Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - A Midsummer Afternoon's Nap (Encore)

Episode Date: August 15, 2024

Originally Aired: July 31st, 2022 (Season 10, Bonus Episode 3) Our story tonight is called A Midsummer Afternoon’s Nap, and it’s a story about a slow swaying hammock stretched between two tall trees. It’s also about green tomatoes, hydrangeas turning from pink to blue, and the feeling of being comfortably nestled in summer.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 Katherine Nicolai. I write and read all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. We are bringing you an encore episode tonight, meaning that this story originally aired at some point in the past.

It could have been recorded with different equipment in a different location. And since I'm a person and not a computer, I sometimes sound just slightly different. But the stories are always soothing and family-friendly. And our wishes for you are always deep rest and sweet dreams. All that is needed from you right now is listening. Listen to my voice and the simple story I have to share. And soon you'll be relaxed and asleep. I'll read it twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake in the night, don't hesitate to turn this right back on. Our story tonight is called A Midsummer Afternoon's Nap,

and it's a story about a slow, swaying hammock stretched out between two tall trees. It's also about green tomatoes, hydrangeas turning from pink to blue, and the feeling of being comfortably nestled in the middle of summer. Okay, lights out, devices down. Fluff your pillow and slide down into your sheets. Anything that's still weighing on your mind, give it to me. Hand it over. Okay, I've got it now.

I'll keep track of things. You sleep. Breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth. Just as deep in and sigh. Good. A midsummer afternoon's nap. Now we were here.

At the halfway mark of the season. Or, I guess, a little past it. Not that the seasons followed the calendar very precisely anyway. I'd seen it snow in late May and ridden my bike on a few hot February days. The frost had come early, the spring melt had shown up weeks late, and midsummer was, after all, a feeling more than a precise moment. And these days, it felt like midsummer. The tomatoes were growing thick and numerous on the vines, but they hadn't turned red or even pink yet.

Each morning when I went to look at them, they looked back, stubbornly green, and I began threatening to make fried green tomatoes any day now. The heat was steady. Nearly every day was sunny and warm and long. And the first spurt of enthusiasm for all things summer had run its course. I'd been swimming at the beach, camping under the stars, road tripping and farmer's market shopping.

Now was the part of the summer when I had settled into the ease of the season. I was maybe even taking it for granted, something my future winter self would cluck her tongue at. I felt I had so many sunny days, but I could waste them, which is a luxurious feeling, and today I was leaning into it. I could be weeding the garden or taking a long bike ride down the dirt roads around my house.

Putting up jars of blueberry jam. Or cleaning out the garage while the weather was still good. But instead, I was planning on a nice long afternoon nap I'd finished my lunch which I'd eaten sitting on my front porch a big fresh salad with lettuce from the garden thick slices of avocado A big, fresh salad with lettuce from the garden. Thick slices of avocado and toasted sesame seeds.

All dressed with just olive oil and lemon juice and a sprinkle of salt. When I make a simple salad, especially if it is just the lettuce leaves, I think of a joke my dad used to make. He called it a honeymoon salad, as in lettuce alone. And I chuckled as I'd eaten it. I sipped out a cold glass of homemade blackberry agua fresca and noticed a breeze picking up in the yard. Sometimes I got lost just looking at the rippling leaves and petals

in my flower gardens. The hydrangeas were growing so big that their heavy heads toppled toward the ground. My hydrangea blooms were a lovely shade of pinkish purple. Last year, they'd all been bright pink. And of course, that was very pretty, but I'd been fiddling with the soil to see if I could get them to change color. The color depends on the acidity of the soil, you see. And I'd been talking to a few people at my garden club. And they told me that it would likely take a year or more. But I could shift them to blue.

By adding some particular ingredients to their environment. Coffee grounds, pine needles, and compost had all gone in since last fall. And the flowers that were blooming now showed a sort of halfway mark between the two colors, a rosy sunset indigo. I loved picking them at their peak and enjoying them on the kitchen table or in the front window.

But I was waiting to cut most of them to dry for the winter. And for that purpose, you want them to begin to dry on the plant. When the petals start to feel a little papery, and the color is fading just a bit, you go out in the morning, once the dew has dried, and snip them, leaving a long stem on each bloom. Then put a few stems in each vase and add a couple inches of water. And just let them be.

Set them away from direct sunlight, and let the water naturally evaporate. And in a few weeks, you'll have perfectly dried hydrangeas with their colors intact. I cut enough to slip one stem under the ribbon of each Christmas gift and birthday gift I'd give over the winter. A bit of summer preserved. But today, I was not doing that.

Not doing many of the little chores and tasks waiting for me all over the house. They could all be done another day. Today, with my belly full and the breeze blowing, I felt just like my flowers, heavy-headed and drooping toward the ground. I carried my half-full glass of agua fresca down the steps of the porch and headed around to the back. I'd hung a hammock between two giant elm trees, and its shady spot was perfect for afternoon dozing.

I drank the last few sips out of my cup and tucked it into the roots of one of the trees. I was an expert hammock user by now. I knew the best way to get in was just to sit at one edge, kick my shoes off and then pivot as I flopped back and let myself be caught in the cradle of fabric. It swung for a while and I closed my eyes just feeling the momentum run down as if I was the pendulum of a clock that needed

winding. I smiled, thinking that was exactly what I was. I needed winding, and each moment of the coming nap would turn the key until my gears were running smoothly again. When the hammock was still, I opened my drowsy eyes to look up through the branches. There was a whole village up in those crooks and knots and leaves. Birds nesting. Squirrels nimbly racing through the boughs, leaves catching up the sunlight and carrying it into the tree to make more leaves,

to catch more sunlight. I noticed that between the canopy of one tree and another, there was a small space, a sort of open expanse, so that one tree didn't crowd his neighbor. And from the back of my sleepy brain, a term for it stumbled forward. They called that crown shyness, and I liked it. It felt friendly, not shy to me, like the natural world's version of good fences making good neighbors.

I could feel the nap coming, and I let my eyes close again. It was midsummer. We still had so many bright, warm days to cut flowers and grow tomatoes and stay up late till the fireflies came out. A midsummer afternoon's nap. Now, we were here. At the halfway mark of the season.

Or, I guess, a little past it. Not that the seasons followed the calendar very precisely anyway. I'd seen it snow in late May and ridden my bike on a few hot February days. The frost came early. The spring melt showed up weeks late. And midsummer was, after all, a feeling more than a precise moment. And these days, it felt like midsummer. The tomatoes were growing thick and numerous on the vines,

but they hadn't turned red or even pink yet. Each morning when I went to look at them, they looked back, stubbornly green. And I'd begun threatening to make fried green tomatoes any day now. The heat was steady. Nearly every day was sunny and warm and long. and the first spurt of enthusiasm for all things summer had run its course. I'd been swimming at the beach, camping under the stars, road tripping and farmer's market shopping. Now was the part of the summer when I had settled into the ease of the season. I was maybe even taking it for granted.

Something my future winter self would clock her tongue at. I felt I had so many sunny days that I could waste them. Which is a luxurious feeling, and today I was leaning into it. I could be weeding the garden or taking a long bike ride down the dirt roads around my house, putting up jars of blueberry jam, or cleaning out the garage while the weather was still good. But instead, I was planning a nice, long afternoon nap. I'd finished my lunch, which I'd eaten sitting on my front porch.

A big, fresh salad with lettuce from the garden, thick slices of avocado and toasted sesame seeds, all dressed with just olive oil and lemon juice and a sprinkle of salt. When I make a simple salad, especially if it is just the lettuce leaves, I think of a joke my dad used to make. He called it a honeymoon salad, as in, let us alone, and I chuckled as I'd eaten it. I sipped on a cold glass of homemade blackberry agua fresca and noticed a breeze picking up in the yard.

Sometimes I got lost just looking at the rippling leaves and petals in my flower gardens. The hydrangeas were growing so big that their heavy heads toppled toward the ground. My hydrangea blooms were a lovely shade of pinkish purple. Last year, they'd all been bright pink. And of course, that was very pretty. But I'd been fiddling with the soil to see if I could get them to change their color. Their color depends on the acidity of the soil, you see. And I'd been talking to a few people at my garden club, and they told me that it would likely take a year or more, but I could shift them

to blue by adding some particular ingredients to their environment. Coffee grounds, pine needles, and compost had all gone in since last fall. showed a sort of halfway mark between the two colors, rosy sunset indigo. I loved picking them at their peak and enjoying them on the kitchen table or in the front window. But I was waiting to pick most of them to dry for the winter. And for that purpose, you want them to begin to dry on the plant. When the petals start to feel a little papery

and the color is fading just a bit, you go out in the morning once the dew has dried and snip them, leaving a long stem on each bloom. Then put a few stems in each vase and add a couple inches of water and just let them be. Set them away from direct sunlight and let the water naturally evaporate. And in a few weeks you'll have perfectly dried hydrangeas with their colors intact. I cut enough to slip one stem under the ribbon of each Christmas gift and

birthday gift I'd give over the winter. A bit of summer preserved. But today I was not doing that. Not doing many of the little chores and tasks waiting for me all over the house. They could all be done another day. Today, with my belly full and the breeze blowing. I felt like my flowers, heavy-headed and drooping toward the ground. I carried my half-full glass of agua fresca

down the steps of the porch and headed around to the back. I'd hung a hammock between two giant elm trees, and its shady spot was perfect for afternoon dozing. I drank the last few sips out of my cup and tucked it into the roots of the trees. I was an expert hammock user by now and knew the best way to get in was just to sit at one edge, kick my shoes off, and I closed my eyes, just feeling the momentum run down, as if I was the pendulum of a clock that needed winding.

I smiled, thinking that was exactly what I was. I needed winding, and each moment of the coming nap would turn the key, until my gears were running smoothly again. When the hammock was still, I opened my drowsy eyes to look up through the branches. There was a whole village up in those crooks and knots and leaves.

Birds nesting, squirrels nimbly racing through the boughs. Leaves catching up the sunlight and carrying it into the tree to make more leaves to catch more sunlight. I noticed that between the canopy of one tree and another, it was a small space, a sort of open expanse so that one tree didn't crowd her neighbor. From the back of my brain, a term for it stumbled forward. They called that crown shyness.

And I liked it. It felt friendly, not shy to me. Like the natural world's version of good fences making good neighbors. I could feel the nap coming when I let my eyes close again. It was midsummer, and we still had so many bright, warm days to cut flowers and grow tomatoes

and stay up late till the fireflies came out. Sweet dreams.