Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Keepsake (Encore)

Episode Date: February 6, 2025

(Originally Aired: February 7th, 2021 Original: Season 7, Episode 3) Our story tonight is called Keepsake, and it’s a story about stepping back through time to remember a particular rainy day. It���s also about sunflowers, the things our younger selves can teach us, and a scrap of something saved for years in a box.

If you're listening, you know self-care is vital for overall wellness, but it can be hard to prioritize yourself and ask for what you need. If you're a Veteran going through a tough time, there are people who want to listen and help with no pressure or judgment. Dial 988, then press 1. Chat at VeteransCrisisLine.net or text 838255 to reach the Veterans Crisis Line. Responders are ready to support you, no matter what you're going through. Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Everyone, 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. We are bringing you an encore episode tonight, meaning that this story originally aired at some point in the past. It could have been recorded with different equipment in a different location. And since I'm a person and not a computer, I sometimes sound just slightly different.

But the stories are always soothing and family-friendly, and our wishes for you are always deep rest and sweet dreams. Now let me say a little about how to use this podcast. I have a story to tell you, and it exists really simply as a soft place to rest your mind. I'll read it twice and I'll go a little slower the second time through. Just follow along with my voice and the simple shape of the story. And before you know it, you'll be deeply asleep. If you wake in the middle of the night, you could listen again

or just think back through any details from the story that you can remember. Doing so shifts your brain out of default mode, and when that happens, you'll fall right back to sleep. This is brain training, and it does take a bit of practice, so have some patience if you are new to this. Our story tonight is called Keepsake, and it's a story about stepping back through time to remember a particular rainy day.

It's also about sunflowers, the things our younger selves can teach us, and a scrap of something saved for years in a box. Now turn off your light. Put away anything you've been looking at or playing with. Get as comfortable as you can. You have done enough for the day. It is enough. And now you are safe and all that is left is for you to rest. Take a slow, deep breath in through your nose and out through your mouth. Nice. One more. In and out.

Good. Keepsake. It had started as a hunt for a particular pair of socks. They were thick and warm, and I felt pretty sure that they were dark gray with snowflakes on them, but I hadn't seen them in a while. They went all the way up to my knees, and when I just couldn't get my feet warm

in the cold days of winter, they always did the trick. But they didn't seem to be anywhere. I went through my dresser drawers, then searched the basket of lone socks on the shelf in the laundry room, hoping that maybe they had been shelf in the laundry room, hoping that maybe they had been separated in the wash, and were happily reunited, just waiting to be rolled into a ball to spend some quality time together. But they weren't there either.

That led me to the hall closet, which didn't seem like a likely place for them to end up, but it was worth a try. And as soon as I opened the door, I fell under the spell of curiosity and nostalgia. Has this happened to you? You go up to the attic to get the extra leaf for the table, or down into the basement to bring up the giant soup pot that you only use a couple of times a year. Then somewhere along the way, a box catches your eye, and before you know it, you're sitting on the floor with old school papers in your hands and a fan of grainy photographs spread out around you.

Sometimes you get caught. Someone comes looking for you. And all you can do is shrug your shoulders and hold up the program to a play you'd seen twenty years before and say, do you remember this? Well, that's what happened to me, standing in the doorway of the hall closet, my chilly feet forgotten as I reached up on tiptoe to slide a shoebox off the top shelf. It wasn't labeled. I don't know why I reached for it, except that part of me must have remembered it. The lid looked like it came from a different box and didn't fit on properly. Letters and pictures were pushing their way out.

letters and pictures were pushing their way out. Lifting it off, my face broke open in a sudden smile. Small treasures, scraps of paper, a keychain from a roadside store a thousand miles from here. It's strange how you can go years without looking at things like this, mementos and scribbled notes, but then when you see them again you remember everything about them. An envelope with a phone number scrawled across it. The smudged printing on a flyer for a concert. Movie stubs curling at the edges from the weeks they'd spent in a pocket before they went into a box. I could remember who that number belonged to, the telephone pole I tugged the flyer

down from, and the shoes I'd worn to the movie. Behind that first box was another and another. I pulled them all down and carried them to my bedroom, where I could curl up with my blankets as I reminisced. I found a friendship bracelet from summer camp. And I remembered how we would knot the strings onto safety pins and then fasten the pins onto our jeans or shorts so we could pull the strings taut while we braided. braided. It had taken five minutes to learn, and then we'd become bracelet-making machines, swapping for favorite colors and pulling out our projects as soon as dinner was eaten,

braiding and nodding until we couldn't see what we were doing in the twilight. And then we'd probably forgotten all about it a week or two later when we learned how to make pinch pots in the ceramic shed, or to fletch arrows, or build rock cairns on our afternoon hikes. Young brains, I thought jealously as I tied the bracelet awkwardly around my wrist. They're like magnets sweeping through a field of precious metals, collecting skills and ideas with ease. Not that my older brain wasn't capable of picking up new things. After all, who had just learned to ice skate backwards fairly reliably? Me was the answer.

Maybe I was a faster learner when I was younger, but now I was a better understander. I could see from angles I just didn't know about then. In one of the boxes, I found photos of myself as a child, blowing out five candles on a cake, standing in Grandpa's garden beside his sunflowers to show how they'd grown twice as tall as me, riding my bike without training wheels. I carried the sunflower picture into the bathroom and fitted it into the corner of the mirror, thinking that remembering my young, sweet self each morning when I brushed my teeth

might lead me to stay kind to her all day. Back on the bed, I flipped through pictures of my middle school years, playing in the school band. My best friend and I dressed identically as some joke. A shot of me looking out of the window of the car on our way to a summer vacation, with a book forgotten in my hand. At the bottom of the stack was a small bound journal, the kind that comes with built-in pockets and a cover, which I remembered carrying with me nearly every day in high school.

There were pages of poetry. I didn't read them, thinking it was probably best just to remember that I had liked to write it, that at the time it had seemed terribly important and gripping and probably revolutionary, a thing the world had never heard before. And that feeling, rather than the actual poems, was who I was then. In the margins were lyrics from favorite songs, written out in sticky blue ink. There were lines from movies, quotes that had spun my young head around, a list of places I would travel to, places I was sure I would live, and all the books I had read one summer. and all the books I had read one summer. I flipped all the way to the pocket in the back cover of the journal.

It looked empty, but when I pried it open, there were a few small, transparent bits, like ovals of wax paper. It took me a moment to recognize too, and with tiny round seeds still in each one. They grew on a plant called Lunaria, or sometimes called a money tree, and the pods grew beside purple flowers in the summertime and could be cut and dried with the memory of this moment. They had been drying in a small potting shed on the far corner of our property where the land dropped down toward the creek. We'd been out walking on a cool October day, as far as we could along one side of the creek.

And then, where a fallen tree lay across the stream, I'd crossed it to walk on the other side. We weren't trying to get anywhere, just spending time in the way of teenagers who can't get enough of it. And it had felt like no time at all. And then a sudden gust of wind and rain came hammering through the leaves, and we jumped from one muddy bank to another, and climbed the hill back toward the house. We'd come up right behind the shed, and the rain was so heavy that we just pulled open the door and took shelter inside. It had smelled like drying eucalyptus and unvarnished wood, and the rain was wonderfully

loud on the tiny roof. We could see our breath in the air, and that had been my first kiss, in wet clothes, with muddy boots, under a clutch of Lunaria stems. I'd come back later to clip a few of the seed pods, and they'd stayed in the pocket, in this journal, in this box, tucked into the closet, just waiting for me to find them again. A little message for my younger self, to me today, about how exciting life can be, about how moments can stick and warm you through years later. Keepsake keepsake. It had started as a hunt for a particular pair of socks. They were thick and warm, and Sure, they were dark gray, with snowflakes on them, but I hadn't seen them in a while.

They went all the way up to my knees, and when I just couldn't get my feet warm in the cold days of winter, they always did the trick. But they didn't seem to be anywhere. I went through my dresser drawers, then searched the basket of lone socks on the shelf in the laundry room, hoping that maybe they had been separated in the wash and were happily reunited, just waiting to be rolled into a ball, to spend some quality time together. But they weren't there either. That led me to the hall closet, which didn't seem like a likely place for them to end up, but was worth a try. And as soon as I opened the door, I fell under the spell of curiosity and nostalgia. Has this happened to you? You go up to the attic to get the extra leaf for the table, or down into the basement to bring up the giant soup pot that you only use a couple of times a year.

And somewhere along the way, a box catches your eye. And before you know it, you're sitting on the floor with old school papers in your hands and a fan of grainy photographs spread out around you. Sometimes you get caught. Someone comes looking for you. And all you can do is shrug your shoulders and hold up the program to a play you'd seen twenty years before, and say, Do you remember this?

Well, that's what happened to me standing in the doorway of the hall closet. My chilly feet forgotten as I reached up on tiptoe to slide a shoebox off the top shelf. It wasn't labeled. I don't know why I reached for it, except that part of me must have remembered it. The lid looked like it came from a different box and didn't fit on properly. Letters and pictures were pushing their way out. Lifting it off, my face broke open in a sudden smile. Small treasures, scraps of paper,

a keychain from a roadside store a thousand miles from here. It's strange how you can go years without looking at things like this, mementos and scribbled notes, but then when you see them again, you remember everything about them. An envelope with a phone number scrawled across it. The smudged printing on a flyer for a concert. Movie stubs curling at the edges from the weeks they spent in a pocket before they went into a box. I could remember who that number belonged to.

The telephone pole I tugged the flyer down from, and the shoes I'd worn to the movie. Behind that first box was another and another. I pulled them all down and carried them to my bedroom, where I could curl up with my blankets as I reminisced. I found a friendship bracelet from summer camp, and I remembered how we would knot the strings onto safety pins and then fasten the pins onto our jeans or shorts so we could pull the strings taut while we braided. It had taken five minutes to learn. And then we'd become bracelet-making machines, swapping for favorite colors and pulling out our projects as soon as dinner was eaten. Braiding and nodding until we couldn't see what we were doing in the twilight. And then we'd probably forgotten all about it a week or two later, when we learned how

to make pinch pots in the ceramics shed, or to fletch arrows, or build rock cairns on our afternoon hikes. Young brains, I thought jealously, as I tied the bracelet awkwardly around my wrist. They're like magnets, sweeping through a field of precious metals, sweeping through a field of precious metals, collecting skills and ideas with ease. Not that my older brain wasn't capable of picking up new things. After all, who had just learned to ice skate backwards fairly reliably? Me was

the answer. Maybe I was a faster learner when I was younger, but now I was a better understander. I could see from angles I just didn't know about then. In one of the boxes I found photos of myself as a child, blowing out five candles on a cake, standing in grandpa's garden beside his sunflowers to show how they'd grown twice as tall as me, riding my bike without training wheels. I carried the sunflower picture into the bathroom and fitted it into the corner of the mirror, thinking that remembering my young sweet self each morning when I brushed my teeth might lead me to stay kind to her all day. Back on the bed, I flipped through pictures of my middle school years, playing in the

school band. My best friend and I dressed identically as some joke. A shot of me looking out of the window of the car on our way to a summer vacation, with a book forgotten in my hand. At the bottom of the stack was a small bound journal, the kind that comes with built-in pockets in the cover, which I remembered carrying with me nearly every day in high school. There were pages of poetry. I didn't read them, thinking it was probably best just to remember that I liked to write it, that at the time it had seemed terribly important and gripping and probably revolutionary, a thing the world had never heard before,

and that that feeling, rather than the actual poems, was who I was then. In the margins were lyrics from favorite songs, written out in sticky blue ink. There were lines from movies and quotes that had spun my young head around. A list of places I would travel to. Places I was sure I would live. And all the books I had read one summer. I flipped all the way to the pocket in the back cover of the journal. It looked empty, but when I pried it open, there were a few small transparent bits, like ovals of wax paper.

It took me a moment to recognize them, and then another to remember why I'd saved them. They were seed pods, about the size of quarters, silvery too, and with tiny round seeds still in each one. They grew on a plant called Lunaria, or sometimes called a money tree, and the pods grew beside purple flowers in the summertime, and could be cut and dried by hanging them upside down somewhere. I tipped them onto my hand and felt my breath go deep with the memory of this moment. They had been drying in a small potting shed on the far corner of our property, where the land dropped down toward the creek. We'd been out walking on a cool October day, as far as we could along one side of the creek, and then where a fallen

tree lay across the stream that crossed it to walk on the other side. We weren't trying to get anywhere, just spending time in the way of teenagers who can't get enough of it, and it had hammering through the leaves, and we jumped from one muddy bank to another, and climbed the hill back toward the house. We'd come up right behind the shed, and the rain was so heavy that we'd just pulled open the door and taken shelter inside. It had smelled like drying eucalyptus and unvarnished wood, and the rain was wonderfully loud on the tiny roof. We could see our breath in the air. And that had been my first kiss.

In wet clothes, with muddy boots, under a clutch of Lunaria stems. I'd come back later to clip a few of the seedpots, and they'd stayed in the pocket of this journal, in this box, tucked into the closet, just waiting for me to find them again. From my younger self to me today, about how exciting life can be, about how moments can stick and warm you through years later. Sweet dreams.