Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - At the Mill, with Pumpkins and Cider

Episode Date: October 22, 2018

Our story tonight is called “At the mill, with pumpkins and cider” and it’s a story about an afternoon in the cool autumn air doing some favorite things. It’s also about taking the time to let a moment unfold, a childhood memory, and a shared cup of cider. So get cozy and ready to sleep. See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.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. All stories are written and read by me, Katherine Nicolai, with audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. Thank you so much for listening and for sharing our stories with anyone you know who likes relaxation and good sleep. You can also follow us on Instagram and Facebook

for an extra bit of coziness. Let me tell you a little about how to use this podcast. I have a simple story to tell you to help you relax and drift off to sleep. Not much happens in it, and that's kind of the idea. It's just a cozy place to rest your mind. I'll read the story twice, and I'll go a little bit slower the second time through. If you find yourself

still awake at the end of the second telling, don't worry. That's sometimes how it goes. Relax, and walk yourself back through whatever bits of the story you can remember. Lean into them, and before you know it, you'll be waking up tomorrow, feeling refreshed and calm. This is a kind of brain training. We're training your brain to follow along with the shape of the story. Like an upturned leaf floats along on the surface of a river. Each time you use a story to settle your mind, it will happen more quickly and with more ease. So have some patience if you're new to this.

Now, it's time to settle in. Turn off your light. Put down all of your devices. You've looked at a screen for the last time today. Stretch deep into your sheets and settle yourself into your favorite sleeping position. Send a signal to your mind and body that it's time to turn everything off. Take a slow breath in through your nose and sigh it out of your mouth. Nice.

Let's do that again. Breathe in and out. Our story tonight is called At the Mill with Pumpkins and Cider. And it's a story about an afternoon in the cool autumn air, doing some favorite things. It's also about taking the time to let a moment unfold. A childhood memory and a shared cup of cider. At the mill, with pumpkins and cider. Through the heat of the summer, I'd been waiting, and now it was here. The cool, crisp autumn had arrived

and with it that feeling of energy and refreshment that replaces the drowsy linger of the summer. The afternoon light was golden in the way that only ever happens in the fall. The air smelled sweet and spicy, and the leaves were turning, making a new landscape for each passing day. Years ago, I'd said to a friend of mine that my eyes were so hungry for the colors of the leaves that I felt like I couldn't look hard enough. She'd smiled and said, soften your focus.

It was good advice. The moments I so looked forward to were best enjoyed with patience and calm attention. So looking out at the changing colors and feeling the cool air on my face, I stood still for a bit and softened my focus. I even closed my eyes and just listened to the sound of wind moving through drying leaves, which sounds differently from the breeze in the summer when the leaves

are fresh and still green. The difference could easily be missed if I hadn't stood so still or listened so long. We'd spent the morning raking leaves and putting away pots and coiling up hoses into the dark corner of the garage. There were mums, purple and rust red, on the porch. But as we stood, hands on hips, to admire them, we agreed something was missing. I guess we need some pumpkins, I said. I guess so.

A smile, bright eyes. And some cider? Obviously. We pulled on the sweaters that we'd shrugged off in the heat of yard work and jumped in the car. We headed out, main roads to side roads to dirt roads. An old song on the radio that I knew half the words to, and our fingers interlaced on the armrest.

Then rows and rows of knobby squat apple trees, low and heavy with fruit, were sliding past the windows, and we pulled the car into a grassy, rutted lot in front of the mill. In tall wooden bins, along the front of the barn and shop, were apples. So many apples, the ones you wait all year for, and taste and smell so differently from the ones at the store. There were also piles of pumpkins, rows of pumpkins, fields of pumpkins, and folks walking through, carefully deliberating and claiming,

this one's mine. Inside were shelves of preserves, cold cases full of cider, and of course trays of hot donuts. Some were bare, just crisp and plain. Others rolled in sugar or dipped in icing. Through one wall of the little shop was an old arched doorway into the pressing room where you could watch the cider be made. We stopped a moment there and watched a little boy watch the press come down. Why is it so fascinating to watch how things are made? I thought back to the grainy videos watched on rainy half-days in elementary school, and remembered being mesmerized by a short of how crayons were made. Hundreds of naked blue crayons skimming down a conveyor belt headed for their wrapping,

then tucked neatly into boxes, the boxes into crates, the crates onto trucks. The memory made me smile at the boy who stood mesmerized with a finger pressed in concentration to his chin, while his father squatted down behind him, pointed out the mechanism that was making his cup of cider. He has so many autumns ahead of him. Back outside, we headed to the fields, kicking through fallen leaves and looking out past the edge of the orchard to the rolling land that was, in some places, smooth after the harvest, and in others crowded with groves of trees

and edged by a quick-moving creek. Drying corn stalks were tied in bunches and stood together framing the open gate into the pumpkin patch we found a batch of tall pumpkins with flattish bottoms and green gnarled stems that looked like they came from a fairy tale we scooped them up along with some tiny round pumpkins

bright orange and just asking to have a face carved onto them. And carried the whole lot back in to have them weighed on an old rusty scale by the register, forty cents a pound, along with a brown paper bag of apples and a quart of cold cider to share on the way home. Back at home, we set out our pumpkins on the stoop and sat down beside them to enjoy the last of the cider

and the last of the evening light. Soon we would put away the rakes and tidy away the last pots and yard bags. Soon, in just another minute or so, we would head in and light some candles and start to fix dinner. But just now, just for a few more minutes, we sat and let the cool air chill our necks and noses. Just now we listened for the evening sounds of birds and chipmunks settling into bed, and looked out at the changing colors of the night sky. Just now we softened busy. At the mill, with pumpkins and cider.

Through the heat of the summer, I'd been waiting. And now it was here. The cool, crisp autumn had arrived, and with it that feeling of energy and refreshment that replaces the drowsy linger of the summer. The afternoon light was golden in the way that only ever happens in the fall. The air smelled sweet and spicy, and the leaves were turning, making a new landscape for each passing day.

Years ago, I'd said to a friend of mine that my eyes were so hungry for the colors of the leaves that I felt like I couldn't look hard enough. She'd smiled and said, soften your focus. It was good advice. The moments I so looked forward to were best enjoyed with patience and calm attention. So looking out at the changing colors and feeling the cool air on my face, I stood still

for a bit and softened my focus. I even closed my eyes and just listened to the sound of the wind moving through dry leaves, which sounds differently from the breeze in the summer when the leaves are fresh and still green. The difference could easily be missed if I hadn't stood so still, or listened so long. We'd spent the morning raking leaves and putting away pots and coiling up hoses into the dark corner of the garage. There were mums, purple and rust-red, on the porch, but as we stood, hands on hips, to admire them, we agreed something was missing.

I guess we need some pumpkins, I said. I guess so. A smile, bright eyes. And some cider? Obviously. We pulled on the sweaters that we'd shrugged off in the heat of yard work and jumped in the car. We headed out, main roads to side roads to dirt roads, an old song on the radio that I knew half the words to, and our fingers

interlaced on the armrest. Then rows and rows of knobby squat apple trees, low and heavy with fruit, were sliding past the windows, and we pulled the car into a grassy, rutted lot in front of the mill. In tall wooden bins along the front of the barn and shop were apples, so many apples, the ones you wait all year for, and taste and smell so differently from the ones at the store. There were also piles of pumpkins, rows of pumpkins, fields of pumpkins,

and folks walking through, carefully deliberating and claiming, this one's mine. Inside were shelves of preserves, cold cases full of fresh cider, and of course trays of hot donuts. Some were bare, just crisp and plain. Others rolled in sugar or dipped in icing. Through one wall of the little shop was an old arched doorway into the pressing room, where you could watch the cider be made. We stopped a moment there and watched a little boy watch the press come down. Why is it so fascinating to watch how things are made. I thought back to the grainy videos watched on rainy half-days in elementary school, and

remembered being mesmerized by a short of how crayons were made. Hundreds of naked blue crayons skimming down a conveyor belt, headed for their wrapping, and then tucked neatly into boxes, the boxes into crates, the crates onto trucks. The memory made me smile at the boy, who stood mesmerized with the finger pressed in concentration to his chin, while his father squatted down behind him and pointed out the mechanism that was making his cup of cider. He has so many autumns ahead of him.

Back outside, we headed to the fields, kicking through fallen leaves and looking out past the edge of the orchard to the rolling land that was in some places smoothed after the harvest and in others crowded with groves of trees and edged by a quick-moving creek. Drying corn stalks were tied in bunches and stood together framing the open gate into the pumpkin patch. We found a batch of tall pumpkins with flattish bottoms and green gnarled stems that looked like they came from a fairy tale. We scooped them up along with some tiny round pumpkins, bright orange and just asking to have a face carved onto them, and carried the whole lot back in to have them weighed on an old rusty scale by the register,

forty cents a pound, along with a brown paper bag of apples and a cold quart of cider to share on the way home. Back at home we set out our pumpkins on the stoop and sat down beside them to enjoy the last of the cider and the last of the evening light. Soon we would put away the rakes and tidy away the last pots and yard bags. Soon, in just another minute or so, we would head in and light some candles and start to fix dinner. But just now, just for a few more minutes, we sat and let the cool air chill our necks

and noses. Just now we listened for the evening sounds of birds and chipmunks settling into bed, and looked out at the changing colors of the night sky. Just now we softened our focus and forgot to be busy. Sweet dreams.