Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - A Letter In An Envelope (Encore)

Episode Date: July 4, 2024

Originally Aired: July 28th, 2019 (Season 4 Episode 1) Our story tonight is called “A Letter in an Envelope” and it’s a story about the everyday magic of messages sent between friends. It’s also about peanut butter spread on toast, a favorite spot on the back porch, and a lifelong habit of saving stories. So get cozy and ready to sleep. Save over $100 on Kathryn’s hand-selected wind-down favorites with the Nothing Much Happens Wind-Down Box. A collection of products from our amazing partners: Eversio Wellness: Chill Now Vellabox: Lavender Silk Candle Alice Mushrooms: Nightcap NutraChamps: Tart Cherry Gummies A Brighter Year: Mini Coloring Book NuStrips: Sleep Strips Woolzies: Lavender Roll-On.   Subscribe for ad-free, bonus, and extra-long episodes now, as well as ad-free and early episodes of Stories from the Village of Nothing Much! Search for the NMH Premium channel on Apple Podcast or follow the link below nothingmuchhappens.com/premium-subscription.  Listen to our new show, Stories from the Village of Nothing Much, on your favorite podcast app.  Join us tomorrow morning for a meditation at firstthispodcast.com.Purchase Our Book: https://bit.ly/Nothing-Much-HappensSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Grownups, in which nothing much happens. You feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Katherine Nicolai. I write and read all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. My book, also called Nothing Much Happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. My book, also called Nothing Much Happens, is available wherever books are sold. Thank you for your support. Now let me tell you a little about how to use this podcast. Your mind needs a place to rest. Someplace quiet and simple and soft. And that's what the story will be. A landing place. A nest for your mind.

All you have to do is listen. Follow along with the sound of my voice, and before you know it, you'll be waking up tomorrow, feeling rested and refreshed. I'll read the story twice, and I'll go a little slower when I get to the second telling. If you wake again in the middle of the night, try thinking back to any part of the story you can remember.

Put your mind right back into its nest, and you'll drop right back off. Our story tonight is called A Letter in an Envelope, and it's a story about the everyday magic of messages sent between friends. It's also about peanut butter spread on toast, a favorite spot on the back porch, and a lifelong habit of saving stories. Now, it's time. Switch everything off. Slide down into your sheets. And notice how good it feels to be in your bed. To be about to fall asleep.

Let's take a deep breath in through the nose and out. Good. A letter in an envelope. Maybe it was second grade, or maybe third. We'd read a story about pen pals, about a little girl from Portugal and a little boy from Japan. They sent letters back and forth, telling about their families and pets and schools. There'd been an illustration of each of them, waiting for the mail to come, eager to hear again

from a friend on the other side of the world. It created a bit of a craze for letter writing in our class, and our teacher had presented us with a list of names and addresses of children in a class in Poland who were keen on being pen pals. I'd drawn the name of a girl called Anna and dutifully set to write her a letter. I don't remember much now about what I wrote her or even what she wrote her, or even what she wrote me. But I do remember the excitement of finding her letter in my mailbox. The green paper of the envelope, and the exotic look of her handwriting.

I remember her number fours and how she inked out her Js and Fs. While Anna and I lost touch among the shifting responsibilities of fourth grade, I never stopped writing letters and mailing them off to friends. Flowers pressed into their pages. Drawings of birds and trees

haphazardly sketched across their envelopes. Sometimes just a postcard with a joke written hastily, sometimes many pages needing extra stamps and strips of tape to hold them closed. I had bundles of letters tied with scraps of ribbon and bits of twine, in a long, low box tucked under my bed. And sometimes, on a rainy day, I'd dig out a pack to see what we were all talking about ten years ago. Today, I had a letter to read and a letter to write.

A good day. I'd heard the flap and clatter of my mail slot as I'd been spreading peanut butter onto a thick slice of toast for breakfast. I carried the handful of envelopes and mailers back to my kitchen table, and I spotted the corner of an envelope, pale blue, with a hand-drawn heart. And I felt that same excitement that the boy from Japan and the girl from Portugal had felt. It was a little square envelope

with my name written in tiny neat script and stickers of flowers sealing it shut. I propped it up against my glass of grapefruit juice and sat down to finish my toast. I liked waiting to open a letter for a bit, letting the anticipation build. Plus, I didn't want to get peanut butter on that pretty blue paper, and I was fairly sure that I would. I took my time,

working my way through my toast and juice and a lovely ripe banana. I tidied up my plates and washed my hands and carried my letter to a sunny spot on the back porch, where I could look out at the growing garden as I read. The letter was from a friend since childhood. We'd grown up on the same street, but now lived far, far apart. Many people who rarely see each other write long letters to catch up. Updates on work and love and family. And certainly that is all useful and welcome information.

But my friend and I didn't send those kind of letters to each other. We sent little collections of interesting things, whatever seemed curious to us at the time of sending. Inside the envelope, I found a list of books she'd read in the past month, with a series of hand-drawn stars beside each one to show what she thought. A recipe on an index card for a curry dish her neighbor made. A ticket stub from a play she'd seen with a line that had stuck in her head written on the back. A note from her little boy about summer camp. And a stick of gum. The kind I had loved to chew in high school.

I opened the foil and chewed it right there on the porch as I looked back through the little stash of fines. I'd read a couple of the same books and thought about how I'd have ranked them. I realized I had all the ingredients for the curry dish and figured that that was dinner, sorted out. I remembered some stories from our own days at summer camp and thought I might write some out for my reply.

I stepped back inside and flipped through my stationary box. I had papers in lots of sizes and shades, postcards bought on faraway travels or just from the corner store, but also a stack of old photos. I'd been collecting them for ages, some from old albums in the attic, and some found here and there, in garage sales and flea markets. I sometimes held an old photo, a very old one,

and wondered if it was the last image left of the person pictured. They'd had a whole life somewhere. Loves and losses. Favorite songs and sworn enemies. And it felt like taking a moment to look at them gave them a breath of life again. I shuffled through them and pulled out a Polaroid from the 60s

of a little boy sitting on a sofa with his grandma and another, older, from the 30s of two girls in dresses standing in front of a clapboard front porch. On the strip of space under the Polaroid, I wrote, Stuff a date with almond butter or mint leaves, but not both. On the back of the picture of the girls, I wrote, Ask your mom about the camp talent show.

Does she still tap dance? I smiled at the memory and wondered if it would make the little boy laugh. I added in a scrap I'd cut from the police blotter of the local paper about a woman who'd been stealing flowers from her neighbor's yard, underlining the words, Suspect has not been apprehended. Lastly, I jotted down a few lines about a lecture I went to at the library the week before about grafting apple trees. The scion, I explained, was the bit being grafted. The rootstock, I told her,

was its new home. I bundled it all into an envelope and sealed it with red wax, pressing a star-shaped stamp into it. A letter received and a letter written. Wondering if my friend would remember the story from our year in third grade, I wrote across the envelope. From Japan to Portugal. A letter

in an envelope. Maybe it was second grade. Or maybe third. We'd read a story about pen pals, about a little girl from Portugal and a little boy from Japan. They sent letters back and forth, telling about their families and pets and schools. There'd been an illustration of each of them waiting for the mail to come, eager to hear again from a friend on the other side

of the world. It created a bit of a craze for letter writing in our class, and our teacher had presented us with a list of names and addresses of children in a class in Poland who were keen on being pen pals. I'd drawn the name of a girl called Anna and dutifully set to write her a letter. I don't remember much about what I wrote her, or even what she wrote me, but I do remember the excitement of finding her letter in my mailbox, the green paper of the envelope, and the exotic look of her handwriting. I remember her number fours

and how she inked out her Js and Fs. While Anna and I lost touch among the shifting responsibilities of fourth grade, I never stopped writing letters. And mailing them off to friends. Flowers pressed into their pages. Drawings of birds and trees haphazardly sketched across their envelopes. Sometimes just a postcard with a joke written hastily.

Sometimes many pages needing extra stamps and strips of tape to hold them closed. I had bundles of letters, tied with scraps of ribbon and bits of twine, in a long, low box, tucked under my bed. And sometimes, on a rainy day, I'd dig out a pack and see what we were all talking about ten years ago.

Today, I had a letter to read and a letter to write. A good day. I had heard the flap and clatter of my mail slot as I had been spreading peanut butter on a thick slice of toast for breakfast. I carried the handful of envelopes and mailers back to my kitchen table, and I spotted the corner of an envelope, pale blue,

with a hand-drawn heart, and I felt that same excitement that the boy from Japan and the girl from Portugal had felt. It was a little square envelope, with my name written in tiny, neat script, and stickers of flowers sealing it shut. I propped it up against my glass of grapefruit juice and sat down to finish my toast. I liked waiting to open a letter for a bit, letting the anticipation build.

Plus, I didn't want to get peanut butter on that pretty blue paper, and I was fairly sure that I would. I took my time, working my way through my toast and juice and a lovely ripe banana. I tidied up my plates and washed my hands and carried my letter to a sunny spot on the back porch, where I could look out at the growing garden as I read. The letter was from a friend since childhood. We'd grown up on the same street, but now lived far apart. Many people who rarely see each other write long letters to catch up,

updates on work and love and family. And certainly that is all useful and welcome information. But my friend and I didn't send those kind of letters to each other. We sent little collections of interesting things, whatever seemed curious to us at the time. Inside the envelope, I found a list of books she'd read in the past month, with a series of hand-drawn stars beside each one,

to show what she'd thought. A recipe on an index card for a curry dish her neighbor made. A ticket stub from a play she'd seen, with a line that had stuck in her head on the back. A note from her little boy about summer camp. And a stick of gum, the kind I had loved to chew in high school. I opened the foil and chewed it right there on the porch. As I looked back through the little stash of finds, I'd read a couple of the same books and thought about how I'd have ranked them. I realized I had all the ingredients for the curry dish and figured that was dinner sorted out. I remembered some stories from our own days at summer camp, and thought I might write

some out for my reply. I stepped back inside and flipped through my stationary box I had papers in lots of sizes and shades postcards bought on faraway travels or just from the corner store but also a stack of old photos. I'd been collecting them for ages, some from old albums in the attic, and some found here and there, in garage sales and flea markets.

I sometimes held an old photo, a very old one, and wondered if it was the last image left of the person pictured. They'd had a whole life somewhere. Loves and losses. Favorite songs and sworn enemies. And it felt like taking a moment to look at them gave them a breath of life again.

I shuffled through them and pulled out a Polaroid from the 60s of a little boy sitting on a sofa with his grandma, and another, older, from the thirties, of two girls in dresses, standing in front of a clapboard front porch. On the strip of space under the Polaroid, I wrote, Stuff a date with almond butter or mint leaves, but not both. On the back of the picture of the girls, I wrote,

Ask your mom about the camp talent show. Does she still tap dance? I smiled at the memory and wondered if it would make the little boy laugh. I added in a scrap I'd cut from the police blotter of the local paper about a woman who'd been stealing flowers from her neighbor's yard underlining the words, Suspect has not been apprehended. Lastly, I jotted down a few lines about a lecture I went to at the library the week before about grafting apple trees.

The scion, I explained, was the bit being grafted. The rootstock, I told her, was its new home. I bundled it all into an envelope and sealed it with red wax, pressing a star-shaped stamp into it. A letter received and a letter written. Wondering if my friend would remember the story from our year in third grade, I wrote across the envelope,

From Japan to Portugal Sweet dreams.