Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Opening Up The Cottage

Episode Date: May 20, 2019

Our story tonight is called “Opening the cottage” and it’s a story about the first day back in a well loved familiar place. It’s also about the little traditions that make up the history of a family, a sandwich eaten on the end of a dock and the soft happy feeling of summer arriving. So get cozy and ready to sleep. See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.Purchase 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. All stories are written and read by me, Katherine Nicolai, with audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. Nothing Much Happens is a proud member of the CuriousCast podcast network. Thank you for listening and for sharing our stories with anyone you know who likes relaxation and good sleep. If you need a little more Nothing Much Happens in your life, follow us on Instagram or Facebook or Twitter.

Now let me tell you a bit about how to use this podcast. It's designed to help you quiet down your mind and ease it to sleep. It does that by giving your mind a place to rest that isn't the tangle of thoughts you might have been caught in all day. The story is simple, and not much happens in it, so just follow along with my voice and the soft details of the story. And before you know it, you'll be waking up tomorrow, feeling refreshed and recharged. I'll tell the story twice, and the second time through I'll go a little slower. We're training your brain along the way.

And the more you use the stories, the faster you'll settle and sleep. So have a bit of patience if you're new to this. Now, turn off your light. Put away anything you've been looking at, and snuggle your body down into your favorite sleeping position. Pull the blanket up over your shoulder and tuck your pillow in just the way you like it. Take a deep breath in through In and out. Our story tonight is called Opening the Cottage, and it's a story about the first day back in a well-loved, familiar place.

It's also about the little traditions that make up the history of a family, a sandwich eaten on the end of a dock, and the soft, happy feeling of summer arriving. Opening the Cottage It is perhaps a distinction that not everyone will agree with. But as far as I am concerned, cabins are in the woods, and cottages are by the water. A cabin might live in a shady glade, tall pines or ancient oaks standing close by with branches curling overhead.

It might have dark-paneled walls and a wood-burning stove for warming feet and thick socks. It might be the best place to be on a foggy autumn morning, or at the first snow of the year, with a cup in hand and eyes on the slowly blanketing landscape. But a cottage sits on the edge of a river, or by a broad lake. Its walls are painted a faded shade of yellow or white. It has weeping willows for neighbors, their buds the first to go green in the early spring. It is the best place to be on the cusp of warm months, with a glass of iced tea in the afternoon, and eyes always on the moving water. And so, we were on our way to open the cottage. The car was packed with a few

days' worth of clothes good for cleaning and walking in, paper grocery sacks of provisions, a couple of dogs, and our giddy selves. The drive was familiar, routes we'd been taking for years. Here's the shop we sometimes stop at for iced drinks and sweet corn in the late summer. Here's the little town with one stoplight and the old depot overgrown with ivy and wisteria. Turn on the state road, circle past the house with shrubs cut to look like animals and train cars.

And keep going, just a bit longer, till the air starts to smell different. Finally, lean forward in your seat, squint a bit, and catch sight of the front porch and familiar trees of the cottage. It was an old place, built at the beginning of the last century, with white clabbered siding and a front full of windows. We pulled up, dogs dancing in our laps.

They knew where we were, and were as excited as we were. When we opened the doors, they jumped down and started a determined sniffing investigation of every blade of grass. They were checking the guestbook, as it were, seeing who exactly had passed through since we'd closed up in the fall. We let them sniff and did our own bit of inventory, checking for loose screens in the windows. We noticed a few branches that had fallen on the roof during a storm and the buds of lilacs on the bush. We stepped up onto the front porch,

and the dogs rushed to follow us in, their whole bodies wagging now and noses pressed up against the crack under the door. I found the key on my ring, the one with a tiny red heart daubed on in nail polish, and wiggled it into the lock. I pushed the door open, and the dog shot through the place, running from room to room. And we started to pull back curtains, roll up blinds, and open windows. Under the closed-up, musty smell, I could already detect the scent that was so deeply tied into this place.

It was like old wood, warmed in the sun. Like old books and the cases they've lived in for years. And with it, the smell of fresh water and hundreds of breakfasts cooked late on Saturday mornings. It was simply the best smell in the world. Once the car was unpacked and the dogs had worn themselves out with sniffing and found spots to lay in the sun of the front porch. We rolled up our sleeves and started to work our way through the little house. We put fresh sheets on the bed and swept the floors. We stocked up the kitchen cupboards

and filled the fridge. We put clean towels in the bathroom and wiped the dust from the surfaces. We frowned at the fuse box and water heater and flip switches until we'd figured it out. We should write down how we did that, so we have it for next year, I said. Mm-hmm.

We both knew we wouldn't. It was part of the tradition. We strung the clothesline up in the backyard, knowing soon it would hold exclusively beach towels and swimsuits. We waved at neighbors, called out hellos and how are yous. There was more to do, but we'd done all we wanted for the day. So we stood shoulder to shoulder in the kitchen and fixed some sandwiches, carried them out to the water.

We walked to the edge of the dock and sat down with our legs dangling over, toes a few inches away from the still, chilly, flowing river. We'd been saving this moment, and we both knew it. Is it this way for everyone, that water calls you like home? That you get antsy and edgy when you're too long away from it?

And that as soon as you're back, you feel yourself restored? Is it because I grew up here? Because I'd slept on the front porch swing a hundred times as a kid and jumped off this dock in every year of my life since I could walk? Or does water pull everyone the same? If I'd grown up in a desert, walked dunes of dry sand, and celebrated the days of my life in the rare shade of palms.

Would I feel called by the arid heat? Beside me an arm was raised, and a finger pointed down the length of the river at a long dash of steel in the distance. Ship. Ship, I said back. We'd see a hundred before the summer was over, but it never stopped being exciting. Some we knew well, having seen them for years and having looked them up in the ship's book. We knew how long they were, what they carried,

and could see just by looking at them if they were full or empty of cargo. This one looked brand new, fresh paint and sleek lines. I looked forward to hearing the ship's horns in the night, to seeing their lighted bows and sterns slipping through the black water. There was no sleep like cottage sleep, and no waking like cottage mornings.

We heard the paws of the dogs behind us, and they crept down the dock to sit beside us. A furry head came to rest on my thigh, and I slipped my hand over her shaggy ear and stroked the spot between her eyes. We were all quiet together, just looking out at the slow-moving ship, the wake building at her bow, and the water birds overhead. I was sure that cabins held their own joys, but this was a cottage, and it was the best place to be for the summer. Opening the Cottage It is perhaps a distinction that not everyone will agree with. But as far as I am concerned, cabins are in the woods, and cottages are by the

water. A cabin might live in a shady glade, tall pines or ancient oaks standing close by, with branches curling overhead. It might have dark paneled walls, and a wood-burning stove for warming feet in thick socks. It might be the best place to be on a foggy autumn morning, or at the first snow of the year, with a cup in hand and eyes on the slowly blanketing landscape. But a cottage sits on the edge of a river

or by a broad lake. Its walls are painted a faded shade of yellow or white. It has weeping willows for neighbors, their buds the first to go green in the early spring. It is the best place to be on the cusp of warm months, with a glass of iced tea in the afternoon, and eyes always on the moving water. And so, we were on our way to open the cottage.

The car was packed with a few days' worth of clothes, good for cleaning and walking in, Paper grocery sacks of provisions, a couple of dogs, and our giddy selves. The drive was familiar, roots we'd been taking for years. Here's the shop we sometimes stop at for iced drinks and sweet corn in the late summer. Here's the little town with one stoplight, and the old depot overgrown with ivy and wisteria. Turn on the state road. Circle past the house with shrubs

cut to look like animals and train cars and keep going just a bit longer till the air starts to smell different. Finally, lean forward in your seat, squint a bit, and catch sight of the front porch

and familiar trees of the cottage. It was an old place, built at the beginning of the last century, with white, clabbered siding and a front full of windows. We pulled up, dogs dancing in our laps. They knew where we were and were as excited as we were. When we opened the doors, they jumped down and started a determined sniffing investigation of every blade of grass. They were checking the guestbook, as it were, seeing who exactly had passed through since we'd closed up in the fall. We let them sniff and did our own bit of inventory. Checking for loose screens in the windows, we noticed a few branches that had fallen

on the roof during a storm, and the buds of lilac on the bush. We stepped up onto the front porch, and the dogs rushed to follow us in, their whole bodies wagging now, and noses pressed up against the crack under the door. I found the key on my ring, the one with a tiny red heart daubed on in nail polish, and wiggled it into the lock. I pushed the door open, and the dog shot through the place, running from room to room.

And we started to pull back curtains, roll up blinds, and open windows. Under the closed-up musty smell, I could already detect the scent that was so deeply tied into this place. It was like old wood warmed in the sun, like old books and the cases they've lived in for years. And with it was the smell of fresh water and hundreds of breakfasts cooked late on Saturday mornings. It was simply the best smell in the world. Once the car was unpacked and the dogs had worn themselves out with sniffing and found spots to lay in the sun of the front porch

we rolled up our sleeves and started to work our way through the little house We put fresh sheets on the bed and swept the floors. We stocked up the kitchen cupboards and filled the fridge. We put clean towels in the bathroom and wiped the dust from the surfaces.

We frowned at the fuse box and water heater and flipped switches until we'd figured it out. We should write down how we did that, so we have it for next year, I said. Mm-hmm. We both knew we wouldn't. It was part of the tradition. We strung the clothesline up in the backyard, knowing soon it would hold exclusively beach towels and swimsuits. We waved at neighbors, called out hellos and how are yous. There was more to do, but we'd done all we wanted for the day. So we stood shoulder to shoulder in the kitchen and fixed some sandwiches, carried them out to the water. We walked to the edge of the dock and sat down with our legs dangling over,

toes a few inches from the still, chilly, flowing river. We'd been saving this moment, and we both knew it. Is it this way for everyone? That water calls you like home? That you get antsy and edgy when you're too long away from it? And that as soon as you're back, you feel yourself restored. Is it because I grew up here? Because I'd slept on the front porch swing a hundred times as a kid and jumped off this dock in every year of my life since I could walk?

Or does water pull everyone the same? If I'd grown up in a desert, walked dunes of dry sand, and celebrated the days of my life in the rare shade of palms. Would I feel called by the arid heat? Beside me, an arm was raised, and a finger pointed down the length of the river, at a long dash of steel in the distance. Ship. Ship, I said back. We'd see a hundred before the summer was over,

but it never stopped being exciting. Some we knew well, having seen them for years, and having looked them up in the ship's book. We knew how long they were, what they carried, and could see just by looking at them if they were full or empty of cargo. This one looked brand new, fresh paint and sleek lines. I looked forward to hearing the ship's horns in the night, to seeing their lighted bows and sterns slipping through the black water.

There was no sleep like cottage sleep, and no waking like cottage mornings. We heard the paws of the dogs behind us, and they crept down the dock to sit beside us. A furry head came to rest on my thigh, and I slipped my hand over her shaggy ear and stroked the spot between her eyes. We were all quiet together, just looking out at the slow-moving ship, the wake building at her bow, and the water birds overhead.

I was sure that cabins held their own joys, but this was a cottage, and it was the best place to be for the summer. Sweet dreams.