Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Back Home Again

Episode Date: April 10, 2023

Our story tonight is called Back Home Again and it is the final chapter (for now) in the great saga of Marmalade the cat and her dog friends, Crumb and Birdy. It’s about the end of a trip away and the memories that are carried home after. It’s also about a sunny plaza and cups of lemonade, falling in love, and a tea party that serves catnip and biscuits. Thanks to your support, we give to a different charity each week. This week we are giving to Best Friends Animal Society, “working to save the lives of cats and dogs all across America, giving pets second chances and happy homes.”  Learn more about all things Nothing Much at http://www.nothingmuchhappens.com.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 read and write all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. Thanks to your support, we give to a different charity each week. This week, we are giving to Best Friends Animal Society. Working to save the lives of cats and dogs all across America,

giving pets second chances and happy homes at bestfriends.org, and learn about all things Nothing Much at nothingmuchappens.com. Just by listening to my voice and following along with the general shape of the story, you'll begin to create a reliable response in your brain and nervous system, so that when you lie in bed at night, when it's time to sleep, you just will. The more you practice it, the stronger the response will become. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little bit slower the second time through. If you wake again in the night, don't hesitate to turn this or another story right back on.

Or just think through any detail you can remember. Now, lights out campers. It's time. Set everything down. Prioritize your own comfort. How do you need to arrange yourself to feel the most relaxed? Whatever you did today,

it was enough. Enough has been done. Take a slow breath in. And sigh. Again, in through the nose. Out through the mouth. Good. Our story tonight is called Back Home Again, and it's the final chapter for now in the great saga of Marmalade the Cat and her dog friends, Crumb and Birdie.

It's about the end of a trip away, and the memories that are carried home after. It's also about a sunny plaza and cups of lemonade, falling in love, and a tea party that serves catnip and biscuits. Back home again. I had the window seat, and though I usually preferred the aisle, today I didn't mind it. Maybe it was the view. Beautiful blue sky and wispy clouds. Terrain that was becoming increasingly familiar as we crept closer to home.

Or maybe it was my mood. I was quiet and content. And the rows in front and behind us were full of dozing, still people. It made me pensive and happy to gaze out the window. Or maybe it was the company. We were on our way home from our first getaway, and I had a collection of happy memories to think through as we sat with our hands interlaced on the armrest. When you fall in love with a friend, you're always at risk of losing something

by sharing how you feel. Thinking back on it, all my great loves had been good friends first. And for the most part, I felt I'd gained more than I'd ever lost. But still, there's always that moment when you're about to step out into the light and bare your soul that you think, maybe not.

What if it all goes wrong? Luckily, I'd found that quieter voice in the very back of my mind. And she'd stepped up and said, what if it all goes right? And it had. We'd relaxed together, talked for hours, played in the waves,

and taken long walks to watch the sunset each night. The view from our balcony was glorious, and each morning we'd sit with our coffees and watch seabirds circling and soaring. We'd poked through the shops along the narrow cobblestone streets of the old town and bought a picture painted in a pretty plaza where we'd sat to have lemonades

and listened to the bells in the tower toll. We'd thoroughly enjoyed ourselves, and only once or twice a day, okay, maybe slightly more than that, and only once or twice a day. Okay, maybe slightly more than that. We'd wondered what Marmalade and the dogs were up to. We'd be on the beach, stretched out on lounge chairs,

and I'd take my paperback from the bag and find the back cover missing and the corner well-chewed and say, Oh, crumb, I miss you. Or we'd see a dog on the beach running in the surf to fetch a stick. or we'd see a dog on the beach, running in the surf to fetch a stick. And though Birdie would never do something so athletic,

we'd sigh, our arms tucked around each other's waists, as if it had been years rather than days since we'd been with him. The city plaza had been full of cats, lazily sleeping on the warm stone steps, and drifting in and out of shops, just like the tourists. I thought about how I'd found Marmalade, that snowy day, alone, out in the cold, and how she hadn't had to live by her wits since then. I wondered what she would make of these tropical cousins,

and guessed she would immediately advocate for a spot in the sun right alongside them. We'd heard from the innkeeper every day. She'd sent photos of them all. And as the plane brought us closer to home, I'd pulled them up to look through them again. In one, Marmalade was curled up in a bowl full of yarn, swatting at a strand with fierce focus. In another, the boys were out in the backyard on a sunny day. Birdie in his sweater and Crumb with a goofy grin on his face.

She told me Chef had sent them a package of homemade treats, and my favorite photos were of them enjoying them. The innkeeper had set up a tea party for them up in the big ballroom on the second floor. There was a quilt spread out on the parquet tiles, and plates set in front of each of them. Chef had made biscuits for the dogs, big ones for Birdie, and petite ones for Crumb, and each plate held a few. Bertie was stretched out on his belly, a biscuit clamped between his paws as he chewed.

While Crumb was a blur, and I laughed softly, thinking about how quickly he must have been diving down into his plate. For Marmee, Chef had made catnip tea in pretty muslin parcels. The innkeeper had steeped it for her

and set a teacup in front of her when it had gone cool. She told me that while Marmee had been confused at first, side-eyeing the cup and unwilling to try it, eventually she dipped a paw in and licked it clean. She cocked her head to the side, her little brain digesting the experience, and then lapped the tea up. She'd spent the rest of the day playing with her cat toys, and the yarn the innkeeper had

resignedly relinquished from her basket. I heard a slow yawn from the seat beside me, and he leaned in to see what I was looking at. I miss them too. We'll be there in just a bit. I know, I said, putting my phone away and looking again out the window at the view. Some people might not understand

if their families didn't include members like Marmie and Crumb. How a heart can open up and be changed by the love of animals. But we understood. And that was enough. In fact, we'd already talked about

making our next getaway somewhere close by, where we could bring them all along. Maybe we could borrow a camper and take a road trip together. Soon, we were adjusting our seat backs and tray tables and watching the city come closer into view. We were planning on going straight from the airport to the inn. We'd brought home gifts for everyone,

and we hoped they would like them. Not least of all, the innkeeper herself. For her, we'd found a picture book of all the old inns and hotels in the town we'd visited. There were photos of pretty entryways laid with tiny colored tiles, patios full of creeping plants and cushioned gliders, and one in particular that reminded me of the inn's back porch

where guests ate breakfast and drank their morning coffee. When we touched down, he squeezed my hand and kissed it. One adventure down, many more to come. Back home again. I had the window seat, and though I usually preferred the aisle,

today I didn't mind it. Maybe it was the view. Beautiful blue sky and wispy clouds. Terrain that was becoming increasingly familiar as we crept closer to home. Or maybe it was my mood. I was quiet and content.

And the rows in front and behind us were full of dozing, still people. It made me pensive and happy to gaze out the window. Or maybe it was the company. We were on our way home from our first getaway, and I had a collection of happy memories to think through as we sat with our hands interlaced on the armrest. When you fall in love with a friend,

you're always at risk of losing something by sharing how you feel. Thinking back on it, all my great loves had been good friends first. And for the most part, I felt I'd gained more than I'd ever lost. But still,

there's always that moment when you're about to step out into the light and bare your soul that you think, maybe not, what if it all goes wrong? Luckily, I'd found that quieter voice in the very back of my mind. And she'd stepped up and said,

What if it all goes right? And it had. We'd relaxed together, talked for hours, played in the waves, and taken long walks to watch the sunset each night. The view from our balcony was glorious, and each morning we'd sit with our coffees

and watch seabirds circling and soaring. We'd poked through the shops along the narrow cobblestone streets of the old town and bought a picture painted in a pretty plaza where we'd sat to have lemonade and listened to the bells in the tower toll. We'd thoroughly enjoyed ourselves.

And only once or twice a day, okay, maybe slightly more than that. We'd wondered what marmalade and the dogs were up to. We'd be on the beach, stretched out on lounge chairs, and I'd take my paper back from the bag

and find the back cover missing and the corner well chewed and say, oh crumb, I miss you. Or we'd see a dog on the beach running in the surf

to fetch a stick and though Birdie would never do something so athletic we'd sigh our arms tucked around each other's waists so athletic. We'd sigh, our arms tucked around each other's waists, as if it had been years rather than days

since we'd been with him. The city plaza had been full of cats lazily sleeping on the warm stone steps and drifting in and out of the shops, just like the tourists. I thought about how I'd found marmalade that snowy day,

alone out in the cold, and how she hadn't had to live by her wits since then. I wondered what she would make of these tropical cousins, and guessed she would immediately advocate for a spot in the sun right alongside them. We'd heard from the innkeeper every day. She'd sent photos of them all. And as the plane brought us closer to home, I pulled them up to look through them again. In one, marmalade was curled up in a bowl full of yarn, swatting at a strand with fierce focus. In another, the boys were out in the backyard on a sunny day,

birdie in his sweater, and Crum with a goofy grin on his face. She told me Chef had sent a package of homemade treats, and my favorite photos were of them enjoying them. The innkeeper had set up a tea party for them up in the big ballroom on the second floor. There was a quilt spread out on the parquet tiles and plates set in front of each of them. Chef had made biscuits for the dogs Big ones for Birdie And petite ones for Crumb And each plate held a few Birdie was stretched out on his belly,

a biscuit clamped between his paws as he chewed it, while Crumb was a blur. I laughed softly, thinking about how quickly he must have been diving down into his plate. For Marmie, Chef had made catnip tea in pretty muslin pouches. The innkeeper had steeped it for her. muslin pouches. The innkeeper had steeped it for her and set a teacup in front of her when it had gone cool.

She told me that while Marm had been confused at first, side-eyeing the cup and unwilling to try it. Eventually she dipped a paw in and licked it clean. She'd cocked her head to the side suddenly, her little brain digesting the experience,

and then lapped the tea up. She'd spent the rest of the day playing with her cat toys, and the yarn the innkeeper had resignedly relinquished from her basket. I heard a slow yawn from the seat beside me and he leaned in to see what I was looking at. I miss them too. We'll be there in just a bit. I know, I said,

putting my phone away and looking again out the window at the view. Some people might not understand if their families didn't include members like Marmee and Crum, how a heart can open up and be changed by the love of animals. But we understood, and that was enough. In fact, we'd already talked about making our next getaway somewhere close by, where we could

bring them all along. Maybe we could borrow a camper and take a road trip together. Soon, we were adjusting our seat backs and tray tables and watching as the city came closer into view. We were planning on going straight from the airport to the inn. We'd brought home gifts for everyone, and we hoped they would like them, not least of all the innkeeper herself. For her, we'd found a picture book of all the old inns and hotels in the town we'd visited. There were photos of pretty entryways laid with tiny colored tiles.

Patios full of creeping plants and cushioned gliders. And one in particular reminded me of the inn's back porch where guests ate breakfast and drank their morning coffee. When we touched down, he squeezed my hand and kissed it.

One adventure down, many more to come. Sweet dreams.