Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Old Houses

Episode Date: May 4, 2020

Our story tonight is called “Old Houses” and it’s a story about a wandering amble through an unknown neighborhood. It’s also about a forgotten piece of music in an old piano bench, a penny pressed into a sidewalk, and the stories we tell about the places we live. So let's 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 Catherine Nicolai. I write and read all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Our audio engineer is Bob Wittersheim. We're proud members of the Curious Cast podcast network. You can follow us on Facebook and Instagram and Twitter for pictures of cozy things and calm reminders to breathe

and enjoy the small pleasures around you. Has this ever happened to you? You're in bed, reading your book, and maybe even scrunched up in a not-so-comfortable position, but you can't keep your eyes open. Then you turn off the light, get as snug as possible, and suddenly you can't sleep.

What happened in those few seconds is that the narrative was replaced by your thinking mind. So that's how this works. I'll provide a story, simple and relaxing, and told twice, with the second reading a little slower than the first. Let your mind just follow along, as your eyes would have moved across the page. And before you know it, you'll be in deep, restful sleep. If you wake in the middle of the night, rather than letting your brain take over, think back through any of the story that you can remember,

and you'll drop right back off. Now, it's time to get comfortable. Switch off your light. Snuggle your body down into your sheets and feel how good it is to be in bed. Let's take a deep breath in through the nose and out through the mouth. Nice. Let's do that one more time. In and out. Good. And it's a story about a wandering amble through an unknown neighborhood. It's also about a forgotten piece of music in an old piano bench, a penny pressed into a sidewalk, and the stories we tell about the places we live.

Old Houses about the places we live. Old houses. On my walk today, I took a turn I hadn't taken before and found myself strolling past old stone houses with wide front porches and side lots devoted to flower gardens. The sidewalks were a bit cracked and uneven, misplaced by the thick roots of trees that must have been planted well over a hundred years ago.

Do you play this game? Walking in an old neighborhood and imagining a story about the people who'd lived in the houses, what they'd gotten up to, who they'd written in their diaries about, and what they'd eaten for their diaries about, and what they'd eaten for breakfast on sunny Saturday mornings.

There was a house, set well back from the street, with a neat green lawn framed by a black iron fence. There were twisty flourishes shaped into the metal, where the posts connected to the crossbeams, some like leaves and some like petals. And I thought about how someone had come up with that design and crafted it, and how long it had lasted, and that it was still beautiful. In the side yard of the house was an ancient giant of a tree, an oak who was just beginning to bud, as he had done so many springs before.

A bedroom window, just beside a long, sideways-judging branch, was open a few inches, and the curtains inside were shifting a bit with the breeze. I wondered if a few fearless teenagers had found that branch useful over the years for sneaking out late at night. If they'd scraped their hands on the bark as they caught a hold, climbed down till they

could drop to their feet, quiet and watching to see if a lamp would come on inside the house. come on inside the house, and when it didn't, smiling excitedly in the darkness and rushing off to find some adventure. I crossed the street toward a row of peony bushes that wrapped around a corner in front of a house made of dark, aged wood that seemed to be held together by miles of ivy vines winding around every window frame and climbing endlessly over eaves and dormers and gables. I stopped to squat down by the peonies and look at their shining dark green leaves

and the tightly bundled buds of white and pink petals that were still a ways away from blooming. Tiny black ants crawled over the buds, eating their sweet, waxy nectar. I laughed to myself, remembering a panicky call to my plant-wise mother when I'd found ants on my peonies in my first garden.

What do I do? I'd asked. Nothing, she'd laughed. Nature has it worked out, dear. Sure enough, the flowers had bloomed full and healthy a week later or so, and I'd been reminded about the useful lesson of not fixing what wasn't broken, and just generally minding one's own business. Rising from my crouch, I looked back at the house with the ivy. I had a feeling there would be a piano in a house like that. Maybe it was just a touch out of tune, but still had a lovely sound. In its bench

were old piano lessons, marked up with notes, dates to have the piece mastered by, and accolades for work well done. I'd had a great, great uncle, who composed a few pieces that had been published in the twenties. I wondered if a few of his old scores were still sitting in piano benches in houses like this, waiting to be played again. On a corner, I looked down and noticed a dull glint at the edge of the sidewalk. I stooped down and saw that it was a penny, planted deep into the cement. I suspected it was a way to mark the date, that it had been pressed into the wet concrete.

It was turned face up, so that the year showed beside the profile. I rubbed at it for a moment and peered closer. 1920, it said, and it was still here. The street curved ahead of me, and I followed it past more old houses, some a bit worse for wear, whose lawns had taken over the flower beds, or had a broken window up high in the attic and loose tiles on the roof. I wove a few more stories about them as I walked. This one was the one that all the kids dared each other to approach on Halloween night, with its dark, deep-set doorways and dusty, cobwebbed window panes. Across the street there was a tall Victorian,

painted in several bright shades of yellow and pink, with a small turret on the top floor and windows of stained glass. There were a dozen steps up to the front porch, and each baluster was painted in a complex repeating design. I thought that it must have been the house of a wise old aunt. You'd go for advice, and she'd sit you down and listen to you as she poured tea into matching cups. And after you'd got it all off your chest, she'd quietly sit with you and tilt her head a bit to the side, and you'd realize you already knew just what you needed to do. You'd fly down her front steps, calling your thanks over your shoulder, and rush off to

take the job, or confess your your love or pack your bags. There was a serious-looking house with sharply trimmed shrubs framing the gardens and dignified urns of flowers on stone pedestals at the front door. But at the edge of the drive, cut into a stone ledge. I found a tiny fairy garden, with a miniature house and succulents, and very small stepping stones that reminded me of the kind I found by the lake

and skipped into the water. I looked back up at the house and gave it a friendly wave that likely no one saw. These old houses held so many secrets and stories. And when you bumped into the small, beautiful details, that could easily be missed. It felt like stumbling on a treasure. The twists in the wrought iron fence. The peonies waiting for the ants to finish their meal. The penny turned face up in the sidewalk.

Carefully painted balusters. And the space set out for fairies to garden. I felt lucky to have seen them, to have not just rushed past. I'd keep taking new turns on my walks, and see what else I could stumble upon. Old houses. On my walk today, I took a turn I hadn't taken before, and found myself strolling past old stone houses with wide front porches and side lots

devoted to flower gardens. The sidewalks were a bit cracked and uneven, misplaced by the thick roots of trees that must have been planted well over a hundred years ago. Do you play this game? Walking in an old neighborhood and imagining a story about the people who'd lived in the houses? What they'd gotten up to? Who they'd written in their diaries about and what they'd eaten for breakfast on sunny Saturday mornings. There was a house

set well back from the street with a neat green lawn framed by a black iron fence. There were twisty flourishes shaped in the metal, where the posts connected to crossbeams, some like leaves, and some like petals. And I thought about how someone had come up with this design, and crafted it, and how long it had lasted, and that it was still beautiful.

In the side yard of the house was an ancient giant of a tree, an oak who was just beginning to bud, as he had done so many springs before. A bedroom window, just beside a long, sideways-judging branch, was open a few inches, and the curtains inside were shifting a bit with the breeze. I wondered if a few fearless teenagers had found that branch useful over the years for sneaking out late at night. If they'd scraped their hands on the bark as they caught a hold, climbed down till they could drop to their feet, quiet and watching to see if a lamp would come on in the house. And when it didn't, smiling excitedly in the darkness, and rushing off to find some adventure.

I crossed the street toward a row of peony bushes that wrapped around a corner in front of a house made of dark, aged wood that seemed to be held together by miles of ivy vines winding around every window frame. I'm climbing endlessly over eaves and dormers and gables.

I stopped to squat down by the peonies and look at their shining dark green leaves and the tightly bundled buds of white and pink petals that were still a ways away from blooming. Tiny black ants crawled over the buds, eating away their sweet waxy nectar. I laughed to myself, remembering a panicky call to my plant-wise mother.

When I'd found ants on my peonies in my first garden. What do I do? I'd asked. Nothing, she'd laughed. Nature has it worked out, dear. Sure enough, the flowers had bloomed full and healthy a week or so later. And I'd been reminded about the useful lesson of not fixing what wasn't broken, and just generally minding one's own business. Rising from my crouch,

I looked back at the house with the ivy. rising from my crouch. I looked back at the house with the ivy. I had a feeling there would be a piano in a house like that. Maybe it was just a touch out of tune, but still had a lovely sound. In its bench were old piano lessons marked up with notes, dates to have the piece mastered by, and accolades for work well done. I'd had a great, great uncle who composed a few pieces that had been published in the twenties. And I wondered if a few of his old scorers were still sitting in piano benches in houses like this, waiting to be played again. On a corner, I looked down and noticed a dull glint at the edge of the sidewalk. I stooped down and saw that it was a penny, planted deep into the cement. I suspected it was a way to mark the date that it had been pressed into the wet concrete.

It was turned face up so that the year showed beside the profile. I rubbed at it for a moment and peered closer. 1920, it said. And it was still here. The street curved ahead of me and I followed it past more old houses, some a bit worse for wear, whose lawns had taken over the flower beds

or had a broken window up high in the attic and loose tiles on the roof. I wove a few more stories about them as I walked. This one was the one that all the kids dared each other to approach on Halloween night, with its dark, deep-set doorways and dusty cobwebbed window panes. Across the street there was a tall Victorian, painted in several bright shades of yellow and pink, with a small turret on the top floor and windows of stained glass. There were a dozen steps up to the front porch, and each baluster was painted in a complex, repeating design. I thought that it must have been the house of a wise old aunt. You'd go for advice,

and she'd sit you down and listen to you as she poured tea into matching cups. And after you'd got it all off your chest, she'd quietly sit with you and tilt her head a bit to the side. And you'd realize you already knew just what you needed to do. You'd fly down her front steps, calling your thanks over your shoulder, and rush off to take the job, or confess your love, or pack your bags. There was a serious-looking house, with sharply trimmed shrubs framing the gardens, and dignified

urns of flowers on stone pedestals at the front door. But at the edge of the drive, cut into a stone ledge, I found a tiny fairy garden with a miniature house and succulents and very small stepping stones that reminded me of the kind I found by the lake and skipped into the water. I looked back up at the house and gave it a friendly wave that likely no one saw. These old houses held so many secrets and stories. And when you bumped into the small, beautiful details

that could easily be missed, it felt like stumbling on a treasure. The twists in the wrought iron fence. The peonies waiting for the ants to finish their meal. The penny turned face up in the sidewalk, carefully painted balusters, and the space set out for fairies to garden. I felt lucky to have seen them, to have not just rushed past.

I'd keep taking new turns on my walks and see what else I could stumble upon. Sweet dreams.