Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Marmalade at the Inn Part 2

Episode Date: March 27, 2023

Our story tonight is called Marmalade at the Inn Part Two and if you didn’t hear part one, it couldn’t matter less. It’s a story about the beautiful old Inn that sits on the edge of the lake and the Innkeeper who takes care of all who stay there. It’s also about enjoying a new routine, the healing result of a bit of affection, and a bright morning at the end of a long winter. We give to a different charity each week and this week we are supporting True Colors United, working to implement innovative solutions to youth homelessness that focus on the unique experiences of LGBTQ+ young people. https://linktr.ee/nothingmuchhappensPurchase 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 Katherine 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 supporting True Colors United, working to implement innovative solutions to youth homelessness

that focus on the unique experiences of LGBTQ plus young people. Now, I have a simple and effective way to help you get to sleep and return to sleep if you wake later in the night. All you need to do is listen as I tell you a story. I'll tell it twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. It has just enough happening to keep your attention, but not enough to keep you awake. And over time, you will condition your brain to respond more quickly and reliably. If you're awake later in the night, don't hesitate to turn the story right back on, or just think through any part you can remember. Now, it's time to set everything down and switch out the light. Slide down into your sheets and just notice how good it feels to be in bed right now. You are just where you're supposed to

be. And I'll be here, keeping watch as you rest. You're safe now, so you can let go. Take a slow, deep breath in through your nose and sigh through your mouth. Again, breathe in. And let it out. Good. Our story tonight is called Marmalade at the Inn, Part 2. And if you didn't hear Part one, it couldn't matter less. It's a story about the beautiful old inn that sits on the edge of the lake and the innkeeper who takes care of all who stay there.

It's also about enjoying a new routine, the healing result of a bit of affection. And a bright morning at the end of a long winter. Marmalade at the Inn, Part 2 I've been an innkeeper now for many years. But I wasn't used to waking up with my guests sprawled across the foot of my bed. Still, I was enjoying every morning of this. The sun was rising earlier and earlier,

and today, when I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, I saw marmalade dozing in a beam of light. I reached for her soft ginger fur that was warm under my fingertips. She yawned and stretched luxuriously. It was lovely to see her so comfortable and at ease. The first night after her mom had left, she'd been standoffish. Frankly, she looked affronted, offended to have been left behind. Never mind that she knew me from lots of visits, and that her favorite kiddie bed had been warmed by the fire. Her preferred pate and kibble served up on a fancy china plate. But since then she'd grown more relaxed, and traded in her outrage for curiosity and play.

Beside her was a round lump under the duvet. That would be Crumb, the little brown dog who snored like a bear. Crumb had been comfortable right from the beginning. His mom had brought a backpack stuffed with balls and squeaky toys, which were now dispersed over all four floors of the inn. Whenever I stumbled across one, I picked it up and squeaked it until I could hear little Crumb would race and snatch it up and usually go sliding into the molding.

I padded the lump in the bed and felt his little tail thumping against the mattress. I pulled back the duvet and he blinked at the sunlight immediately flipping over for a belly rub on his back his wrinkly cheeks

sunk back and it looked like he was smiling, a goofy grin with his lips stuck on his teeth. These animals made me laugh all day long. How had I lived so long without any in my life? I swung my feet out of bed and stood, careful not to step on Birdie, the last of my guests, who was, in many ways, the opposite of Crumb. Birdie was a rescued greyhound, so giant compared to little Crumb. He was sleek instead of fluffy. And rather than chase toys and explore the inn, all he really wanted to do was find a nice, warm place to snooze. In fact, he and Marmy often bunked together on a bed in the library, where the morning sun was strongest.

I called his name, and he opened one eye and looked at me. Let's go outside, I said, and then you can have a treat. That last word sent Crumb flying off the bed and zooming in circles around Bird, who slowly and reminiscent of a giraffe, lumbered to his feet. Are you coming, Marm? I looked back at her, stretched out in the sun.

She blinked her gold eyes at me, as if to say, Why would I move? I chuckled as I opened my bedroom door and ushered the dogs down the stairs. In the winter, when I was here alone, I'd gotten quite used to the quiet, and honestly, I enjoyed it. From May till November, the inn was very busy. Kids and grown-ups coming and going. Breakfast to serve. Beds to make. Towels to carry down to the lakeshore. And I loved that, too. It was a great balance for me, I realized. Time to care for and be with others, and then

time to care for and be with myself. But this little interruption to my regularly scheduled programming was bringing me fresh energy and adding fun to each day. The inn was set far back off the road and with lots of land and gardens all around. So the dogs could race through the yards without fear of bumping into anyone. And by now, we'd walked the property together enough for them to know where the boundaries were. The first day or two, I staircase that led to the Circle Drive, where guests pulled up when the inn was open.

But today, we walked through the hallway to the back of the house and through the screened-in porch where breakfast was served all summer. I sprung the lock on the old screen door, and they rushed down the steps and out onto the grass. The sunshine was warm and bright, and the skies were completely clear.

Down the sloping lawn was the lake, now melted after the long winter. The ducks were back and paddling through the water, splashing and dunking down to let it run over their backs. Crumb watched them from afar and gave one half-hearted bark. and wisely chose to instead become very interested in sniffing around the base of a pear tree. Bertie ambled over to me and leaned his body against my thigh, tipping his head up as I rubbed his ears. I'd heard a wise person once teaching about meditation and enlightenment.

After some instruction, he clarified that though he'd devoted his life to these ideas, a person could live without them. But, he said, you cannot live without affection. That had sat with me for a long time. We were all still animals. And as much as we might intellectualize,

we couldn't get past, nor should we want to, needing each other. Bertie needed this affection, as much as he needed water and his breakfast. I leaned down and planted a kiss on his warm forehead. Crumb raced over, jealous that kisses were being handed out and he wasn't the recipient. Come in and you'll get snuggles too, I said, and opened the door at the top of the porch stairs.

They raced through the door and into the comfortable library where I had a canister of treats for them. Like many grand old houses of their day, our kitchens were below stairs, and the last thing I needed was crumb running wild through Chef's pantry. I imagined him colliding with the shelves of pickles and shuddered. So they'd breakfast up here. We had a few days still before my guests' parents returned to take them home and what with a lovely

weather it seemed like a day for adventure marmalade at the Inn, Part 2. I'd been an innkeeper for many years now, but I wasn't used to waking up with my guests sprawled across the foot of my bed. Still, I was enjoying every morning of this. The sun was rising earlier and earlier. And today, when I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, I saw Marmalade dozing in a beam of light. I reached for her soft, ginger fur.

It was warm under my fingertips. She yawned and stretched luxuriously. It was lovely to see her so comfortable and at ease. The first night after her mom had left, she'd been standoffish. Frankly, she'd looked affronted, offended to have been left behind. Never mind that she knew me from lots of visits.

And that her favorite kiddie bed had been warmed by the fire. Her preferred pâté and kibble served up on a fancy china plate. But since then, she'd grown more relaxed and traded in her outrage for curiosity and play. Beside her was a round lump under the duvet. That would be Crumb, the little brown dog who snored like a bear. Crumb had been comfortable right from the beginning. His mom had brought a backpack stuffed with balls and squeaky toys, which were now dispersed over all four floors of the inn. I stumbled across one, I picked it up and squeaked it until I could hear little paws scrabbling along the floorboards or stomping on the stairs. Then I'd throw it as far as I could

and Crumb would race and snatch it up and usually go sliding into the molding I padded the lump in the bed and felt his little tail thumping against the mattress I pulled back the duvet and he blinked at the sunlight immediately flipping over for a belly rub. On his back, his wrinkly cheeks sunk back, and it looked like he was smiling, a goofy grin with his lips stuck on his teeth.

These animals made me laugh all day long. How had I lived so long without any in my life? I swung my feet out of bed and stood, careful not to step on Birdie, the last of my guests, who was, in many ways, the opposite of Crumb. Birdie was a rescued greyhound, so giant compared to little Crumb. He was sleek instead of fluffy. And rather than chase toys and explore the inn, all he really wanted to do bed in the library, where the morning sun was strongest.

I called his name, and he opened one eye and looked at me. Let's go outside, I said, and then you can have a treat. That last word sent Crumb flying off the bed and zooming in circles around Bird, who slowly and reminiscent of a giraffe, lumbered to his feet. Are you coming, Marm? I looked back at her, stretched out in the sun. She blinked her gold eyes at me, as if to say, Why would I move?

I chuckled as I opened my bedroom door and ushered the dogs down the stairs. In the winter, when I was here alone, I'd gotten quite used to the quiet. And honestly, I enjoyed it. From May till November, the inn was very busy. Kids and grown-ups coming and going. Breakfast to serve. Beds to make, towels to carry down to the lakeshore.

And I loved that too. It was a great balance for me, I realized. Time to care for and be with others. And then time to care for and be with myself. But this little interruption to my regularly scheduled programming was bringing me fresh energy and adding fun to each day. The inn was set far back off the road and with lots of land and gardens all around, so the dogs could race through the yards without fear of bumping into anyone. and by now we'd walked the property together, enough for them to know where the boundaries were.

The first day or two, I'd let them out the front door, the one at the bottom of the great staircase that led to the circle drive where guests pulled up when the inn was open. But today, we walked through the hall to the back of the house and through the screened-in porch where breakfast was served all summer. I sprung the lock on the old screen door, and they rushed down the steps and out onto the grass. The sunshine was warm and bright, and the skies were completely clear. Down the sloping lawn was the lake,

now melted after the long winter. The ducks were back and paddling through the water, splashing and dunking down to let it run over their backs. Crumb watched them from afar and gave one half-hearted bark. I think he knew he was the literal underdog in that matchup, and wisely chose to, instead, become very interested in sniffing around the base of a pear tree. Bertie ambled over to me and leaned his body against my thigh, tipping his head up as I rubbed his ears. I'd heard a wise person once teaching about meditation and enlightenment. After some instruction, he clarified that

though he'd devoted his life to these ideas, a person could live without them. But, he said, you cannot live without affection. That had sat with me for a long time. We were all still animals, and as much as we might intellectualized, we couldn't get past, nor should we want to, needing each other.

Birdie needed this affection as much as he needed water and his breakfast. I leaned down and planted a kiss on his warm forehead. Crumb raced over, jealous that kisses were being handed out and he wasn't the recipient. Come in, and you'll get snuggles too, I said, and opened the door at the top of the porch stairs. They raced through and into the comfortable library, where I kept a canister of treats for them. Like many grand old houses of their day, our kitchens were below stairs, and the last thing I needed was crumb running wild through Chef's pantry. I imagined him colliding with the shelves of pickles and shuddered. So they'd breakfast up here. We had a few days still

before my guest's parents returned to take them home. And what with the lovely weather, it seemed like a day for adventure. Sweet dreams.