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

Episode Date: September 9, 2019

Our story tonight is called “Back to School” and it’s a story about the tingling anticipation of a new school year. It’s also about freshly sharpened pencils neatly tucked into a case, Halloween candy eaten a bit early, and the thrill of learning something new. 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. I'm Catherine Nicolai. I write and read all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Our audio engineer is Bob Wittersheim. We're proud members of the CuriousCast podcast network. You can follow us on Facebook and Instagram and Twitter for pictures of cozy things and calm reminders to breathe and enjoy the small pleasures around you.

If you need more Nothing Much in your life, go to nothingmuchappens.com, where you can order some lovely pieces inspired by our stories. Hoodies coming soon. Let me say a little about how to use this podcast. 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. 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. Now, 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. Let's take a deep breath in through the nose and out through the mouth. Good. Let's do that again. Breathe in. And out. Our story tonight is called Back to School, and it's a story about the tingling anticipation of a new school year.

It's also about freshly sharpened pencils neatly tucked into a case, Halloween candy eaten a bit early, and the thrill of learning something new. Back to school. I'd been waiting, checking the mail each day for a few weeks, not knowing when it would come. When it finally showed up,

folded around a few envelopes, a flyer for the neighborhood garage sale, and a postcard from a faraway friend, I stood, tucking the other items under one arm, and smoothed out the cover. It wasn't a thick catalog, just a couple dozen pages, but it held the promise of something new. I took everything inside and sat at the kitchen table with a fresh cup of coffee and took my time to page through the possibilities. I'd finished college long ago, but often thought that if I could go back to those days and bring with me the curiosity and focus that have bloomed in me in the years since, I'd enjoy it so much more. I'd have picked my classes with a lot more care for their subjects rather than their time slots,

and studied the things that I'm now so interested in. A few years ago, I'd taken my nephews for an afternoon of school shopping. They'd already gotten their new clothes and sneakers with their dads, and I'd been allowed to sweep in for the fun stuff. We'd contemplated all the book bags, notebooks, pencil cases, and boxes of markers. I'd remembered how important these choices had felt to me when I was their age.

How each year's bag or trapper keeper had been an attempt to say something about who I thought I might be that year. Then add in the excitement of freshly sharpened pencils and clean blank notebooks. And although I'd been sad to see the end of the summer, I'd found myself looking forward to a new school year. One of my nephews was like me,

making slow, deliberate choices, asking for advice. This one, or this one. His little brother, silly and carefree, had just tossed things into the cart randomly, while I pulled about half of it back out, and eventually followed him into the early Halloween section, where he stood with a spooky mask and a bag of candy in his hand. When I'd taken them home, we'd sat at their table for a while, eating the candy, sharpening their pencils, and setting them up for their first day of school. They'd already gotten their school books, and I'd remembered my dad sitting at the table with us,

carefully covering our books in paper. He'd used brown paper grocery sacks, cutting off the bottoms and opening them at their seams to wrap the paper around the snubbed edges of the much-used books. He'd stack them in front of me as he went, and I'd open my new case of markers and colored pencils and draw out the title and my name, adding in the necessary rainbows and rocket ships.

That day with the boys had reminded me of how much I'd loved going back to school. So I'd started a new tradition. I decided to learn something new each year when the leaves started to turn. And so here I was with my small community ed catalog and my coffee and a pencil to make notes in the margin. Last year I'd done a semester of photography and had learned the basics of composition and leading lines and had even developed my own film in the studio darkroom.

One year I'd studied genealogy and over the few months of the class had built an extensive family tree. I had been fascinated by the documents, certificates of birth and death and marriage, and had noticed when looking at my great-grandmother's signature that we'd made our R's the same way. One crisp autumn I'd spent learning to identify various plants, to forage for stinging nettle, sorrel, and even wild amaranth. Now I turned the pages of the catalog and considered what should come next. I folded down the corner of the page on local history.

That was tempting. It came with trips to the library and a few local houses and sites. I drew a star beside a course about the basics of space science. I could study white dwarves, supernovae, neutron stars, and black holes. I was really considering the history of English when I saw one more option. Art restoration, step by step. I carried my coffee into the hall and looked up at a painting that had been handed down over several generations. It showed a woman, seated at a table, a book propped in her hand, and a window behind her,

looking out on a green landscape. It was full of details, knots and grains in the wood-paneled walls at her back, the soft fold of the fabric in her skirt, a shelf of jars and vases above her head. But they were somewhat lost in the layers of dust that had settled on her in the last 150 years or so. We'd wondered so many times who she was

who had painted her and if anything could be learned about where she'd come from I imagined spending the next few months in the broad open art studio of the community center her propped on my easel. Me with various brushes and tools, pots of solvent and water,

and a teacher to help me along the way. We'd clean our canvas, and maybe reveal the dark smudge in one corner that might possibly be a signature. We'd carefully open up the back of her frame, and we might find a label, some scrap of yellowed paper, to point me to an archive or a ledger in a library. I strode back to the table, took up my pencil, and circled art restoration,

step by step. I might, I thought, solve a mystery. Back to school. I'd been waiting, checking the mail each day for a few weeks, not knowing when it would come. When it finally showed up, folded around a few envelopes, a flyer for the neighborhood garage sale, and a postcard from a faraway friend. I stood, tucking the other items under one arm, and smoothed out the cover. It wasn't a thick catalog, just a couple dozen pages, but it held the promise of something new. I took everything inside and sat at the kitchen table with a fresh cup of coffee and took my time to page through the possibilities. I'd finished college long ago,

but often thought that if I could go back to those days and bring with me the curiosity and focus that have bloomed in me in the years since. I'd enjoy it so much more. I'd have picked my classes with a lot more care for their subjects rather than their time slots and studied the things that I'm now so interested in. A few years ago, I'd taken my nephews for an afternoon of school shopping. They'd already gotten their new clothes and sneakers with their dads.

And I'd been allowed to sweep in for the fun stuff. We'd contemplated all the book bags, notebooks, pencil cases, and boxes of markers. I'd remembered how important these choices had felt to me when I was their age. How each year's bag or trapper-keeper had been an attempt to say something about who I thought I might be that year. Then add in the excitement of freshly sharpened pencils and clean blank notebooks. And although I'd been sad to see the end of the summer,

I'd found myself looking forward to a new school year. One of my nephews was like me, making slow, deliberate choices, asking for advice. This one? making slow, deliberate choices, asking for advice. This one, or this one. His little brother, silly and carefree, had just tossed things into the cart randomly,

while I followed, pulling about half of it back out, and eventually found him in the early Halloween section, where he stood with a spooky mask and a bag of candy in his hand. When I'd taken them home we'd sat at their table for a while eating the candy sharpening their pencils and setting them up for the first day of school

they'd already gotten their school books, and I'd remembered my dad sitting at the table with us, carefully covering our books in paper. He'd used brown paper grocery sacks, cutting off the bottoms and opening them at their seams to wrap the paper around the snubbed edges of the much-used books. He'd stack them in front of me as he went, and I'd open my new case of markers and colored pencils, and draw out the title and my name, adding in the necessary rainbows and rocket ships.

That day with the boys had reminded me of how much I'd loved going back to school. So I'd started a new tradition. I'd decided to learn something new each year when the leaves started to turn. And so here I was, with my small community ed catalog, and my coffee, and a pencil to make notes in the margins. Last year, I'd done a semester of photography and had learned the basics of composition and leading lines, and had even developed months of the class, had built an extensive family tree. I'd been fascinated by the documents, certificates of birth and death and marriage,

and had noticed when looking at my great-grandmother's signature that we'd made our R's the same way. One crisp autumn, I'd spent learning to identify various plants, to forage for stinging nettle, sorrel, and even wild amaranth. Now I turned the pages of the catalog and considered what should come next. I folded down the corner of the page on local history. That was tempting. It came with trips to the library and a few local houses and sites. I drew a star beside a course about the basics of space science. I could study white dwarfs, supernovae, neutron stars, and black holes.

I was really considering the history of English when I saw one more option. Art restoration, step by step. I carried my coffee into the hall and looked up at a painting that had over several generations. It showed a woman, seated at a table, a book propped in her hand, and a window behind her, looking out on a green landscape. It was full of details, knots and grains in the wood-paneled wall at her back,

the soft fold of the fabric in her skirt, a shelf of jars and vases above her head, but they were somewhat lost in the layers of dust that had settled on her in the last 150 years or so. We'd wondered so many times who she was, who had painted her, and if anything could be learned about where she'd come from. I imagined spending the next few months in the broad, open art studio of the community center. Her propped on my easel. Me, with various brushes and tools.

Pots of solvent and water. And a teacher to help me along the way. Me, with various brushes and tools, pots of solvent and water, and a teacher to help me along the way. We'd clean her canvas and maybe reveal the dark smudge in one corner that might possibly be a signature. We'd carefully open up the back of her frame when we might find a label, some scrap of yellowed paper to point me to an archive

or a ledger in a library. I strode back to the table, took up my pencil, and circled Art Restoration step by step. I might, I thought, solve a mystery. Sweet dreams.