6:11

tell you that supper is ready. Those

6:16

are the naps I still think

6:18

of the

6:22

ones I took as a child, with

6:25

the comforting sound of grown ups in

6:28

the background, chatting

6:30

and laughing as they cooked on the grill

6:34

or shucked corn, the

6:38

clink of plates and cups and

6:41

forks being set out, and

6:44

then a soft touch on my shoulder, cool

6:49

hand on my face to

6:51

let me know it was time to

6:54

wash up and

6:56

come to the table. Now

7:01

grown up myself, I'd

7:04

had a few chances to

7:06

be that cool hand, that

7:11

quiet voice that called

7:13

some one else from their nap, and

7:17

watched them blink and yawn

7:20

before filling their plate and

7:23

happily tucking in. I

7:27

was thinking of it to day, of

7:31

the kinds of naps and

7:35

the memories of sleepily dropping

7:37

off in different spots.

7:41

As I rowed the boat in

7:44

from the center of the lake, there

7:48

were already folks stretched

7:51

out in lounge chairs

7:54

and dozing on beech towels by

7:57

the edge of the water. They'd

8:01

only gotten out of their beds

8:03

a few hours ago, but

8:06

were peacefully sawing logs

8:09

in the sand.

8:13

That's the way of vacations, all

8:16

that pent up exhaustion finally

8:21

being given into. The

8:25

sun was still an hour or so

8:27

away from its highest spot, and

8:31

the day was getting warmer. The

8:35

morning mist had burned off completely,

8:39

and the june bugs were singing in the trees.

8:45

When my oars bumped along the

8:48

sandy lake bottom, I

8:50

pulled them into the boat and

8:54

carefully shifted on the seat till

8:57

I could step out into the water. It

9:02

wasn't even midsummer yet,

9:06

but here in the shallows the

9:08

water was warm. I

9:13

pulled the boat up on to the sandy

9:15

grassy land and found

9:17

my sneakers and coffee cup where

9:20

I had left them. I

9:24

tipped the dregs of the coffee

9:26

into the grass and

9:28

hooked my fingers through my laces

9:33

and walked barefoot up toward the inn.

9:38

The lilacs were done blooming, but

9:42

behind the great old house

9:46

was a row of tall trees, clusters

9:49

of white flowers high

9:52

in the leaves. They

9:56

looked a bit like hydrangeas, the

10:00

ones that grow in cone shapes,

10:03

with green leaves shaped

10:06

like oaks.

10:10

I had a feeling that the innkeeper had

10:12

told me, probably

10:15

more than once the

10:17

name of the tree.

10:21

Was it a crape myrtle or

10:25

an oleander? Whatever

10:29

it was called, it dropped

10:32

a light sweet scent into the air

10:36

and gave shade to the side yard

10:40

where the chef grew tomatoes and

10:42

herbs in a garden

10:44

edged with rocks.

10:49

I guessed I was looking for the innkeeper

10:53

to thank her for the coffee

10:56

and the use of the row boat, but

10:59

I was in no hurry, so

11:03

I decided to wander

11:05

through the garden. There

11:10

were a half dozen or so green

11:12

tomatoes on each plant,

11:18

and I rubbed their prickly leaves

11:22

to smell their good tangy scent. In

11:26

the herb garden, chaive flowers,

11:29

spiky and bright purple were

11:32

waving in the breeze,

11:35

and I spotted thick mounds of oregano

11:39

and terragon and

11:41

lemon verbina. The

11:46

dill was already high,

11:49

and I thought of all the lovely pickled

11:52

things the chef would make before

11:54

the summer was over. In

11:59

the cool kitchen basement, there

12:01

was a room of shelves behind the tiny

12:04

wine cellar, and

12:07

each shelf was full of neat

12:09

rows of jarred pickles

12:11

and vegetables okra,

12:17

carrots, cucumbers,

12:21

all mixed with dill and spices

12:23

and tart vinegar. I'd

12:27

been called in to help whenever

12:30

there was a bumper crop, trading

12:33

my time and chopping skills

12:36

for a basket full of jars to take

12:38

home to my own shelves.

12:43

Past the kitchen garden there

12:45

was a bit of space for games. This

12:49

is where we'd played badminton when

12:52

we were kids. There

12:56

was a croquet set, the

12:58

rubber mallet ends stained

13:00

green from many swings

13:02

into the grass. The

13:06

orange ball had gone missing years

13:09

and years ago, and

13:12

I had a vague memory that

13:14

we were likely to blame. Perhaps

13:18

we'd been chasing it down the hill with

13:21

the mallets until

13:23

one of us had knocked it out into

13:25

the lake, and then

13:28

ski daddled before

13:30

we'd been caught.

13:34

Still, you could play just

13:36

fine with five balls.

13:41

Closer to the house, under

13:43

the shade of an open umbrella,

13:46

a checkerboard was laid out with

13:49

a game in process across the squares.

13:54

Probably a few kids had started

13:56

it and then run off

13:58

to jump in the lake. When

14:02

they'd got tired of swimming, they'd

14:05

wrap up in big beach towels

14:07

and come back to battle it out some

14:09

more. I

14:13

turned the corner of the yard, stepping

14:16

onto the gravel of the big circle drive

14:19

that led to the inn's front door. I

14:24

peeked in to see if the innkeeper

14:26

was standing behind the desk with

14:29

the big guest book swiveled around

14:31

in front of her, or

14:34

pulling a key from the numbered cubbies

14:36

at her back, but

14:39

the lobby was empty. I

14:43

walked on around the far corner

14:45

of the house and to the other side.

14:50

There were a few benches scattered

14:52

here and there, facing

14:55

down the slope to the water, where

14:59

guests sat to watch the sunset and

15:02

the fireflies come out. Among

15:07

the trees were a couple ancient

15:09

hammocks made

15:11

from canvas and cotton, and

15:15

smelling of the filtered sunlight they

15:18

were stretched out in. I

15:22

stopped to think, wait,

15:27

does sunlight have a scent? But

15:31

then I thought of the towels drying on

15:33

the line in my backyard, of

15:37

the way your skin smells when

15:39

you've driven for a while with the window

15:41

down and one arm stuck

15:44

out into the wind, and

15:47

realized that it certainly

15:49

does. I

15:53

had no reason not to not

15:56

to sink down into the hammock and

15:59

lay back and sling my feet up. No

16:04

reason not to close my eyes to the

16:06

blue sky and

16:08

watch the after image of the day fade

16:11

behind my lids,

16:16

no reason not to drift and

16:19

sleep. I

16:23

had a feeling that after a

16:25

while, the innkeeper

16:29

whom I had been looking for, would

16:31

find me, would

16:34

lay a soft hand on my shoulder and

16:38

let me know in a low voice that

16:42

there were sandwiches being

16:44

served on the porch. If I was hungry,

16:48

I would be from

16:53

the hammock. There

16:57

are different kinds of

17:00

naps. There

17:04

is the accidental

17:06

nap, the

17:08

one you didn't see coming

17:13

when you've settled in to

17:15

watch a movie

17:18

or read your book and

17:22

suddenly you

17:24

find yourself sliding

17:27

deeper into the sofa,

17:32

the book falling

17:34

from your hands, or

17:38

the movie playing on without

17:40

you as you drop off. Then

17:47

there is the car nap. This

17:52

one is particularly sweet

17:56

when you're on a lengthy road trip

18:00

or the way home from

18:03

a long day out, curled

18:09

up in the passenger seat

18:13

or in the back with an

18:15

equally sleepy kiddo's

18:17

head on your shoulder, a

18:21

belly full of Thanksgiving dinner,

18:26

and the radio on quietly

18:29

as street lights roll past.

18:35

Sometimes a nap is

18:37

fully planned. You

18:41

pull the shades in the bedroom

18:45

and get out of your clothes at

18:48

two in the afternoon, slide

18:52

between the sheets, which

18:58

in that moment have

19:00

never felt better in

19:03

your life.

19:08

You stretch out and take

19:10

up the whole bed and

19:15

just register the sound of cars

19:18

passing on the street before

19:22

you slip into sleep.

19:28

But the best nap, at

19:32

least in my opinion, is

19:35

the nap after a day

19:38

in the sun swimming

19:41

and playing, gardening

19:44

or walking. Maybe

19:50

you've even had a shower, undressed

19:55

and clean soft clothes and

20:00

found that irresistible

20:03

heaviness pulling

20:05

you down into

20:08

a hammock or

20:10

some other shady spot

20:14

where you sleep until

20:17

someone wakes you to

20:20

tell you that supper is ready.

20:26

Those are the naps I

20:28

still think of, the

20:32

ones I took as a child,

20:36

with the comforting sound of grown ups

20:39

in the background, chatting

20:42

and laughing as

20:44

they cooked on the grill or

20:47

shucked corn, a

20:51

clink of plates and cups

20:54

and forks being set

20:57

out, and

20:59

then a soft touch on my

21:01

shoulder, a

21:04

cool hand on my face to

21:08

let me know it was time to

21:10

wash up and come

21:12

to the table. Now

21:19

grown up myself, I'd

21:23

had a few chances to

21:26

be that cool hand, that

21:31

quiet voice

21:34

I called someone else from their nap

21:38

and watch them blink and

21:40

yawn before

21:42

filling their plate and

21:46

happily tucking in. I

21:52

was thinking of it today, of

21:55

the kinds of naps and

21:58

the memories of

22:00

sleepily dropping off in

22:03

different spots. As

22:05

I rowed the boat in from

22:07

the center of the lake, there

22:12

were already folks

22:15

stretched out in lounge

22:17

chairs and dozing

22:20

on beach towels by

22:22

the edge of the water. They'd

22:27

only gotten out of their beds

22:30

a few hours ago. But

22:34

we're peacefully sawing logs

22:37

in the sand. That's

22:43

the way of vacations.

22:47

All that pent up exhaustion

22:51

finally being given

22:53

into the

22:58

sun was still an hour so

23:00

away from its highest

23:02

spot, and

23:06

the day was getting warmer. The

23:10

morning mist had burned off

23:13

completely, and

23:16

the june bugs were singing

23:18

in the trees. When

23:23

my oars bumped along

23:26

the sandy lake bottom, I

23:29

pulled them into the boat and

23:33

carefully shifted on the seat

23:37

till I could step out into

23:39

the water. I

23:45

wasn't even midsummer yet,

23:49

but here in the shallows

23:53

the water was warm. I

23:58

pulled the boat up onto

24:01

the sandy grassy land and

24:06

found my sneakers and

24:08

coffee cup where I'd left

24:10

them. I

24:14

tipped the dregs of the coffee

24:17

into the grass and

24:20

hooked my fingers through the

24:22

laces and

24:26

walked barefoot up

24:30

toward the inn. The

24:35

lilacs were done blooming, but

24:39

behind the great old house

24:44

was a row of tall trees with

24:47

clusters of white flowers high

24:51

in the leaves. They

24:55

looked a bit like hydrangeas ones

25:00

that grow in cone shapes, with

25:03

green leaves shaped like

25:06

oaks. I

25:10

had a feeling that the innkeeper

25:13

had told me, probably

25:16

more than once, the

25:18

name of the tree.

25:22

Was it a crape myrtle or

25:26

an oleander, whatever

25:30

it was called, it dropped

25:33

a light sweet scent

25:36

into the air and

25:40

gave shade to the side

25:42

yard where

25:45

the chef grew tomatoes and

25:47

herbs in

25:50

a garden edged with rocks.

25:56

I guess I was looking

25:58

for the innkeeper to

26:01

thank her for the coffee and

26:04

the use of the row boat. But

26:08

I was in no hurry,

26:12

so I decided to wander

26:15

through the gardens.

26:20

There were a half dozen or so green

26:23

tomatoes on each plant,

26:28

and I rubbed their prickly leaves

26:32

to smell their good tangy scent.

26:38

In the herb garden, chaive

26:41

flowers spiky

26:44

and bright purple or

26:46

waving in the breeze,

26:51

and I spotted thick mounds

26:53

of oregano and

26:56

terragon and

26:58

lemon verbena. The

27:03

dill was already high,

27:09

and I thought of all the lovely

27:11

pickled things the

27:14

chef would make before

27:16

the summer was over. In

27:22

the cool kitchen basement, there

27:25

was a room of shelves behind

27:28

the tiny wine cellar. A

27:32

neat shelf was full of neat

27:34

rows of jarred pickles

27:38

and vegetables okra,

27:43

carrots, cucumbers,

27:48

all mixed with dill and

27:51

spices and tart

27:53

vinegar. I'd

27:58

often been called in to help

28:02

whenever there was a bumper crop, trading

28:08

my time and chopping

28:10

skills for

28:12

a basket full of jars to

28:16

take home to my own shelves. Past

28:22

the kitchen gardens there

28:25

was a bit of space for games.

28:31

This is where we'd played badminton

28:34

when we were kids. There

28:38

was a croquet set. The

28:42

rubber mallet ends stained

28:45

green for many swings

28:47

into the grass. The

28:53

orange ball had gone

28:55

missing years

28:57

and years ago, and

29:01

I had a vague memory that we

29:04

were likely to blame. Perhaps

29:08

we'd been chasing it down the hill

29:11

with the mallets until

29:14

one of us had knocked it out

29:17

into the lake, and

29:20

then ski daddled before

29:24

we'd been caught. Still,

29:30

you could play just fine

29:33

with five balls.

29:37

Closer to the house, under

29:41

the shade of an open umbrella,

29:45

a checkerboard was laid out

29:49

with a game in process across

29:52

the squares. Probably

29:57

a few kids had started it

30:01

and then run off to jump

30:03

in the lake. When

30:07

they got tired of swimming, they'd

30:10

wrap up in big beach towels

30:13

and come back to battle it out some more.

30:20

I turned the corner of the yard, stepping

30:24

onto the gravel of the big

30:27

circle drive that

30:30

led to the inn's front door. I

30:37

peeked in to see if the

30:39

innkeeper was standing behind

30:41

the desk with

30:44

the big guest book swiveled

30:47

around in front of her, or

30:51

pulling a key from the numbered

30:54

cubbies at her back, but

30:59

the lobby was. I

31:04

walked around the far corner of

31:06

the house and to the

31:08

other side.

31:12

There were benches scattered

31:14

here and there, facing

31:18

down the slope to the

31:20

water, where

31:23

guests sat to

31:25

watch the sunset and

31:29

the fireflies coming out.

31:35

Among the trees were

31:37

a couple ancient hammocks

31:41

made from canvas and

31:44

cotton, and

31:48

smelling of the filtered sunlight

31:51

they were stretched out in, I

31:57

stopped to think, wait,

32:01

does sunlight have

32:03

ascent? But

32:07

then I thought of the towels

32:11

drying on the line in

32:13

my back yard, of

32:17

the way your skin smells when

32:21

you've driven for a while with

32:24

the window down and

32:27

one arm stuck out into

32:29

the wind, and

32:32

realized that it

32:35

certainly does. I

32:40

had no reason not to not

32:44

to sink down into a hammock

32:47

and lay back and

32:50

sling my feet up, no

32:54

reason not to close my eyes

32:57

to the blue sky and

33:00

watch the after image of the day

33:04

fade behind my lids,

33:09

no reason not to drift

33:12

and sleep. I

33:16

had a feeling that after

33:18

a while the innkeeper

33:23

whom I had been looking for would

33:26

find me, would

33:29

lay a soft hand on my shoulder,

33:33

and let me know in a

33:35

low voice

33:39

that there were sandwiches being served

33:41

on the porch. If I was hungry,

33:46

I would be sweet

33:50

dreams