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

Episode Date: May 17, 2021

Our story tonight is called Housewarming and it’s a story about an event marked on the calendar to look forward to. It’s also about a window seat full of houseplants, an invitation in a red envelope and a memory of a perfectly wrapped present. So get cozy and ready to sleep. 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 Katherine 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 books are sold. You've asked for an ad-free version of the podcast,

for more stories more frequently. And very kindly, you've asked how you can show your support for what Bob and I create, and we listened. For just a few dollars a month, you can get access to all seven seasons of Nothing Much Happens, with zero ads and a bonus episode every month that won't be available anywhere else. The first bonus episode is already there, waiting for you. It's called Mother Nature, and I can't wait for you to fall asleep listening to it. We have a special Founders Price only available for a short time, so don't miss out. Sign up right now at NothingMuchHappens.com. Now, I'm going to tell you a story. I'll tell it twice, going a little slower the second time through. All you need to do is to rest

your attention on my voice and words, and this will shift your brain from its busy default mode into task mode, where sleep and rest are accessible. If you wake in the middle of the night, you could listen again, or just think through any part of the story that you can remember. You'll flip that switch again, and drop right back off. Now, lights out, campers. Snuggle down, and get as comfortable as you can.

If you tend to clench your jaw at night, place the tip of your tongue at the spot where your upper teeth meet the gums on the inside. That will make it a lot easier to keep your jaw relaxed. Let's take a slow breath in through your nose and let it out with a sigh. Do one more. Breathe in and out.

Good. Our story tonight is called Housewarming, and it's a story about an event marked on the calendar to look forward to. It's also about a window seat full of houseplants, an invitation in a red envelope, and a memory of a perfectly wrapped present. Housewarming. This morning, a cool spring morning, I found a square red envelope in my mailbox. Along with it were flyers and bills and a catalog for summer community ed programs

with a picture on its paper cover of children planting seeds in raised boxes beside the library. Though I was eager to flip through the pages of the catalog and see what classes and camps were scheduled for the next few months. That red envelope called to me, and I sat right down on my front step to open it. The flap had been stuck down just at the tip so I could slide a finger under it to pop it open. It reminded me of the way my grandmother had always sent cards. I don't think she'd ever sealed an envelope in her life. She just tucked the flap in and assumed no one would try to open it until it got to its intended recipient. Even when she sent a card with birthday money inside, she must have had a lot of faith in people, and I liked that. I also laughed, guessing that she'd sent in her gas and electric bills in the same way. I imagined an office worker at a desk

with a pile of mail and a letter opener in her hand until she came to my grandmother's envelope, which, just by pulling it open, would send the check fluttering down onto the pile. The chill of the front step under me brought me back to the intriguing piece of mail I held in my hands. I slid out a thick, creamy white card from the red envelope

and saw that it had been addressed in fancy, looping calligraphy. An invitation to a housewarming party next Saturday afternoon. It was from an old friend who'd bought his very first home, and I was so glad he was celebrating. It gave the details, the time and place, promised appetizers and cocktails on his new deck, and with a cheeky flourish in the last line informed me that

gifts would be graciously expected. I laughed, sitting on the step, and drummed my fingers on the card, thinking about what gift to give. I stood up and brushed myself off and carried my bundle of mail into the house. I thought about what made my own house warm and inviting. What made it feel like a home? I stepped over to the window seat of the big bay window that looked out over the street, and reached a hand out to touch the leaves of my Monstera Delicioso, sometimes called the Swiss cheese plant, because its shiny green leaves were spotted with holes. I could certainly gift a plant,

even one of my own, as the entire window seat was taken up with them. I had spiky aloe vera with long, plump leaves. It could be useful at the beginning of the summer for the inevitable sunburns. I had tall snake plants with variegated leaves, the stripes reminding me of a green and yellow zebra.

I had a pot of pothos, and I'd been slowly weaving its climbing vines up the edge of my bookshelf, hoping I might come home one day and find my living room transformed into a thick, leafy forest. As I thought it over, I took a small pair of snippers from a drawer and clipped out a few dead leaves. I wiped a bit of dust from my fiddle fig and chattered away to the plants. I'd always heard that you should talk to your houseplants, but I did it more for a bit of conversation than as a therapeutic device. After all, we were housemates.

We needed to catch up now and then. I noticed a new stalk of growth in my coconut palm. Its soft, just-born leaf was folded back and forth on itself like a paper fan. And I congratulated her, saying I couldn't wait to see it open up. I stepped into the kitchen to fill my mister, and thought that my friend might not be ready for plant parenthood. That though he was putting down roots with this new house, he loved to travel, and might be away for weeks at a time,

and any plant I gifted would likely spend most of its time thirsty on a window ledge with no one to talk to. After I misted my violets and turned my ZZ plant to keep it from leaning, I stood in front of the painting above my hall table. Maybe a painting as a gift. Every home needs art on the walls. And there was a boutique downtown that sold pieces by local painters

and photographers. I quickly discarded the idea. Art is too personal. Even knowing that he would be likelier to enjoy something abstract rather than, say, a landscape or a piece of photorealism.

I still wouldn't know if it would be something he'd enjoy looking at every day. A book? A tea kettle? A vase? None of it seemed quite right. I settled onto the sofa, leaning back into the cushions to have a good think. I remembered going to a housewarming party with my mother as a little girl,

or perhaps it had been a wedding shower. I couldn't remember whose party it had been or what gift we had brought. But what I did remember was something that doesn't much exist anymore. We'd been shopping at a department store. A fancy one, with a section of fine china and crystal glasses. I remembered standing at the sales desk, trying very hard to keep my hands in my pockets so as not to break anything, and hearing my mother ask to have her purchase gift-wrapped.

The clerk told her it would be sent directly to the gift-wrapping department on the first floor, and we could go down and pick out the paper and ribbons. It was something that only happened two or three times in those years, that we'd be buying a fancy gift and having it wrapped at the store. So I'd been excited and eager as she led me by the hand down the escalator to the gift-wrapped department. Inside, it looked like a candy shop

with its bright colors, shiny rainbow of ribbons and sample gifts beautifully wrapped on shelves. I loved the rolls of paper hanging on every bit of wall and the way after my mother had pointed to one, a gift wrapper pulled down a length of it and dragged it against a serrated metal blade

built right into the roll, and the perfectly cut piece of paper would be laid out on the clerk's desk. I watched, completely engrossed, as the clerk folded the paper was creased, a finger running along the fold to press it into a neat line. Then the ribbons pulled from the spools and long strands, and clipped in a flash with sharp silver scissors, and wound beautifully around the gift.

They were tied in a bow, and their edges curled along the blade of the scissors. There were tiny cards and matching envelopes on a display on the desk. And my mother let me choose one to go with the gift. And slipped it under the ribbon so it wouldn't get lost. I think if you'd asked me, right then, what I wanted to be when I grew up,

I would have said a gift wrapper. Actually, it still sounded like a good choice I had a few more days to think through my gift giving options but I was sure whatever I gave it would be wrapped with as much love and care as I could muster. Housewarming.

This morning, a cool spring morning, I found a square red envelope in my mailbox. Along with it were flyers and bills and a catalog for summer community ed programs, with a picture on its paper cover of children planting seeds in raised boxes beside the library. Though I was eager to flip through the pages of the catalog and see what classes and camps were scheduled for the next few months. That red envelope called to me, and I sat right down on my front step to open it. The flap had been stuck down just at the tip, so I could slide a finger under it to pop it open. It reminded me of the way my grandmother had always sent cards.

I don't think she'd ever sealed an envelope in her life. She just tucked the flap in and assumed no one would try to open it until it got to its intended recipient. Even when she sent a card with birthday money inside. She must have had a lot of faith in people, and I liked that.

I also laughed, guessing that she'd sent in her gas and electric bills in the same way. I imagined an office worker at a desk with a pile of mail and a letter opener in her hand until she came to my grandmother's envelope, which, just by pulling it open, would send the check fluttering down onto the pile. The chill of the front step under me brought me back to the intriguing piece of mail I held in my hands. I slid out a thick, creamy white card from the red envelope and saw that it had been addressed in fancy, looping calligraphy.

An invitation to a housewarming party next Saturday afternoon. It was from an old friend who'd bought his very first home, and I was so glad he was celebrating. It gave the details, the time and place, promised appetizers and cocktails on his new deck. And with a cheeky flourish in the last line, informed me that gifts would be graciously expected.

I laughed, sitting on the step, and drummed my fingers on the card thinking about what gift to give. I stood up and brushed myself off and carried my bundle of mail into the house. I thought about what made my own house warm and inviting.

What made it feel like a home? I stepped over to the window seat of the Monstera Delicioso, sometimes called the Swiss cheese plant, because its shiny green leaves were spotted with holes. I could certainly gift a plant, even one of my own, as the entire window seat was taken up with them. I had spiky aloe vera with long, plump leaves. It could be useful at the beginning of the summer for the inevitable sunburns. burns. I had tall snake plants with variegated and I'd been slowly weaving its climbing vines up the edge of my bookshelf, day and find my living room transformed into a thick, leafy forest. As I thought it over, I took a small pair of snippers from a drawer and clipped out a few dead leaves. I wiped a bit of dust from my fiddle fig and chattered away to the plants.

I'd always heard that you should talk to your houseplants, but I did it more for a bit of conversation than as a therapeutic device. After all, we were housemates We needed to catch up now and then I noticed a new stalk of growth in my coconut palm its soft, just-born leaf was folded back and forth on itself like a paper fan and I congratulated her

saying I couldn't wait to see it open up. I stepped into the kitchen to fill my mister and thought that my friend might not be ready for plant parenthood. That, though he was putting down roots with this new house, he loved to travel and might be away for weeks at a time. And any plant I gifted would likely spend most of its time thirsty on a window ledge with no one to talk to. After I misted my violets and turned my ZZ plant to keep it from leaning, I stood in front of the painting above my hall table. Maybe a painting as a gift?

Every home needs art on the walls. And there was a boutique downtown that sold pieces by local painters and photographers. I quickly discarded the idea. Art is too personal. Even knowing that he would be likelier to enjoy something abstract rather than, say, a landscape or a piece of photorealism. I still wouldn't know if it would be something he'd enjoy looking at every day.

A book? A tea kettle? A book? A tea kettle? A vase? None of it seemed quite right. I settled onto the sofa, leaning back into the cushions to have a good think. I remembered going to a housewarming party with my mother as a little girl,

or perhaps it had been or what gift we had brought. But what I did remember was something that doesn't much exist anymore. We'd been shopping at a department store a fancy one with a section of fine china and crystal glasses I remembered standing at the sales desk trying very hard to keep my hands in my pockets so as not to break

anything, and hearing my mother ask to have her purchase gift-wrapped. The clerk told her it would be sent directly to the gift wrapping department on the first floor and we could go down and pick out the paper and ribbons

it was something that only happened two or three times in those years, that we'd be buying a fancy gift and having it wrapped at the store. excited and eager as she led me by the hand down the escalator to the gift-wrapped apartment. Inside, it looked like a candy shop with its bright colors, shiny rainbow of ribbons and sample gifts beautifully wrapped on shelves. I loved the rolls of paper hanging on every bit of wall and the way after my mother had pointed to one, a gift wrapper pulled down

a length of it and dragged it against a serrated metal blade built right into the roll. And the perfectly cut piece of paper would be laid out on the clerk's desk. I watched, completely engrossed, as the clerk folded the paper, lining the pattern up perfectly where it came together. There was something so satisfying in the way the paper was creased.

A finger running along the fold to press it into a neat line. Then the ribbons pulled from their spools in long strands and clipped in a flash with sharp silver scissors and wound beautifully around the gift. They were tied in a bow and their edges curled along the blade of the scissors. There were tiny cards and matching envelopes on a display on the desk, and my mother let me choose one to go with a gift,

and slipped it under the ribbon so it wouldn't get lost. I think if you'd asked me right then what I wanted to be when I grew up, I would have said a gift wrapper. Actually, it still sounded like a good choice. I had a few more days to think through my gift-giving options. But I was sure, whatever I gave, it would be wrapped with as much love and care as I could muster. Sweet dreams.