Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - New Owners at the Orchard

Episode Date: September 9, 2024

Our story tonight is called New Owners at the Orchard, and it a story about a beloved spot in the village, getting fresh life as apple season is about to begin. It’s also about gathering baskets, pumpkins turning orange in their patch, a push broom leaned against the side of a barn and the joy of making something old, new again. We give to a different charity each week, and this week, we are giving to Humble Design Detroit. They change lives and communities by custom designing and fully furnishing home interiors for individuals, families, and veterans emerging from homelessness. Subscribe for ad-free, bonus, and extra-long episodes now, as well as ad-free and early episodes of Stories from the Village of Nothing Much! Search for the NMH Premium channel on Apple Podcasts or follow the link: nothingmuchhappens.com/premium-subscription. Save over $100 on Kathryn’s hand-selected wind-down favorites with the Nothing Much Happens Wind-Down Box. A collection of products from our amazing partners: Eversio Wellness: Chill Now Vellabox: Lavender Silk Candle Alice Mushrooms: Nightcap NutraChamps: Tart Cherry Gummies A Brighter Year: Mini Coloring Book NuStrips: Sleep Strips Woolzies: Lavender Roll-On Listen to our new show, Stories from the Village of Nothing Much, on your favorite podcast app. Join us tomorrow morning for a meditation at nothingmuchhappens.com/first-this. Purchase 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. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. We give to a different charity each week. And this week we are giving to Humble Design Detroit. They change lives and communities by custom designing and fully furnishing home interiors for individuals,

families, and veterans emerging from homelessness. Learn more about them in our show notes. Bob let me know the other day that we had reached 300 episodes of Nothing Much Happens. And I am really proud of that, and of our small team. Our goal is simple. To provide as many people as possible with comfort and a way to good, regular sleep. The show is free and always will be. But if you'd like to support us, to make sure we can keep doing this, please consider subscribing to our premium feed,

which gives you ad-free, bonus, and supersized episodes. Learn more at nothingmuchhappens.com or through the links in this episode's notes. After 300 episodes, I feel pretty confident in saying I have cracked the code on the right amount of nothing much and soothing details and soft-voicedness to help you sleep. So all you need to do now is listen. I'll read the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake later in the night, don't hesitate to turn an episode right back on. Our story tonight is called New Owners at the Orchard, and it's a story about a beloved spot in the village. Getting fresh life as apple season is about to begin.

It's also about gathering baskets, pumpkins turning orange in their patch, a push broom leaned against the side of a barn, and the joy of making something old new again. Now, lights out campers. It's time. Snuggle down and enjoy how good it feels to be in bed. To be at the end of your day.

You are right where you're supposed to be right now. Take a slow, deep breath in through your nose and sigh from your mouth. Do it again. Inhale. And sigh it out. Good. New owners at the orchard. I liked the sound of the push broom sweeping over these old wood floors. And I guess it was good that I did, since I had plenty of sweeping to do. The back room of this converted barn opened out to the orchards and looked down over even rows of apple trees.

Their branches were heavy now with nearly ripe fruit and we were busily working away to make everything ready for the moment when it would be picked. It was a year ago that we'd heard that the old owners were looking to pass the torch on,

to sell the orchard to someone who could take good care of the trees and keep the market stalls full of fruit. In fact, I remember just where I was when I'd heard it. Sitting at the long table on my family's farm at the end of the summer. It had been a good year for tomatoes, and my cousins and I had come to help with the harvest, which meant being fed tomatoes served up in a dozen different ways afterward, fine by me. As we heard the news from the other end of the table about the orchard, I'd passed a plate of large, stuffed beefsteak tomatoes, drizzled with balsamic glaze, to my cousin,

and tilted my head in a question. She took the plate, scooped one of the tomatoes out, set it down in front of her, and tilted her head back at me. We could often converse this way. Azed eyebrow, a cleared throat, knowing well enough how the other thought that words were not always needed. Growing up in a family of green thumbs, we'd been planting and weeding and growing since we were little. Our first summer jobs were at the farmer's market. And in the last few years,

we'd begun dreaming up an idea to keep the family business going, but in our own way. We thought about opening up a shop in downtown. Houseplants, maybe. Or a little cafe with a market booth where you could get your cup of matcha

and your veggies for dinner all in one stop. We'd gone back and forth, the where, the what, the when of it all, both of us feeling that we just hadn't found the right idea yet, and that we'd know it when we did. And that evening, over plates of pasta and pomodoro sauce, we knew it. After dinner, we'd pulled up chairs together on the back porch

and made notes and a list and even some excited sketches in my notebook. The path from that night to today, to me sweeping out the back room in this barn, pausing to lean on my broom and look out at the rows of apple trees. It wasn't a simple, straightforward one, but we'd made it this far, and we were having fun as we went.

The orchard was in pretty good shape. Some of the trees needed more pruning than we'd expected, and we'd needed to have a few parts machined for the cider press. But the produce shop had a row of working fridges, and as we dug through storage rooms and sheds, we kept finding lovely and useful artifacts that made remaking this village institution a joy. In one cupboard, I'd uncovered a slew of half-bushel gathering baskets that were really impressive. I was so used to seeing the mass-produced baskets we stocked for selling fruit. And these were all slightly different, but so beautiful and hardy and well-crafted. We were still deciding how to use them.

I shook myself out of my daydream and began to sweep again, sliding the push broom in short thrusts across the floor. Like I said, I liked the way it sounded, the shh, shh, shh sound of the bristles, like wind blowing through leaves. I'd been working my way across the space, sweeping dust and apple leaves

and bits of old hay out the open barn doors. I took the broom out and shook the last bit of dust out of its bristles. The days had just begun to cool off in the last week or so. There was still plenty of sun, and we were glad for it, because sunshine made our apples sweeter as they ripened. But when it set in the evening, especially out here in the country,

the air was chilly. I braced the broom against the side of the barn and decided to walk down to the pumpkin patch. Though we were primarily an apple and stone fruit orchard, as far back as anyone

in this town can remember, there have been pumpkins here as well. And when my cousin and I were kids and came here for our fall field trips, One kind. Big, round, orange. Dusty on the bottom with a bit of prickly stem on top. Now the orchard grew dozens of varieties and lots of shapes and colors. And when we'd taken over this spring, we'd brought with us some of the pumpkin-growing expertise our family farm is known for,

and we'd planted a few giant pumpkin types. Though we hadn't said it out loud, I suspected both my cousin and I wanted to one day grow a gourd larger than the ones our aunts and uncles did and claim a blue ribbon of our own. On my way to the patch, I walked through an avenue of trees.

Under their leaves, I could smell the thick, sweet scent of the fruit. The empires and the sweet tangos would be ready in a matter of days or weeks. And I stopped and twisted one of each free from their branches. I ran my fingers over the skin. No soft spots. No blemishes. And looking closely, I could see that nearly all the traces of green were gone. I kept a camping knife in my back pocket

and opened it up to slice the apples in half. Inside they were both crisp and white, the seeds as well, a sign that they still needed a bit of time. When the seeds inside were brown, we'd harvest. I tossed the apples into a compost pile at the end of the row and folded my knife away.

The pumpkin patches were huge. It was possible, this first year out, in our enthusiasm, that we'd overdone it a bit. Oh well, if we had too many pumpkins come November, the deer in the woods would have the buffet of their dreams. I stepped through the vines, peeling back a few leaves, looking at the growing gourds underneath. They were turning orange, and I was so proud of them. I stood tall and shielded my eyes from the sun, scanning across the fields. At the edge of the rows of Ambrosia and John of Gold, I spotted my cousin. We were the next generation of land keepers. I thought of that list we'd made a year ago, after the tomato harvest on the back porch. It was tacked behind the register in our new shop.

A reminder that dreams can come true. I waved to my cousin and she waved back new owners at the orchard I liked the sound of the push broom sweeping over these old wood floors and I guess of the push broom sweeping over these old wood floors.

And I guess it was good that I did, since I had plenty of sweeping to do. The back room of this converted barn opened out to the orchards and looked down over even rows of apple trees. Their branches were heavy now, with nearly ripe fruit, and we were busily working away to make everything ready for the moment when it would be picked. It was a year ago that we'd heard that the old owners were looking to pass the torch on

to sell the orchard to someone who would take good care of the trees and keep the market stalls full of fruit. In fact, I remember just where I was when I'd heard it. Sitting at the long table on my family's farm at the end of the summer. It had been a good year for tomatoes

when my cousins and I had come to help with the harvest, which meant being fed tomatoes served up in a dozen different ways afterward, fine by me. As we heard the news from the other end of the table about the orchard, I'd passed a plate of large, stuffed, beefsteak tomatoes drizzled with balsamic glaze to my cousin, and tilted my head in

a question. She took the plate, scooped one of the tomatoes out, and set it down in front of her, and tilted her head back at me. We could often converse this way, a raised eyebrow, a cleared throat, knowing well enough how the other thought, that words were not always needed. in a family of green thumbs. We'd been planting and weeding and growing since we were little. Our first summer jobs

were at the farmer's market. And in the last few years, we'd begun dreaming up an idea to keep the family business going, but in our own way. We'd thought about opening up a shop in downtown. Houseplants, maybe. Or a little cafe with a market booth where you could get your cup of matcha and your veggies for dinner, all in one stop. We'd gone back and forth.

The where, the what, the when of it all. Both of us feeling that we just hadn't found the right idea yet, and that we'd know it when we did. And that evening, over plates of pasta and pomodoro sauce, we knew it. After dinner, we'd pulled up chairs together on the back porch and made a list, notes, and even some excited sketching in my notebook. The path from that night to today,

to me sweeping out the back room in this barn, pausing to lean on my broom and look out at the rows of apple trees. It wasn't a simple, straightforward one, but we'd made it this far, and we were having fun as we went. The orchard was in pretty good shape. Some of the trees needed more pruning than we expected, and we needed to have a few parts machined for the cider press. But the produce shop had a row of working fridges, and as we dug through storage rooms and sheds, we kept finding lovely and useful artifacts that made remaking this village institution a joy. In one cupboard, I had uncovered a slew of half-bushel gathering baskets that were really impressive.

I was so used to seeing the mass-produced baskets we stocked for selling fruit. And these were all slightly different, but so beautiful and hearty and well-crafted. We were still deciding how to use them. I shook myself out of my daydream, began to sweep again, sliding the push broom and Like I said, I liked the way it sounded. The shh, shh, shh sound of the bristles,

like wind blowing through leaves. I'd been working my way across the space, sweeping dust and apple leaves and bits of old hay out the open barn doors. I took the broom out and shook the last bits of dust out of its bristles. The days had just begun to cool off in the last week or so. There was still plenty of sun, and we were glad for it, because sunshine made our apples sweeter as they ripened. But when it set in the evening,

especially out here in the country, the air was chilly. I braced the broom against the side of the barn and decided to take a walk down to the pumpkin patch. Though we were primarily an apple and stone fruit orchard, as far back as anyone in this town can remember, there have been pumpkins here as well. And when my cousin and I were kids and came here for our fall field trips, there was just one kind. Big, round, orange. Dusty on the bottom. And with a bit of prickly stem on top. Now the orchard grew dozens of varieties.

And lots of shapes and colors. And when we'd taken over this spring, we'd brought with us some of the pumpkin-growing expertise our family farm is known for, and planted a few giant pumpkin types. Though we hadn't said it out loud, I suspected both my cousin and I wanted to one day grow a gourd larger than the ones our aunts and uncles did, and claim a blue ribbon of our own. On my way to the patch, I walked through an avenue of trees. Under

their leaves, I could smell the thick, sweet scent of the fruit. The empires and the sweet tangos would be ready in a matter of days or weeks. And I stopped and twisted one of each free from their branches. I ran my fingers over the skin. No soft spots. No blemishes. And looking closely, I could see that nearly all the traces of green were gone. I kept a camping knife in my back pocket and opened it up to slice the apples in half. Inside they were both crisp and white. The seeds as well. A sign When the seeds inside were brown, we'd harvest.

I tossed the apples into a compost pile at the end of the row and folded my knife away. The pumpkin patches were huge. It was possible, this first year out, in our enthusiasm, that we'd overdone it a bit. Oh well. If we had too many pumpkins come November, the deer of their dreams. I stepped through the vines, peeling back a few leaves and looking at the growing gourds underneath.

They were turning orange and I was so proud of them. I stood tall, unshielded my eyes John of Gold, I spotted my cousin. We were the next generation of land keepers. I thought of that list we'd made a year ago after the tomato harvest on the back porch it was tacked behind the register

in our new shop a reminder tacked behind the register in our new shop. A reminder that dreams can come true. I waved to my cousin, and she waved back. Sweet dreams. Sweet dreams.