Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Heirloom

Episode Date: July 10, 2023

Our story tonight is called Heirloom and it’s a story about a garden in the middle of summer. It’s also about things handed down through generations, making and keeping friends of all ages, and a stack of farmer’s almanacs in the quiet corner of a shed. We give to a different charity each week and this week we are giving to https://www.guidingeyes.org/ They provide guide dogs to people with vision loss. Get more nothing much here: www.nothingmuchhappens.comPurchase 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 with audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. We give to a different charity each week, and this week we are giving to Guiding Eyes. They provide guide dogs to people with vision loss. You'll find a link to them in our show notes. If you're interested in subscribing to

our ad-free and bonus feeds, visit us at nothingmuchappens.com. Subscribing really helps to keep what we do possible, and so does rating and reviewing the show, or just telling a friend about us. Thank you for being here. Now, since every story is someone's first, I'd like to say a little about how this works. A busy brain will keep you up. I'm sure you know the feeling. But not having anything for your brain to focus on can actually make it spiral faster. So I have a story that is simple and full of good feeling and cozy details. You rest your mind on it, just by listening, and before you know it, you'll be out like a light.

I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake later in the night, you can just start the story over again or think back through any part of it that you can remember. This is brain training and the effects will improve with use. Now, get as comfortable as you can. Snuggle deep into your sheets and let your whole body relax. Whatever you got done today, it was enough. Now nothing remains but rest. Breathe in through your nose and One more all the way in. And out. Good.

Our story tonight is called Heirloom. And it's a story about a garden in the middle of the summer. It's also about things handed down through generations, making and keeping friends of all ages, and a stack of farmer's almanacs in the quiet corner of a shed. Heirloom. This was our fourth summer at the allotment, in our little patch at the community garden,

where we had learned to make things grow. In fact, we now had twice the space we'd started with. The family that gardened in the plot next to ours had gotten too busy as their sons grew to keep up with growing plants as well. And we'd taken over their beds. A couple of times each summer, though, they'd all come by and lend a hand with planting

or weeding or harvesting. And we'd have a picnic together under the trees like old times. The boys would sit with us and catch us up on life in their world. Middle school and piano lessons and soccer camp. Something I have come to value as I've gotten older is having more people in my life who are younger than me and who are younger than me and who are older than me. Hearing their stories, telling them mine,

watching them move through landmark years, well, I need it. Not just for the context it gave me in my own experience but because I suspect we all need that sort of fullness of family the different textures in our fellows to appreciate and wonder at and attempt to love. Now that I thought of it, the allotment was a sort of extended family. children and adults and older folks, a common goal, shared wisdom and effort, and some rain and some sun.

This year, there had been more sun than rain, and that might seem like a good thing if you are, say, planning a trip to the beach. But when you are trying to grow potatoes, which we still were after several somewhat unsuccessful seasons, it can make each dry day worrisome. I'd complained to another farmer about our spuds, thirsty and finicky in the arid dirt.

She'd patted me kindly on the back in sympathy and reminded me that the domestication of the potato had taken around 8,000 years. So, if it took me more than a few summers to sort them out, well, that tracked. We did water as much as we could. The allotment had a rain collection system, and each plot got a bit of what was left

for as long as it lasted. And we mulched and planted lots of local plants to shade the soil. But mostly we crossed our fingers and hoped for rain. the forecast for today was promising. And when I woke and stepped outside, I could smell it off in the distance. The sky had been cloudy and slightly gray all day. And while the heat hadn't broken yet, I could just tell that it wanted to. I'd said as much to another gardener

when I'd gotten to the plot and added that it might just be wishful thinking. He'd said wishful thinking was a key ingredient for gardening, that none of us would be here without it. So I took my optimism and tromped over to our garden. I started with my usual survey. Walking through the rows and pulling weeds. Noting what was ripening,

what was close to going to seed. This year I had planted a few heirloom varieties of our favorite vegetables. Look, sometimes there are good reasons as to why plants are different now from how they were for our distant relatives. Those potatoes, for example, had been bitter and nearly inedible for most of those thousands of years. In fact, every time I had a plate of french fries or a big baked potato for dinner, I paused to thank those cultivators of yore for their persistence.

After so many generations of work on the plant, they must have at least considered throwing in the towel, and I was glad they hadn't. Other times, though, plants were bred for how they looked rather than how they tasted. And the flavors that had been savored and loved by our ancestors were lost in the modern iterations.

And the idea that I could taste something that had been missing for generations drove me to plant as many heirlooms as I could this summer. Another reason to plant heirlooms as I could this summer. Another reason to plant heirloom vegetables is that, without exception, they have fantastic names, and I said them aloud as I walked through the garden. Black valentine beans, still thriving on the bush. The green tops of the scarlet nance carrots

were still a bit sparse, and I hoped we'd be able to pick some in a few more weeks. I'd gone a little overboard with the lettuces, which we'd planted in two-week shifts to be able to harvest continually. We had May Queen and Little Gem and Paris White Coes and Black Seated Simpson to choose from. Green Arrow Peas, Bullnose Peppers, Easter Basket Radishes, Vero Flay Spinach, and three different vines of watermelon called Moon

and Stars, Blacktail Mountain, and Cream of Saskatchewan. I checked their leaves, plucking away any dead bits, and patting them firmly on their rinds. I figured they liked to know someone was there, watching over them. I'd heard that fiddle figs that live indoors sometimes grow trunks too skinny and insubstantial because they aren't out in the wind, which stimulates them to grow. So you should give your fig a good shake now and then. I hoped that padding watermelon rinds would work the same way. Just as I was beginning to fret about the dry, cracked soil under my feet. I felt a sudden, cooler breeze cutting through the garden. I'd been lost in thought, and hadn't noticed the dark clouds rolling in. I realized that rain was just moments away. We had a shared shed at the edge of

the lots, with chairs under an awning and a coffee pot, and old copies of the Farmer's Almanac going back for decades. And I knew it would be the perfect spot to watch the rain soak into our plants. But before I took off for it in my garden clogs. I just breathed in the smell of the water in the air and let the first few drops fall on my bare arms and face. I thought of how green and healthy everything would be tomorrow. How the vegetables would look like they'd all finally gotten a good night's sleep.

And I sighed. As I imagine gardeners have for millennia as the rain came down. Heirloom. This was our fourth summer at the allotment, in our little patch at the community garden, where we had learned how to make things grow. In fact, we now had twice the space we'd started with the family that gardened in the plot next to ours

had gotten too busy as their sons grew to keep up with growing plants as well, and weed taken over their beds. A couple of times each summer, though, they'd all come by and lend a hand with planting, or weedingeding or harvesting. And we'd have a picnic together, under the trees, like old times.

The boys would sit with us and catch us up on life in their world. Middle school and piano lessons and soccer camp. Something I have come to value as I've gotten older is having more people in my life who are younger than me and more who are older than me. Hearing their stories, telling them mine, watching their stories, telling them mine, watching them move through landmark years, well, I need it.

Not just for the context it gave me in my own experience, but because I suspect we all need that sort of fullness of family, different textures in our fellows to appreciate and wonder at and attempt to love. Now that I thought of it, the allotment was a sort of extended family. Children and adults and older folks, a common goal, shared wisdom, an effort, some rain and some sun.

This year there had been more sun than rain. And that might seem like a good thing if you are, say, planning a trip to the beach, but when you are trying to grow potatoes, which we still were after several somewhat unsuccessful seasons, it can make each dry day worrisome. I'd complained to another farmer about our spuds, thirsty and finicky in the domestication of the potato had taken around 8,000 years. So, if it took me more than a few summers to sort them out, well, that tracked.

We did water as much as we could. The allotment had a rain collection system, and each plot got a bit of what was left for as long as it lasted. And we mulched and planted lots of local plants to shade the soil. But mostly we crossed our fingers and hoped for rain. The forecast for today was promising. And when I woke and stepped outside, I could smell it. Off in the distance the sky had been cloudy

and slightly gray all day and while the heat hadn't broken yet I could just tell that it wanted to. I'd said as much to another gardener when I'd gotten to the plot and added that it might just be wishful thinking. He'd said wishful thinking

was a key ingredient for gardening. That none of us would be here without it. So I took my optimism and tromped over to our plot. I started with my usual survey, walking through the rows and pulling weeds, noting what was ripening, what was close to going to seed. This year I had planted a few heirloom varieties of our favorite vegetable. Sometimes there are good reasons as to why plants today are different from how they were for our distant relatives. Those potatoes, for example, had been bitter and nearly inedible for most of those thousands of years.

In fact, every time I had a plate of french fries or a big baked potato for dinner. I paused to thank those cultivators of yore for their persistence. After so many generations of work on the plant, they must have at least considered throwing in the towel, and I was grateful that they hadn't. Other times, though, plants had been bred for how they looked rather than how they tasted, and the flavors that had been savored and loved by our ancestors were lost in the modern iterations. and the idea that I could taste something that had been missing for generations. It drove me to plant as many heirlooms as I could this summer. Another reason to plant heirloom vegetables is that, without exception, they

have fantastic names, and I said them aloud as I walked through the garden. Black valentine beans still thriving on the bush. The green tops of the scarlet nance carrots were still a bit sparse, and I hoped we'd be able to pick some in a few more weeks. I'd gone a little overboard with the lettuces, which we planted in two-week shifts to be able to harvest continually. We had May Queen and Little Gem and Paris White Coes and Black Seeded Simpson to choose from.

Green arrow peas, bullnose peppers, Easter basket radishes, Vero flay spinach, and three different vines of watermelon called Moon and Stars Blacktail Mountain and Cream of Saskatchewan

I checked their leaves plucking away any dead bits and patting them firmly on their rinds I figured they liked to know someone was there watching over them I'd heard that to know someone was there watching over them.

I'd heard that fiddle figs that live indoors sometimes grow trunks that are too skinny and insubstantial because they aren't out in the wind which stimulates them to grow. So you should give your fig a good shake now and then. I hoped that patting my watermelon rinds would work the same. Just as I was beginning to fret

about the dry, cracked soil under my feet. I felt a sudden, cooler breeze cutting through the garden. I'd been lost in thought and hadn't noticed the dark clouds rolling in. I realized that rain was moments away. We had a shared shed at the edge of the lots, with chairs under an awning and a coffee pot and old copies of The Farmer's Almanac going back for decades. And I knew it would be the perfect spot

to watch the rain soak into our plants. But before I took off for it in my breathed in the smell of the water in the air and let drops fall on my bare arms and face. I thought of how green and healthy everything would be tomorrow. How the vegetables would look like they'd all finally gotten a good night's sleep. And I sighed. as I imagine gardeners have for millennia as the rain came down.

Sweet dreams.