Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Grandmother's Grimoire

Episode Date: October 21, 2019

Our story tonight is called Grandmother’s Grimoire and it’s a story about a family heirloom that arrives in the crispy cool days of October. It’s also about an afternoon in the attic with old trunks and photographs, a cup of sugar from the pantry, and the return of an old friend. 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 read and write all the stories that you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Our audio engineering is done by Bob Wittersheim. Nothing Much Happens is a proud member of the CuriousCast podcast network. Let me say a bit about how this podcast works. Just as your body needs a bed to sleep in, your mind needs a place to rest.

Someplace calm and safe and simple. That's what the story is. A place to rest your mind. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a bit slower the second time through. As you listen, pull the details of the story around you like a blanket. Imagine yourself in the story, and before you know it, likely before I finish reading, you'll be deeply and peacefully asleep. If you wake again in the middle of the night, walk yourself back through any details from the story that you can remember.

It'll put your mind right back into its nest, and soon you'll be waking up tomorrow, feeling relaxed and refreshed. Now it's time to settle in and set yourself up for sleep. Turn off the light. Set aside anything you've been looking at or working on. Adjust your pillows and comforter until you feel completely at ease. You are about to fall asleep. You will sleep deeply all night. Take a deep breath in through your nose and sigh out of the mouth.

Again, breathe in and out. Good. Our story tonight is called Grandmother's Grimoire. And it's a story about a family heirloom that arrives in the crispy, cool days of October. It's also about an afternoon in the attic with old trunks and photographs, a cup of sugar from the pantry, and the return of an old friend. Grandmother's Grimoire I'd been sitting at the kitchen table, slowly stirring a cup of tea, and turning

the pages of an old photo album. I'd had a nostalgic streak lately, and had been going through some old things. I'd spent a dusty afternoon in the attic, shifting cases, opening old trunks, and sitting on the creaky floorboards while the autumn light slanted over my shoulders. I'd brought some of my finds down to examine, and was leisurely working my way through them. I'd found a tin of old recipe cards, handwritten by several different hands, and I'd taken a few out to try for Sunday dinner. Some were pristine, and I imagined polite great ants asking for a recipe at a garden party. I'd found an old pair of soft gray gloves, and I pictured them primly holding a cup of tea as the recipe was jotted down and passed over.

But I don't trust a recipe card that's neat and tidy. I looked for the ones with worn edges, notes written slantwise in margins, amending the measurements or baking times. I looked for the ones with layers of stains, from sitting too near the pots and bowls. Those were the ones I pulled out and set aside. Along with the recipes and the gloves were stacks of photos and old albums,

their pages sticking together slightly, and names and dates written in faded ink below the pictures. Aunt Adelaide had been a beauty who'd played the piano and celebrated her birthday on a boat somewhere. Uncle Kenneth had smoked a pipe and played cards on the porch on rainy days. Here was someone's first car. Here was a cake, with fifty, written in wobbly letters and frosting.

Here were kids in homemade Halloween costumes, holding pillowcases on their way out for the night. I turned the pages and studied faces, matching people from one celebration to another, from one year to another. Then I absentmindedly closed the book and stood up, walking slowly to the front door. When I reached out and turned the doorknob, I found our mail carrier coming up the front path.

She smiled at me and shook her head. She had a package in her hands, wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. How do you do that? You always seem to know when I'm about to knock on your door. Just a lucky guess, I said. She handed over the package, and I thanked her and carried it in, back to my table of treasures. I ran my hand over the paper and untied the string. My name was inked out in looping beautiful letters, and I felt that fizz of excitement that children feel when they get male. In adulthood, male is

often dull and sometimes distinctly unfun. But to children, it's all just mystery and delight. I hadn't even opened it up yet, and I was already delighted. Out of the paper came a thick book, bound in deep green velvet, with an image of a woman with long, flowing hair embossed on the cover. I hadn't seen this book in years, not since I was a child. How How had it come to me today? I looked back at the paper wrapper. My name and address were the only things on it. I had only ever seen this book in my grandmother's house. Sometimes open beside the stove, or propped up against the pestle and mortar in the workroom where she dried herbs.

I'd seen it most when it was carried in her strong arms from the garden to the armchair in front of the fireplace when she'd stop at the end of the day to make notes. I realized I'd never paid much attention to it, guessing it must have been some sort of journal or cookbook. But as I let the book fall open in my hands and looked over the pages. I saw it for what it was. A spellbook. A grimoire. And she hadn't been the first to write her charms into it.

This book was started long before she was born, and the handwriting in the first dozen pages was full of flourishes, which made the script beautiful, though tricky to read. I followed through the pages, picking out the best love spells. They reminded me of the recipe cards I'd plucked from the tin, full of extra notes.

That the coxcomb should be cut at the quarter moon, or that the althea root should be stored in a stone bowl, not glass. There were a dozen ribbons of different colors, marking out sections for protection or prosperity or fertility. I sat back in my chair and felt the weight of the book in my lap. I remembered a blustery October day with Gran when I was quite young. She'd been busy in the kitchen, and the window panes were covered with the sweet-smelling steam from her pots. She had a small gray cat who followed her everywhere and watched me with her yellow eyes.

As she stirred and worked from her book, I'd stretched up onto my toes beside her to reach an old measuring cup on the counter. When I caught it up, I opened a tin in her pantry and dipped out a cup of sugar grandmother put her hands on her hips and just watched as I carefully carried the cup to her kitchen door where I stopped and waited patiently

a moment later there was a knock, and the neighbor from across the yard poked her head in. She looked down at me holding the cup on the doorstep, and then over at Grandmother, who gave her a wink. The neighbor took the cup and thanked me and went back to finish her cake Gran came over and gave me a kiss on the top of my head and as I sat back down to watch her work

the gray cat hopped up into my lap Now, holding this book that must have been passed down quietly through the limbs of our family tree, I thought about that feeling that had driven me up into the attic. To think of family and feel connected to the past. My past. our past. I closed the book and tucked it into the crook of my arm, just as Gran had done. She'd seen something then,

that one day I would need this book. How she'd gotten it to me today was a mystery I contemplated as I looked out on another blustery October day. I carried the book to my own kitchen door that opened out to where I guessed I'd be putting in an herb garden in the spring as I'd need a salad source for the coxcomb and althea root. I paused with a smile on my face as I reached out for the doorknob, knowing what I would

find on the other side. I opened the door and a small gray cat with bright yellow eyes walked over the threshold and circled around my ankles. Grandmother's Grimoire I'd been sitting at the kitchen table, slowly stirring a cup of tea and turning the pages of an old photo album. I'd had a nostalgic streak lately and had been going through some old things. I'd spent a dusty afternoon in the attic, shifting cases, opening old trunks, and sitting on the creaky floorboards while the autumn light slanted over my shoulders.

I'd brought some of my finds down to examine and was leisurely working my way through them. I'd found a tin of old recipe cards, handwritten by several different hands, and I'd taken a few out to try for Sunday dinner. Some were pristine, and I imagined polite great aunts asking for a recipe at a garden party. I'd found an old pair of soft gray gloves, and I pictured them primly holding

a cup of tea as the recipe was jotted down and passed over. But I don't trust a recipe card that's neat and tidy. I looked for the ones with worn edges, notes written slantwise in margins, amending the measurements or baking times. I looked for the ones with layers of stains from sitting too near the pots and bowls. Those were the ones I pulled out and set aside. Along with the recipes and the gloves

were stacks of photos and old albums, their pages sticking together slightly, names and dates written in faded ink below the pictures. Aunt Adelaide had been a beauty who'd played the piano and celebrated her birthday on a boat somewhere. Uncle Kenneth had smoked a pipe

and played cards on the porch on rainy days. Here was someone's first car. Here was a cake with 50 written in wobbly letters in frosting. Here were kids in homemade Halloween costumes, holding pillowcases on their way out for the night. I turned the pages and studied faces, matching people from one celebration to another,

from one year to another. Then I absentmindedly closed the book and stood up, walking slowly to the front door. When I reached out and turned the doorknob and opened the door to see our mail carrier coming up the front path, she smiled at me and shook her head. She had a package in her hands, wrapped in brown paper and tied with string.

How do you do that? You always seem to know when I'm about to knock on your door. Just a lucky guess, I said. She handed over the package, and I thanked her and carried it in. Back to my table of treasures. I ran my hand over the paper and untied the string. My name was inked out

in looping, beautiful letters, and I felt that fizz of excitement inked out in looping, beautiful letters. And I felt that fizz of excitement that children feel when they get male. In adulthood, male is often dull and sometimes distinctly unfun. But to children, it's all just mystery and delight. I hadn't even opened it up yet, and I was already delighted.

Out of the paper came a thick book, bound in deep green velvet, with an image of a woman with long flowing hair embossed on the cover. I hadn't seen this book in years. Not since I was a child. How had it come to me today? I looked back at the paper wrapper. My name and address were the only things on it. I had only ever seen this book in my grandmother's house, sometimes open beside the stove or propped up against the pestle and mortar in the workroom where she dried herbs. I'd seen it most when it was carried in her strong arms,

from the garden to the armchair in front of her fireplace, when she'd stop at the end of the day to make some notes. I realized I'd never paid much attention to it, guessing it must have been a sort of journal or cookbook. But as I let the book fall open in my hands and looked over the pages, I saw it for what it was. A spellbook. A grimoire.

And she hadn't been the first to write her charms into it. This book was started long before she was born, and the handwriting in the first dozen pages was full of flourishes, which made the script beautiful, though tricky to read. I followed through the pages, picking out the best love spells. They reminded me of the recipe cards I'd plucked from the tin, full of extra notes. That the coxcomb should be cut at the quarter moon. Or that the althea root should be stored in a stone bowl, not glass.

There were a dozen ribbons of different colors, marking out sections for protection or prosperity or fertility. I sat back in my chair and felt the weight of the book in my lap. I remembered a blustery October day with Gran when I was quite young. She'd been busy in the kitchen, and the window panes were covered with the sweet-smelling steam from her pots. She had a small gray cat who followed her everywhere and watched me with her yellow eyes. As she stirred and worked from her book, I had stretched up onto my toes beside her

to reach an old measuring cup on the counter. When I caught it up, I opened a tin in her pantry and dipped out a cup of sugar. Grandmother put her hands on her hips and just watched as I carefully carried the cup to her kitchen door, where I stopped and waited patiently. A moment later, there was a knock, and the neighbor from across the yard poked her head in. She looked down at me, holding the cup on the doorstep, then over at Grandmother, who gave her a wink.

The neighbor took the cup and thanked me and went back to finish her cake. Gran came over and gave me a kiss on the top of my head. And as I sat back down to watch her work, the gray cat hopped up into my lap. Now, holding this book that must have been passed down quietly through the limbs of our family tree, I thought about that feeling that had driven me up into the attic, to think of family and feel connected to the past, my past, our past. I closed the book and tucked it into the crook of my arm, just as Gran had done.

She'd seen something then. That one day I would need this book. How she'd gotten it to me today was a mystery. I contemplated as I looked out on another blustery October day. I carried the book to my own kitchen door that opened out to where, I guessed, I'd be putting an herb garden in the spring, as I'd need a solid source for the coxcomb and althea root.

I paused with a smile on my face as I reached out for the doorknob, knowing what I would find on the other side. I opened the door, and a small gray cat with bright yellow eyes walked over the threshold and circled around my ankles. Sweet dreams.