Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Autumn at the Cabin

Episode Date: November 8, 2021

Our story tonight is called Autumn at the Cabin and it’s a story about some time away to rest and restore. It’s also about a stack of books waiting to be read, popcorn and apples, and the feeling of having truly nothing to do but enjoy the passing days.So get cozy and ready to sleep. Buy the book Get beautiful NMH merch Get autographed copies Get our ad-free and bonus episodesPurchase 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 Catherine Nicolai. I write and read all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Our audio engineer is Bob Wittersheim. If you sometimes wish you could live in the village of nothing much, could stroll to the library on a blustery day, ride your bike to the inn for a slice of coffee cake,

or browse at the bookshop downtown, I've got a few suggestions. We've got the coziest hoodies and t-shirts and stickers for sale. Our book, also called Nothing Much Happens, has gorgeous illustrations that you can fall right into. And we have bonus and ad-free episodes available, all at nothingmuchappens.com. Now I'm about to tell you a bedtime story. It's simple, and not much happens in it. And that is the idea. The story is a soft place to rest your mind. A simple and pleasant way to occupy it, so that it doesn't wander away and keep you up.

All you need to do is listen, in a relaxed way. Just follow along with the sound of my voice, and the simple details of the story. And soon, very soon, you'll be deeply asleep. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake in the middle of the night, you could listen again, or just think your way back through any part of the story that you can remember. We're training your brain to settle and rest, and the more you do this, the better your sleep will get. Okay, it's time.

Turn off your light. Snuggle your body down into your sheets and get as comfortable as you can. Take a moment just to feel how good it is to be in bed, to be about to sleep. I'll be here as you drift off, watching over, so you really can let go. Let's take a deep breath in through the nose, out through the mouth.

Nice. Let's do that again. Breathe in and out. Good. Our story tonight is called Autumn at the Cabin. And it's a story about some time away to rest and restore. It's also about a stack of books waiting to be read, popcorn and apples, and the feeling of having truly nothing to do but enjoy the passing days. Autumn at the cabin. We'd gotten in late in the afternoon. The long drive up had given us time to relax, muscles softening,

shoulders dropping down from our ears the closer we got. And when we finally pulled onto the long drive, the two-track gravel path that curved under canopies of yellow and orange oak leaves that were still clinging to the branches, we already felt different. Time ran differently here. And we were ready to be on a slower schedule. When we parked behind the old A-frame

and opened the doors, our dog zoomed out into the yard. He was taking stock, checking in on every corner of the place, circling around the shed and running through the wildflower patch. He stopped on the front porch, sniffing along the cracks in the wooden boards,

and I wondered if the possum that sometimes took shelter there was back. We opened the doors and let the fresh air in. We'd brought up enough groceries and supplies to stay for a week. And while we put things away, I fiddled with the radio till I found a station of soft, old songs that we could hum along to. We started a fire straight away. It was a chilly afternoon, and the heat would dry out and eat dampness that had settled in while we'd been gone.

Our dog had found a ball under the sofa, and we'd thrown it out the door and into the yard a few times, until he settled down on the porch with it between his paws. We refilled the wood store and set a pot of mums we'd brought from town on the kitchen table. We closed all but one of the windows as the sun was setting and the air was turning cold.

I took down the popcorn pot from the shelf and set it on the stove. Do you have a pot just for popcorn? I know they make fancy ones that whirl the kernels around while they cook, and I'm sure those are good too. But when I say popcorn pot, I mean the one you've used so many times

that the bottom might be a bit burnt. But it always makes fantastic popcorn. I'd read that you can pop other grains besides corn, like sorghum and amaranth, and even wild rice. Maybe I'd try that over the winter. When the corn was popped, I poured it, hot and delicious smelling, into a huge bowl and salted it generously. Then cut up a couple of honeycrisp apples and dropped them right in with the popcorn. I liked the sweet and salty together.

I carried another apple out to the porch and set it on the edge, farthest away from the door. If that possum buddy was there, I might be lucky enough to see his little paw reach up from under the deck and grab it down. Our dog snuggled in between us on the sofa. We spread an afghan over our legs and watched the fire crackle and pop. We shared the popcorn and apples, some for our pooch too,

and talked a little about what we'd like to do over the next week or so. We put a couple more logs on the fire and were quiet and relaxed together. I'd brought up a couple of books from my to-be-read pile that I was eager to dive into. But just now I found the only thing I wanted to do

was rest my head against the cushions and close my eyes and feel the warmth of the fire on my face. We must have nodded off there. We all must have, because we woke sometime late at night and blinked confusedly at each other in the low light. The fire had burned down to embers,

and we used the poker to spread them out and let them cool. We slid the fireplace doors closed and shut the window. We'd slept right through dinner time, but our snack seemed to have been plenty satisfying, as all three of us happily went up right into the loft to climb into bed. As soon as I'd pulled the heavy quilt over my shoulder, I fell right back to sleep and slept with that kind of heavy-bodied surrender that makes you feel like you've barely stirred all night, when even your dreams never fully form

and seem to be watched down the length of a long telescope. We didn't wake till it was fully light again, and that in itself felt like a triumph. Sometimes you don't know how tired you are until things stop. Until you get a chance to step down from the rushing train of everyday business and stand still. Then you may be surprised, as we were last night and this morning, about just how much rest you need.

I had a feeling our time here would likely contain many naps and early bedtimes. Our stomachs were growling once we finally got up, and we started with coffees for us and a dog biscuit for the furry one. We carried our coffees out onto the deck and sat wrapped in sweaters while we sipped. I smiled when I noticed that my apple gift of the night before was gone. We thought about making a big breakfast. We had everything we needed to cook one up. But we hadn't been to the little town down in the valley for a while,

and having someone else set a plate in front of us sounded even better. So we put on jeans and jackets and made the short ride down. Town was just a couple of blocks, a corner store where you could buy a few groceries and supplies. A pub where we'd gone to watch baseball games in the summer. A hardware store with a cluttered front window. Flyers and pictures of pickup trucks for sale taped to the glass, and a little cafe that served breakfast, lunch, and dinner,

unless they decided to hang up the close sign in the window and let you try again another day. They were open today, and we found an empty table along the windows. There is something so comforting and nourishing about sliding into a booth at a favorite place, knowing you'll be fed not just delicious food, but with the care of the people who work there. Our waitress, though she hadn't seen us in months, remembered us,

asked about what we'd been up to, how the autumn had been, and had us set up with more coffee and glasses of water in a flash. The menu had just a few simple dishes on it, but they also had a bakery case full of homemade treats, cinnamon buns and nutty doughnuts and fresh bread. I ordered my usual, French toast with sliced bananas and toasted pecans. We cupped our hands around our coffee mugs and smiled at each other. This week, we'd take long walks in the woods with our dog,

clean out the yard and rake the leaves, have a fire most every day, read our books on the porch when it was sunny and from the sofa when the rain fell. We'd drive down dirt roads exploring, watching out for deer and spotting old tree houses still sitting in their branches. We'd make dinner together and go to bed early and let busyness slowly unwind from our systems. We would rest. Autumn at the cabin.

We'd gotten in late in the afternoon. The long drive up had given us time to relax, muscles softening, shoulders dropping down from our ears the closer we got. we finally pulled onto the long drive, the two-track gravel path that curved under canopies of yellow and orange oak leaves that were still clinging to the branches. We already felt different. Time ran differently here. And we were ready to be on a slower schedule. When we parked behind the old A-frame and opened the doors, our dog zoomed out into the yard.

He was taking stock, checking in on every corner of the place, circling around the shed and running through the wildflower patch. He stopped on the front porch, sniffing along the cracks in the wooden boards. And I wondered if the possum that sometimes took shelter there was back. We opened the doors and let the fresh air in. We'd brought up enough groceries and supplies to stay for a week or so. And while we put things away, I fiddled with the radio till I found a station of soft, old songs that we could hum along to.

We started a fire straight away. It was a chilly afternoon, and the heat would dry out any dampness that had settled in while we'd been gone. Our dog had found a ball under the sofa, and we'd thrown it out the door and into the yard a few times until he'd settled down on the porch with it between his paws. We refilled the wood store and set a pot of mums we'd brought from town on the kitchen table. We closed all but one of the windows as the sun was setting and the air was turning cold. I took down the popcorn pot from the shelf and set it on the stove. Do you have a pot just for popcorn?

I know they make fancy ones that whirl the kernels around while they cook. I'm sure those are good too. But when I say popcorn pot. I just mean the one you've used so many times that the bottom might be a bit burnt, but it always makes fantastic popcorn. I'd read that you can pop other grains besides corn, like sorghum, an amaranth, and even wild rice. Maybe I'd try that over the winter. When the corn was popped, I poured it, hot and delicious smelling, into a huge bowl and salted it generously. Then cut up a couple of honeycrisp apples and dropped them right in with the popcorn. I liked the sweet and salty together. I carried an apple out to the porch and set it on the edge farthest from the door.

If that possum buddy was still there, I might be lucky enough to see his little paw reach up from under the deck and grab it down. Our dogs snuggled in between us on the sofa. We spread an afghan over our legs and watched the fire crackle and pop. We shared the popcorn and the apples, some for our pooch too, and talked a little about what we'd like to do over the next week or so. We put a couple more logs on the fire, and were quiet and relaxed together.

I'd brought up a couple of books from my to-be-read pile that I was eager to dive into. But just now, I found the only thing I wanted to do was rest my head against the cushions and close my eyes and feel the warmth of the fire on my face. I must have nodded off there. We all must have, because we woke sometime late at night and blinked confusedly at each other in the low light. The fire had burned down to embers,

and we used the poker to spread them out and let them cool. We slid the fireplace doors closed and shut the window. We'd slept right through dinner time, but our snack seemed to have been plenty satisfying as all three of us happily went right up into the loft to climb into bed. As soon as I'd pulled the heavy quilt over my shoulder, I fell right back to sleep and slept with that kind of heavy-bodied surrender

that makes you feel like you've barely stirred all night when even your dreams never fully form and seem to be watched down the length of a long telescope. We didn't wake till it was fully light again, and that, in itself, felt like a triumph.

Sometimes you don't know how tired you are until things stop. Until you get a chance to step down from the rushing train of everyday busyness and stand still. Then you may be surprised, as we were last night and this morning, about just how much rest you need.

I had a feeling our time here would likely contain many naps and early bedtimes. Our stomachs were growling once we finally got up, and we started with coffees for us and a dog biscuit for the furry one. We carried our coffees out onto the deck and sat wrapped in sweaters while we sipped. I smiled when I noticed that my apple gift of the night before was gone. We thought about making a big breakfast.

We had everything we needed to cook one up. But we hadn't been to the little town down in the valley for a while. And having someone else set a plate in front of us sounded even better. So we put on jeans and jackets and made the short ride down. Town was just a couple of blocks, a corner store where you could buy a few groceries and supplies. A pub where we'd gone to watch ballgames in the summer. A hardware store with a cluttered front window. Flyers and pictures of pickup trucks for sale taped to the glass.

And a little cafe that served breakfast, lunch, and dinner, unless they decided to hang the closed sign in the window and let you try again another day. They were open today, and we found an empty table along the windows. There is something so comforting and nourishing about sliding into a booth at a favorite place, knowing you'll be fed not just delicious food, but with the care of the people who work there. Our waitress, though she hadn't seen us in months remembered us

asked about what we'd been up to how the autumn had been and had us set up with more coffee and glasses of water in a flash. The menu had just a few simple dishes on it, but they also had a bakery case full of homemade treats, cinnamon buns and nutty doughnuts and fresh bread. I ordered my usual, French toast with sliced bananas and toasted pecans.

We cupped our hands around our coffee mugs and smiled at each other. This week we'd take long walks into the woods with our dog, clean out the yard and rake the leaves, Have a fire most every day. Read our books on the porch when it was sunny, and from the sofa when the rain fell. We'd drive down dirt roads, exploring, watching out for deer, and spotting old treehouses still sitting in their branches. We'd make dinner together, and go to bed early, and let busyness slowly unwind from our systems. We would rest. Sweet dreams.