Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Fallen Trees & Firewood

Episode Date: October 9, 2023

Our story tonight is called Fallen Trees and Firewood, and it’s a story about a day spent in a meadow beside a cabin in the woods. It’s also about a task made easier by a neighbor, dogs running together through dry leaves, the glory of the mountains and the generosity of trees. We give to a different charity each week, and this week we are giving to the Nature Conservancy, whose purpose is to tackle the dual threats of accelerated climate change and unprecedented biodiversity loss. https://www.nature.org/en-us/ If you’ve been awake long enough to actually hear any stories lately, and wanted to hear just a bit more about the wedding at the Inn, and Marmalade and Crumb, you can subscribe to our premium plus feed. I wrote one more wedding story and it is a bonus feature there. We have our complete catalogue there, all ad-free, and with dozens of bonus stories. Learn more at 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 Katherine Nicolai. I create everything you hear on Nothing Much Happens, with audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. We give to a different charity each week, and this week we are giving to the Nature Conservancy, whose purpose is to tackle the dual threats of accelerated climate change and unprecedented biodiversity loss. We have a link to them in our show notes. If you've been awake long enough to actually hear any stories lately, and wanted to get just a bit more about the wedding at the inn, Marmalade and Crumb and birdie. You can subscribe now to our premium plus feed. I wrote one more wedding

story, and it's a bonus feature there. We have our complete catalog there, all ad-free, and with dozens of other bonus stories. Learn more at nothingmuchappens.com. Now, when you listen to a bedtime story, you actually shift your brain activity. It moves from the sort of background static of default mode to the calm focus of task positive mode. And the good news is that you don't have to understand any of that for it to work. All that's needed to train this reliable response is to follow along with the sound of my voice and the simple shape of the story I have for you. I'll tell it twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake later and feel your brain turn back on,

especially if it feels like your brain is racing, that's a sign to turn a story right back on. Most listeners report that when they do that, they're back asleep within seconds. Now, lights out campers. Please get as comfortable as you can. Take the time to arrange your pillows and blankets and teddy bears so that you feel completely at ease. I'll be here reading even after you've fallen asleep, watching over and guarding you with my voice. Let's take a deep breath in through the nose,

out from your mouth. Again, deep in, out with sound. Good. Our story tonight is called Fallen Trees and Firewood. And it's a story about a day spent in a meadow beside a cabin in the woods. It's also about a task made easier by a neighbor. Dogs running together through dry leaves. The glory of the mountains and the generosity of trees. Fallen trees and firewood. When I am at the lake,

I can't imagine anything better. I become a devotee of the lake, taking every chance I get to stroll along her shores and watch her from the window. When I am in the woods, it is the same. Suddenly I am in love with trees. I get lost staring up at the crowns and canopies

and looking for patterns in the bark. And now here, at the cabin, I am entranced by the mountains. Has there ever been anything like the feeling of standing in an open field in the autumn, looking out at the peaks. The scale of it, the sheer size of every formation and cliff, pushes every other thought out of my mind. And all I can do is look. Let my eyes rove over the outcroppings

and rock faces and colorful patches of changing leaves. Our cabin, a little A-frame house, tucked into the edge of the forest, looks out at the mountains.

And as lovely as it is in the summer, it absolutely shines in the autumn. Our back deck was littered with acorns, and the trees were full of gray squirrels, busily setting aside a winter's worth of supplies. The air smelled rich, full of organic scents of leaves and soil and running streams. On the mountain, a few houses sat scattered in the distance, and on clear days, you could see smoke rising from their chimneys.

At night, their rooms lit up. We'd been busy with chores, sweeping out the fireplace, taking down tomato cages in the garden, planting mums in the old terracotta pots by the door. I'd spent an afternoon clearing out the pantry and going through cookbooks to find good uses for anything that might go bad over the winter. I'd made a chickpea stew in our cast-iron Dutch oven, and a couple of loaves of bread

that had seen us through a few meals already. One morning, after a windy night full of rain and thunder, we woke to find an old elm tree blown over at the edge of the yard. I'd had my eye on her for a few seasons. She'd had missing leaves and hanging branches, and her bark was more gray than brown. she'd had missing leaves and hanging branches, and her bark was more gray than brown. When we'd spotted her from the deck, finally fallen,

I'd laid my hand on my heart and sighed. We'd pulled on boots and tromped out with the dog to take a closer look. We thought of our yard as more of a meadow, so we didn't mow or disturb the leaves in the fall. We let nature follow her own plan, and mounds of dry'd put on my thick socks and pulled a hat over my ears. And while it wasn't silent, it was quiet in a different way. there was a faint whistle in the tops of the trees, on our footsteps crunching through the leaves, and occasionally a snapping twig out in the forest, where a line of deer were traveling. But sound here was like a pebble tossed into a lake.

After the ripples faded, the water found its level again, and all was still. At the tree, we laid our hands on the bark, patting and saying thank you for the shade over the years for the home for so many insects and birds and chipmunks for holding this bit of earth with her roots

and when it was time for letting go and letting the wind bring her back to the ground. It might sound silly, but I didn't care. I felt real gratitude for this tree and didn't mind showing it. There was a large burl on one side, and I thought it would be a lovely way to remember this tall elm. To keep that precious burl wood and make something out of it.

Another part of the trunk was nearly hollow, and we decided we'd leave that in the high grasses in case the skulk of foxes needed a home this winter. But the boughs and branches would need to be cleaned up. We walked around, gathering armloads of thinner, smaller pieces that had broken free in the fall. It reminded me suddenly of my grandfather, pacing through his large yard, collecting kindling once a week, and stacking it in a lean-to beside his shed. His hands were more patient than mine.

His tool bench was tidy. A row of wrenches hung in descending order, nothing out of place. Plant pots sitting into one another like Russian dolls, and firewood organized by size and stacked like Tetris pieces in the garage. I smiled, thinking of him, as I bent down for another piece of wood. Maybe when I grew older, I would find my way to being more patient, tidier, and put together. I bent down for another and laughed, knowing that I wouldn't, and that that was okay too. Trees grow in all sorts of ways.

After we'd collected the loose wood, we realized two things. One, that this tree was giving us much more firewood than we could store or use this year. And two, that we'd need some help to clear it all up. Luckily, those two points worked together, and we called a neighbor down the road to come over. He brought his truck, with his own dog standing excitedly in the passenger seat, her brown head thrust out the window and long ears flapping in the wind. And together we spent the day sawing and stacking. Our dog lived for days like these,

when we were all outside, and he could race through the leaves with a friend. They took turns being branch manager, dragging the limbs away as we cut them free and running with them awkwardly balanced in their mouths till they spotted another one and dropped the first for it. After a while, we warmed up the stew and bread and ate together on the deck, making bets on how much snow we'd get this winter and sharing a bit of local gossip. Our favorite

breakfast spot, a little diner at the crossroads a few miles away had a new owner, and the corn maze by the highway had a haunted walk planned for Saturday night. I poured out kibble for the dogs who crunched away under the table and probably got sneaky hunks of bread from all three of us. When his truck was loaded with his share of the firewood, and the dogs had had their last race through the field, we waved goodbye, yelled out our thanks to our neighbor. Our own stores were packed with wood, and we had a fire laid and ready to light in the house. Each time I settled the logs this winter, each time I laid in the kindling and struck a match,

I would think of the old tree and the warmth she was giving. Fallen trees and firewood. When I am at the lake, I can't imagine anything better. I become a devotee of the lake, taking every chance I get to stroll along her shores and watch her from the window. When I'm in the woods, it is the same. Suddenly I am in love with trees. I get lost, staring up at the crowns and canopies, and looking for patterns in the bark. And now, here at the cabin,

I am entranced by the mountains. Has there ever been anything like the feeling of standing in an open field in the autumn, looking out at the peaks. The scale of it, the sheer size of each formation and cliff, pushes every other thought out of my mind. And all I can do is look. Let my eyes rove over the outcroppings and rock faces and colorful patches of changing leaves. Our cabin, a little A-frame house tucked into the edge of the forest, looks out at the mountains. And as lovely as it is in the summer, It absolutely shines in the autumn.

Our back deck was littered with acorns, and the trees were full of gray squirrels, busily setting aside a winter's worth of supplies. The air smelled rich, full of the organic scents of leaves and soil and running streams. On the mountain, a few houses sat scattered in the distance. And on clear days, you could see smoke rising from their chimneys. At night, their rooms lit up.

We'd been busy with chores, sweeping out the fireplace, taking down tomato cages in the garden, and planting mums in the old terracotta pots by the door. I'd spent an afternoon clearing out the pantry, going through cookbooks to find good uses for anything that might go bad over the winter. in our cast-iron Dutch oven and a couple of loaves of bread that had seen us through a few meals already. One morning, after a windy night full of rain and thunder, we woke to find an old elm tree

blown over at the edge of the yard. I'd had my eye on her for a few seasons. She'd had missing leaves and hanging branches and her bark was more gray than brown. When we'd spotted her from the deck, finally fallen, I'd laid a hand on my heart and sighed. We'd pulled on boots

and tromped out with the dog to take a closer look. We thought of our yard as more of a meadow, so we didn't mow or disturb the leaves in the fall. We let nature follow her own plan, and mounds of dry, crunchy leaves lay in pretty piles, sloping like drifts of snow around us. The air was cool, cooler than it was in town.

And I was glad I'd put on my thick socks and pulled a hat over my ears. And while it wasn't silent, it was quiet in a different way. There was a faint whistle in the tops of the trees, and our footsteps crunching through the leaves, and occasionally a snapping twig out in the forest, where a line of deer were traveling. But sound here was like a pebble tossed into a lake. After the ripples faded, the water found its level again, and all was still.

At the tree, we laid our hands on the bark, patting and saying thank you for the shade over the years, for the home for so many insects and birds and chipmunks, for holding this bit of earth with her roots, and when it was time for letting go and letting the wind bring her back to the ground. It might sound silly, but I didn't care. I felt real gratitude for this tree

and didn't mind showing it. There was a large burl on one side, and I thought it would be a lovely way to remember this tall elm, to keep that precious burl wood and make something out of it. Another part of the trunk was nearly hollow, and we decided we'd leave that in the high grasses, in case a skulk of foxes should need a home this winter. But the boughs and branches would need to be cleaned up. We walked around, gathering armloads of thinner, smaller pieces

that had broken free in the fall. It reminded me suddenly of my grandfather, pacing through his large yard, collecting kindling once a week, and stacking it in a lean-to beside his shed. His hands were more patient than mine. His tool bench was tidy, a row of wrenches hung in descending order. Nothing out of place.

Plant pots sitting into one another, like Russian dolls. And firewood organized by size and stacked like Tetris pieces in the garage. I smiled, thinking of him, as I bent down for another piece of wood. Maybe when I grew older, I would find my way to being more patient, tidier, and put together. I bent down for another and laughed, knowing that I wouldn't, and that that was okay too. Trees grow in all sorts of ways. After we'd collected the loose wood,

we realized two things. One, that this tree was giving us much more firewood than we could store or use this year, and two, that we'd need some help to clear it all up. Luckily, those two points worked together, and we called a neighbor down the road to come over. He brought his truck, with his own dog standing excitedly in the passenger seat,

her brown head thrust out the window, and long ears flapping in the wind, and together we spent the day sawing and stacking. Our dog lived for days like these, when we were all outside and he could race through the leaves with a friend. They took turns being branch manager, dragging the limbs away as we cut them free, and running with them awkwardly balanced in their mouths till they spotted another one and dropped the first for it. After a while, we warmed up the stew and bread and ate together on the deck, making bets

on how much snow we'd get this winter, and sharing a bit of local gossip. Our favorite breakfast spot, a little diner at the crossroads a few miles away, had a new owner, and the corn maze by the highway had a haunted walk planned for Saturday night. I poured out kibble for the dogs

who crunched away under the table and probably got sneaky hunks of bread from all three of us. When his truck was loaded with his share of the firewood, and the dogs had had their last race through the field. We waved goodbye and yelled out our thanks to our neighbor. Our own stores were packed with the wood, and we had a fire laid and ready to light in the house. Each time I settled the logs this winter,

each time I laid in the kindling and struck a match, I would think of the old tree and the warmth she was giving. Sweet dreams.