Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - A Day at the Cottage

Episode Date: June 5, 2023

Our story tonight is called A Day at the Cottage and it’s a story about settling back into a beloved place as the weather warms up. It’s also about a cupboard full of old dishes that have served meals for decades, a stack of magazines to flip through from the lounge chair, and a love for hand-me-downs and the memories they carry. We give to a different charity each week and this week we are giving to Alliance for the Great Lakes at greatlakes.org. They are a nonpartisan nonprofit working across the region to protect the fresh, clean, and natural waters of the Great Lakes.Purchase Our Book: https://bit.ly/Nothing-Much-HappensSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Everyone, in which nothing much happens, you feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Catherine Nicolai. I write and read all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens, with audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. Thank you for listening, and for sharing our show with others. We give to a different charity each week, and this week we are giving to the Alliance for the Great Lakes at greatlakes.org.

They are a non-partisan non-profit working across the region to protect the fresh, clean, and natural waters of the Great Lakes. If you're looking for an ad-free version of the show, you can subscribe to our premium feed through nothingmuchappens.com. Now, let's do some sleep training. We are going to settle your brain into its task-positive network, where you'll be able to quickly fall asleep. And we'll do that by giving your brain a teeny, tiny job to do.

And that is simply to listen, to follow along with the sound of my voice and a bit of the story I have for you. I'll tell it twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you find you are still awake at the end, don't worry. This training can take some time if you're new to it. Keep listening. Keep relaxing. Soon you'll be falling asleep within minutes. Now, lights out campers. It's time.

Be as comfortable as you can. Let everything relax and sink into the bed. You are done for the day. Whatever the day was, it's over now. Take a slow, deep breath in and sigh. Again, in through the nose. I said long through the mouth. Good. Our story tonight is called A Day at the Cottage. And it's a story about settling back into a beloved place as the weather warms up.

It's also about a cupboard full of old dishes that have served family meals for decades, a stack of magazines to flip through from the lounge chair, and a love for hand-me-downs and the memories they carry. A day at the cottage. The cottage was ready for summer. We'd spent a few days cleaning with the windows open, and it felt fresh and welcoming again. We put clean sheets on the beds. fresh and welcoming again.

We put clean sheets on the beds and shook out the rugs in the backyard. We dusted the bookshelves and the family photos in their frames. The beach towels had all been freshly washed and were waiting in a neat stack in the closet for their first trip of the summer to the water's edge. The key, hanging inside the back door, had been successfully wiggled into the lock on the shed, and the lawnmower convinced to start up. The smell of fresh-cut grass, when turned over dirt in the flowerbeds, made summer feel real, and from time to time I'd stop and look out at the water, at the way the sunlight shimmered on the surface, and feel overwhelmed with contentment for the season and the place.

In the kitchen, I'd restocked the pantry shelves with jars of pickles for our sandwiches, jam for our toast, and sauces for all the things we'd cook up on the grill. Cottages tend to get filled up with hand-me-downs, old dishes that don't match or have chips along the rim, threadbare blankets and lamps with wonky shades. When they get replaced elsewhere, they show up at the cottage, and they become precious objects again for a whole new reason

because they are a part of a beloved place and sweet memories. As I cleaned the kitchen, I washed the giant platter that had served a thousand summer suppers. The coffee cup that my father had always carried out to the water with him in the mornings. And the tiny juice glasses my grandmother had sipped wine from as she sat on the front porch. I filled the vases with wildflowers that grew in the ditch and replaced the burnt-out lightbulb that shone over the back steps.

And then we were done. We were ready to settle into the business of enjoying the summer, the water, and the sun. I've always loved the way that we, that as people of all ages, recognize the importance of napping in the middle of the day in the summertime. Whether it is on a blanket, stretched out in the sun or with a hat tipped over your eyes in a lounge chair

or under a big umbrella in a hammock, on any given summer day, the only logical thing to do is sleep. And even people who struggle to sit still, who keep busy nearly all the time, when they feel the warmth and smell the summer air, they start to look for a place to stretch out and catch some shut-eye. I looked forward to all those summer naps that lay ahead of me as I got ready to head to the water. I made a giant glass of cold tea with mint leaves and a bit of sugar swirling around the ice cubes. And I got a few of those clean towels from the closet. I laughed as I tucked them under my arm. These towels were holding on by a literal thread. I remembered wrapping up in them when I was a kid, tying the corners around my neck like a superhero's cape.

Running through the yard, my hair still wet from my latest cannonball into the water. They were still here, and would probably still be here next year. A neighbor had dropped off a bundle of magazines on the front steps. We shared sometimes, passing them back and forth, until we'd read them all. And I took a few with me,

and my sunglasses, and made my way over to the water. We had an old picnic table that was tilting slowly into the soft ground. It wasn't bad enough that my glass of tea would spill, but I added it to my mental list for a fix-up. I remembered seeing a stack of old bricks in the shed we could use to brace the legs.

Hand-me-downs and fixer-uppers. That was the cottage. We put out a few lounge chairs the day before, and I dragged one into the shade of a tall beech tree. As I struggled, one-handed, to spread my towels over it, I remembered the chairs we'd had when I was little. There was one that folded flat,

though you had to have an engineering degree to set it back up again. It was made of canvas and a wood frame, and I thought of my father flipping the fabric this way and that. Sure, he had it this time, then trying to sit and the whole thing collapsing. Then there were the beach chairs my mother and I tried to lay on. They were the kind that folded up like a trifold wallet and made of rubbery plastic tubes that your skin would get pinched in and leave you with striped marks all over your body once you managed to stand up out of them. The frames were aluminum that rusted almost instantly

and buckled when he tried to flip onto your belly. I could still remember the clicking sound the hinges made as you lowered or lifted the headrest, trying to get comfortable. I was almost certain, though, we still had all those chairs somewhere in the cottage. Finally, I settled into my spot and found a flattish patch of grass to rest my drink.

I took a long, slow breath in and let it out. My magazines I wanted to watch the water. There was a light breeze today, and a few boats out, so the surface rippled and rose in soft waves. I closed my eyes and listened. I could hear water birds calling, the far-off buzz of a lawnmower, water lapping against boat hulls, and high and softer than all of it, the light rustle of the breeze in the leaves. I knew in a minute or two that first summer nap of the season would swallow me up.

I'd doze deeply, happily, warm and content and wake to find all the ice cubes in my tea melted and the magazines flapping in the breeze. I held on to this moment for just a little longer. That sweet feeling of inevitable heavy sleep

coming to restore me. A day at the cottage. The cottage was ready for the summer. We'd spent a few days cleaning with the windows open. And it felt fresh and welcoming again. We put clean sheets on the beds and shook out the rugs in the backyard. We dusted the bookshelves

and the family photos in their frames. The beach towels had all been freshly washed and were waiting in a neat stack in the closet for their first trip of the summer to the water's edge.

The key, hanging inside the back door, had been successfully wiggled into the lock on the shed, and the lawnmower convinced to start up. The smell of fresh-cut grass and turned-over dirt in the flowerbeds made summer feel real. And from time to time, I'd stop and look out at the water, at the way the sunlight shimmered on the surface,

and feel overwhelmed with contentment for the season and the place. In the kitchen, I'd restocked the pantry with jars of pickles for our sandwiches, jam for our toast, and sauces for all the things we'd cook on the grill. Cottages tend to get filled up with hand-me-downs old dishes that don't match or have chips along the rim threadbare blankets and lamps with wonky shades.

When they get replaced elsewhere, they show up at the cottage and become precious objects again for a whole new reason. Because they are part of a beloved place and sweet memories. As I cleaned the kitchen, I washed the giant platter that had served a thousand summer suppers. The coffee cup that my father had always carried out to the water with him in the morning. And the tiny juice glasses my grandmother had sipped wine from as she sat on the front porch. I filled the vases with wildflowers that grew in the ditch and replaced the burnt-out light bulb that shone over the back steps.

And then we were done. We were ready to settle into the business of enjoying the summer. The water and the sun. I've always loved the way we, that is, people of all ages, recognize the importance of napping in the middle of blanket stretched out in the sun or with a hat tipped over your eyes in a lounge chair or under a big umbrella in a hammock. At some point on any given summer day, the only logical thing to do is sleep.

And even people who struggle to sit still, who keep busy nearly all the time. When they feel that warmth and smell the summer air, they start to look for a place to stretch out and catch some shut-eye. I looked forward to all those summer naps that lay ahead of me as I got ready to head to the water. I made a glass of cold tea with mint leaves and a bit of sugar swirling around the ice cubes. I got a few of those clean towels from the closet. I laughed as I tucked them under my arm. These towels were holding on by a literal thread. I remembered wrapping up in them when I was a kid,

tying the corners around my neck like a superhero's cape, and running through the yard, my hair still wet from my latest cannonball into the water. They were still here, and would probably still be here next year. A neighbor had dropped off a bundle of magazines on the front steps. We shared sometimes, passing them back and forth,

until we'd read them all, and I took a few with me and my sunglasses and was tilting slowly into the ground. It wasn't bad enough that my glass of tea would spill, but I added it to my mental list for a fix-up. I remembered seeing a stack of old bricks in the shed we could use to brace the legs. Hand-me-downs and fixer-uppers. That was the cottage. We'd put out a few lounge chairs the day before,

and I dragged one into the shade of a tall beech tree. As I struggled, one-handed, to spread my towels over it, I remembered the chairs we'd had when I was little. There was one that folded flat, though you had to have an engineering degree to set it up again. It was made of canvas and a wooden frame, and I thought of my father

flipping the fabric this way and that, sure that he had it this time then trying to sit and the whole thing collapsing. Then there were the beach chairs my mother and I tried to lay on. They were the kind that folded up like a trifold wallet. They're seats made of rubbery plastic tubes that your skin would get pinched in

and leave you with striped marks all over your body once you eventually managed to stand up out of them. The frames were aluminum that rusted almost instantly and buckled when you tried to flip onto your belly. I could still remember the clicking sound the hinges made as you lowered or lifted the headrest, trying to get comfortable. I was almost certain, though,

that we still had all of those chairs somewhere in the cottage. Finally, I settled into my spot and found a flattish patch of grass to rest my drink. I took a long, slow breath and let it out. My magazines could wait. I wanted to watch the water. There was a light breeze today,

and a few boats out, so the surface rippled and rose in soft waves. I closed my eyes and listened. I could hear water birds calling, the far-off buzz of a lawnmower, water lapping against boat hulls, and high and softer than all of it, the light rustle of the season would swallow me up. I'd doze deeply, happily, warm and content, and wake to find all the ice cubes in my tea melted.

And the magazines flapping in the breeze. I held on to this moment for just a little longer. That sweet feeling of inevitable heavy sleep. Coming to restore me. Sweet dreams.