Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - From the Hammock

Episode Date: June 28, 2021

Our story tonight is called From the Hammock and it’s a story about naps, and where and when and under what circumstances we take them. It’s also about a slow walk through the garden, jars of pickles put up in the cellar, and knowing that what you seek is seeking you. 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. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. My book, also called Nothing Much Happens, is available wherever you like to buy books. And for about a dime a day,

you can now subscribe to an ad-free version of our show. You'll also get a bonus episode each month that isn't available anywhere else. Go to nothingmuchappens.com to sign up. Let me say a little about how to use this podcast. When your mind wanders and then races at night, keeping you up, making you feel anxious and exhausted, you need a way to guide it, to steer it into calm waters. And that's what these stories are. They are quiet, simple places to rest your mind. Just by following along with the sound of my voice,

you'll begin to train your brain for better sleep. I'll read the story twice, and I'll go a little slower on the second time through. If you wake in the middle of the night, think back to any part of the story that you can remember. Lean into whatever details you can recall or create, and you'll drop right back off. It's time.

Turn off your light. Settle down into your favorite sleeping position. You have done enough for today. It is enough. You have done enough for today. It is enough. Now it is time to sleep. And I'll be here, watching over as you drift off. Take a slow breath in through your nose.

And sigh out through your mouth. Again, in and out. Good. Our story tonight is called From the Hammock. And it's a story about naps and where and when and under what circumstances we take them. It's also about a slow walk through the garden jars of pickles put up in the cellar and knowing that what you seek is seeking you from the hammock there are different kinds of naps. There is the accidental nap, the one

you didn't see coming, when you've settled in to watch a movie or read your book. And suddenly you find yourself sliding deeper into the sofa. The book falling from your hands or the movie playing on without you as you drop off. Then there is the car nap. This one is particularly sweet when you're on a lengthy road trip or the way home from a long day out,

curled up in the passenger seat or in the back with an equally sleeping kiddo's head on your shoulder, a belly full of Thanksgiving dinner, and the radio on quietly as streetlights roll past. sometimes a nap is fully planned you pull the shades in the bedroom and get out of your clothes at two in the afternoon and slide between the sheets which in that moment has never felt better in your life. You stretch out and take up the whole bed and just register the sound of cars passing on the street

before you slip into sleep. But the best nap, at least in my opinion, is the nap after a day in the sun, swimming and playing, gardening or walking. Maybe you've even had a shower undressed in clean, soft clothes and found that irresistible heaviness pulling you down into a hammock or some other shady spot

where you sleep until someone wakes you to tell you that supper is ready. Those are the naps I still think of, the ones I took as a child, with the comforting sound of grown-ups in the background, chatting and laughing as they cooked on the grill or shucked corn. The clink of plates and cups and forks being set out, and then a soft touch on my shoulder,

cool hand on my face, to let me know it was time to wash up and come to the table. Now, grown up myself, I'd had a few chances to be that cool hand, that quiet voice that called someone else from their nap and watched them blink and yawn before filling their plate and happily tucking in. I was thinking of it today, of the kinds of naps and the memories of sleepily dropping off in different spots as I rowed the boat in from the center of the lake. There were already folks stretched out in lounge chairs

and dozing on beach towels by the edge of the water. They'd only gotten out of their beds a few hours ago, but were peacefully sawing logs in the sand. That's the way of vacations. All that pent-up exhaustion finally being given into. The sun was still an hour or so away from its highest spot, and the day was getting warmer.ars bumped along the sandy lake bottom, I pulled them into the boat

and carefully shifted on the seat till I could step out into the water. It wasn't even midsummer yet, but here in the shallows the water was warm. I pulled the boat up onto the sandy, grassy land and found my sneakers and coffee cup where I'd left them. I tipped the dregs of the coffee into the grass and hooked my fingers through my laces and walked barefoot up toward the inn. The lilacs were done blooming, but behind the great old house was a row of tall trees clusters of white flowers

high in the leaves they looked a bit like hydrangeas the ones that grow in cone shapes with green leaves shaped like oaks. I had a feeling that the innkeeper had told me, probably more than once, the name of the tree. Was it a crape myrtle or an oleander? Whatever it was called, it dropped a light sweet scent into the air

and gave shade to the side yard, where the chef grew tomatoes and herbs in a garden edged with rocks. I guessed I was looking for the innkeeper, to thank her for the coffee and the use of the rowboat, but I was in no hurry, so I decided to wander through the garden. There were a half dozen or so green tomatoes on each plant, and I rubbed their prickly leaves to smell their good tangy scent. In the herb garden, chive flowers, spiky and bright purple, were waving in the breeze, and I spotted thick mounds of oregano and and lemon verbena. The dill was already high, and I thought of all the lovely pickled things the chef would make before the summer was over.

In the cool kitchen basement, there was a room of shelves behind the tiny wine cellar, and each shelf was full of neat rows of jarred pickles and vegetables. Okra, carrots, cucumbers, all mixed with dill and spices and tart vinegar. I'd been called in to help whenever there was a bumper crop, trading my time and chopping skills for a basket full of jars to take home to my own shelves. Past the kitchen garden, there was a bit of space for games.

This is where we'd played badminton when we were kids. There was a croquet set, the rubber mallet ends stained green from many swings into the grass. The orange ball had gone missing years and years ago, and I had a vague memory that we were likely to blame. Perhaps we'd been chasing it down the hill with the mallets, until one of us had knocked it out into the lake and then ski-daddled before we'd been caught. Still, you could play just fine with five balls. Closer to the house, under the shade of an open umbrella, a checkerboard was laid out with a game in process across the squares. Probably a few kids had started it and then run off to jump in the lake.

When they'd got tired of swimming, they'd wrap up in big beach towels and come back to battle it out some more. I turned the corner of the yard, stepping onto the gravel of the big circle drive that led to the inn's front door. I peeked in to see if the innkeeper was standing behind the desk with the big guestbook swiveled around in front of her, or pulling a key from the numbered cubbies at her back, but the lobby was empty. I walked on around the far corner of the house and to the other side there were a few benches scattered here and there facing down the slope to the water where guests sat to watch the sunset and the fireflies come out

among the trees were a couple ancient hammocks to watch the sunset and the fireflies come out. Among the trees were a couple ancient hammocks made from canvas and cotton, and smelling of the filtered sunlight they were stretched out in. I stopped to think. Wait, does sunlight have a scent? But then I thought of the towels drying on the line in my backyard. Of the way your skin smells when you've driven for a while with the window down and one arm stuck out into the wind.

And realized that it certainly does. I had no reason not to, not to sink down into the hammock and lay back and sling my feet up. No reason not to close my eyes to the blue sky and watch the afterimage of the day fade behind my lids. No reason not to drift and sleep. I had a feeling that after a while the innkeeper who I'd been looking for would find me would lay a soft hand on my shoulder and let me know in a low voice

that there were sandwiches being served on the porch if I was hungry. I would be. From the hammock. There are different kinds of naps. There is the accidental nap, the one you didn't see coming, when you've settled in to watch a movie or read your book. And suddenly, you find yourself sliding deeper into the sofa, the book falling from your hands, or the movie playing on without you as you drop off. Then there is the car nap.

This one is particularly sweet when you're on a lengthy road trip or the way home from a long day out. Curled up in the passenger seat, or in the back with an equally sleepy kiddo's head on your shoulder, a belly full of Thanksgiving dinner, and the radio on quietly as streetlights roll past. Sometimes a nap is fully planned. You pull the shades in the bedroom and get out of your clothes at two in the afternoon

and slide between the sheets, which in that moment have never felt better in your life. You stretch out and take up the whole bed and just register the sound of cars passing on the street before you slip into sleep. But the best nap, at least in my opinion, is the nap after a day in the sun, swimming and playing, gardening or walking. Maybe you've even had a shower and dressed in clean, soft clothes found that irresistible heaviness pulling you down into a hammock or some other shady

spot where you sleep until someone wakes you to tell you that supper is ready. Those are the naps I still think of. The ones I took as a child. With the comforting sound of grown-ups in the background chatting and laughing as they cooked on the grill or shucked corn.

A clink of plates and cups and forks being set out, and then a soft touch on my shoulder, a cool hand on my shoulder, a cool hand on my face, to let me know it was time to wash up and come to the table. I'd had a few chances to be that cool hand, that quiet voice that called someone else from their nap and watched them blink and yawn before filling their plate and happily tucking in. I was thinking of it today, of the kinds of naps and the memories of sleepily dropping off in different spots as I rowed the boat in from the center of the lake. There were already folks stretched out in lounge chairs and dozing on beach towels

by the edge of the water. They'd only gotten out of their beds a few hours ago, but we're peacefully sawing logs in the sand. That's the way of vacations. All that pent-up exhaustion finally being given into. The sun was still an hour or so away from its highest spot, and the day was getting warmer. The morning mist had burned off completely, and the June bugs were singing in the trees. When my oars bumped along the sandy lake bottom, I pulled them into the boat and carefully shifted on the seat till I the shallows, the water was warm.

I pulled the boat up onto the sandy, grassy land, and found my sneakers and coffee cup where I'd left them. I tipped the dregs of the coffee into the grass and hooked my fingers through the laces and walked barefoot up toward the inn. The lilacs were done blooming, but behind the great old house was a row of tall trees with clusters of white flowers high in the leaves.

They looked a bit like hydrangeas, the ones that grow in cone shapes with green leaves shaped like oaks. I had a feeling that the innkeeper had told me, probably more than once, the name of the tree. Was it a crepe myrtle? Or an oleander? Whatever it was called, it dropped a light, sweet scent into the air

and gave shade to the side yard where the chef grew tomatoes and herbs in a garden edged with rocks. I guessed I was looking for the innkeeper to thank her for the coffee and the use of the rowboat, but I was in no hurry. So I decided to wander through the gardens. There were a half dozen or so green tomatoes on each plant, and I rubbed their prickly leaves to smell their good tangy scent. In the herb garden, chive flowers, spiky and bright purple, were waving in the breeze.

And I spotted thick mounds of oregano and tarragon and lemon verbena. The dill was already high, and I thought of all the lovely pickled things the chef would make before the summer was over. In the cool kitchen basement, there was a room of shelves behind the tiny wine cellar. And each shelf was full of neat rows of jarred pickles and vegetables. okra, carrots, cucumbers, all mixed with dill and spices and tart vinegar. I'd often been called in to help whenever there was a bumper crop. Trading my time and chopping skills for a basket full of jars

to take home to my own shelves. Past the kitchen gardens there was a bit of space for games. This is where we'd played badminton when we were kids. There was a croquet set. The rubber mallet ends stained green from many swings into the grass. The orange ball had gone missing years and years ago, and I had a vague memory that we were likely to blame. Perhaps we'd been chasing it down the hill with the mallets

until one of us had knocked it out into the lake and then skedaddled before we'd been caught. Still, you could play just fine with five balls. Closer to the house, under the shade of an open umbrella, a checkerboard was laid out with a game in process across the squares. Probably a few kids had started it and then run off to jump in the lake. When they got tired of swimming, they'd wrap up in big beach towels and come back to battle it out some more. I turned the corner of the yard,

stepping onto the gravel of the big circle drive that led to the inn's front door. I peeked in to see if the innkeeper was standing behind the desk, with the big guest book swiveled around in front of her, or pulling a key from the numbered cubbies at her back. But the lobby was empty. I walked around the far corner of the house and to the other side there were benches scattered here and there facing down the slope to the water where guests sat to watch the sunset and the fireflies coming out. Among the trees made from canvas and cotton, and smelling of the filtered sunlight they were stretched out in.

I stopped to think. Wait, does sunlight have a scent? But then I thought of the towels drying on the line in my backyard. Of the way your skin smells when you've driven for a while with the window down and one arm stuck out into the wind and realized that it certainly does. I had no reason not to, not to sink down into a hammock and lay back and sling my feet up, no reason not to close my eyes to the blue sky and watch the afterimage of the day fade behind my lids.

No reason not to drift and sleep. I had a feeling that after a while, the innkeeper, who I'd been looking for, would find me, would lay a soft hand on my shoulder and let me know in a low voice that there were sandwiches being served on the porch if I was hungry. I would be. Sweet dreams.