Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Over the River and Through the Woods

Episode Date: November 18, 2019

Our story tonight is called Over the River and through the Woods and it’s a story about going home for Thanksgiving. It’s also about fresh rolls from the bakery, late night card games, and sitting at at a long kitchen table with people who know you well. So get cozy and ready to sleep. This story mentions alcohol. 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. I'm Catherine Nicolai. I read and write all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. Thank you for listening, and for sharing our stories with anyone you know who likes relaxation and good sleep. You can also follow us on Instagram and Facebook and Twitter for a bit of extra coziness.

And if you need a little more Nothing Much in your life, head to NothingMuchHappens.com, where you can find some special pieces inspired by the show. Hoodies have finally arrived. Now let me explain a bit about how to use this podcast. Our minds have a tendency to race and roam. And this, more than anything else, is what prevents us from finding good rest at night. The story I'm about to tell you is a place to rest your mind. A relaxing, peaceful spot to focus on. So that instead of racing, you will rest.

I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a bit slower the second time through. If you're still awake at the end of the second telling, you could listen again, or just think your way through the details that you can remember. This will also put you back to sleep if you wake in the middle of the night. This is a kind of grown-up sleep training, and you will see your sleep continually improve over time. Be patient if you are new to this. Now, it's time to turn off the light.

Settle your body deeply into your sheets sheets and get as comfortable as you can. Pull the blanket over your shoulder and feel your muscles relax. Let's take a deep breath in through the nose and a sigh out through the nose. And a sigh out of the mouth. Good. Do that one more time.

Breathe in. And out. Our story tonight is called Over the River and Through the Woods. And it's a story about going home for Thanksgiving. It's also about fresh rolls from the bakery, late-night card games, and sitting at a long kitchen table with people who know you well. Over the river and through the woods.

It was the day before Thanksgiving, and the dogs and I stepped out into the morning air to find a thick frost on the ground and the sweet, stinging scent of coming snow in the air. The dogs chased and crunched through the leaves, leaving behind prints of their warm paws in the white frost. I stood with a quilt I'd pulled from the sofa and hastily wrapped around myself, and watched my breath crystallizing in the air. Though it was cold, the sun was coming up, and I turned my face toward it, closing my eyes against the brightness and watching the shifting colors through my eyelids.

I kept my eyes closed and listened. I could hear the dogs and their play, birds out for their morning meal. I whistled for the dogs and held the kitchen door open. They raced through with a buzz of canine excitement, and I was excited too. Today we were packing up the car and driving out over the river and through the woods for Thanksgiving on the family farm.

I had grocery sacks ready at the door full of all the good things that would make our meal. There were butternut squashes to be blended into a rich soup, bright red cranberries that we'd stew into a sauce with honeycrisp apples and walnuts. There were jars of pickles that I'd canned myself, ready to be laid out on trays alongside crackers and warm toasted nuts. I had bundles of thyme and rosemary and wide, stippled leaves of sage.

From the bakery, I'd bought heaps of dinner rolls and pecan pies, all tied into white boxes with string, along with a few loaves of day-old bread, which I'd let dry on the counter for stuffing. I had mushrooms that smelled of the forest floor to be made into a thick gravy, and of course bags and bags of potatoes. We'd laughed at all the food as we packed it up, knowing that every other member of the family was likely to come with just as much,

and my poor aunt, the current caretaker of the old white, clabbered farmhouse, would have to get very creative when it came to storing, cooking, and serving it all. The sacks of groceries went into the car, and we wedged in our bags and tucked the dogs into the back seat. We made ourselves cups of hot tea and coffee to keep us company on the long drive, fiddled with the radio till we found a station of old songs we could sing along to, and backed the car out onto the

road. It was a few hours out to the farm, but the way was lovely. Soft, sloping hills. Stands of beech trees and fields Tilled over after the harvest And sometimes dotted in the distance with parcels of deer As they bent their necks to find lost years of corn And leftover shafts of wheat

There were a few geese and ducks still floating on the river Postponing their flight south till after the holiday I imagined. The dogs gave over to the rocking sway of the car and were soon snoring in the back while we watched the scenery go by, sometimes quiet with our own thoughts, and sometimes talking and laughing, remembering other years at the farm. The house stood well back from the road, with fields all around it, and a long fading red

barn at its back. It had a wide front porch that my cousins and I had jumped from as children, and broad windowsills that I'd sat on to read books in the summers of my teenage years. The driveway was full of cars, and through the lit windows of the house, I could see our family, gathered in clumps, spread from the kitchen to the front room.

The dogs flew out of the car when we opened the doors, and went racing through the yard. They knew this place and loved to run till they couldn't run anymore. They'd eventually duck in through the doggy door in the back and find a friendly lap or stretch a floor by the fire or generous hand sneaking a treat under the kitchen table to cozy up to. We loaded our arms with sacks and stepped up onto the porch to happily enter the melee of a bustling family holiday. Embraces, jokes, our names being called from every corner of the room

as happened whenever someone new came in. We turned over our burdens and shut our coats. Little ones raced up to show us how much they'd grown, to tell us the name of their favorite teacher, to grab our hands and show us the secret door in the back of the coat closet. That, though it simply hid an old disconnected panel of fuses, in their minds, could possibly lead to Narnia. A cousin squeezed my hand and winked twice, a secret signal we'd used since we were both eight years old, which had then meant something like hello, but had evolved

as we aged to mean something more like meet me on the back porch later for a good gossip and a glass of wine. Making my way through nephews and nieces, cousins and family friends who'd been adopted in years ago. I eventually got to the kitchen, where my aunt, keeper of the family treasures, wrapped her arms around me and squeezed my still-cold fingers until they were warm. The kitchen counters were full of dishes, casseroles with spoons sticking out, ready to feed the next hungry person to find their way in.

Salads made with dark greens and dried cherries and nuts. Breads, baked and brought, just for today. And trays of cookies and sweets. My aunt looked at the two of us and said, what must be the friendliest sentence anyone can ever hear? Sit down, and I'll fix you a plate. We scooted into some mismatched chairs, probably brought up from the basement or down from the attic, as part of the youngest cousin's chores that day.

And space was made for us at the long wooden table, where various relatives were digging in, or pushing back well-scraped plates, bouncing kids on their knees, or arguing over the next day's menu. My aunt set down plates in front of us, and we grinned up at her. Having someone fix you a plate is always better than doing it yourself.

They'll give you loving portions, and cram every inch of the plate with what they know you like best. Even if I'd filled my plate the same way, it wouldn't have tasted as sweet. We pulled forks from an old coffee mug full of them in the center of the table and were happy to sit back and fill our stomachs and just listen to the overlapping conversation

of all these people who knew us in a way that no one else did, in the way that family does. Later, there would be a walk out in the brisk air with the dogs, and then some pretty serious card games would go until late, the rivalries of decades carried out in hand after hand. The children, worn out from the excitement, would fall asleep on sofas and be carried up to bed.

Tomorrow, a group of us, the early risers, would be up before the sun to start coffee, flip pancakes, and divvy up the work of the big meal of the day. Someone would organize a nature walk, or a treasure hunt for the kids. Someone would turn on old movies. Someone would nap all day on a couch. Together, we'd all be grateful, certainly for the big things, each other, health, food, this place, but also for the millions of little things

that we were learning to pay more attention to as the years passed. The paw prints in the frost. The plate fixed for you. The quiet cup of coffee after it was all done and put away. Over the river and through the woods.

It was the day before Thanksgiving and the dogs and I stepped out into the morning air to find a thick frost on theed through the leaves, leaving behind prints of their warm paws in the white frost. I stood with the quilt I'd pulled from the sofa and hastily wrapped around myself, and watched my breath crystallizing in the air. Though it was cold, the sun was coming up, and I turned my face toward it, closing my eyes against the brightness, and watching the shifting colors through my eyelids.

I kept my eyes closed and listened. I could hear the dogs in their play, the very slight sound of wind in the empty branches, and the hopping and rustling of birds out for their morning meal. I whistled for the dogs and held the kitchen door open. They raced through with a buzz of canine excitement, and I was excited too. Today we were packing up the car and driving out, over the river and through the woods,

for Thanksgiving on the family farm. I had grocery sacks ready at the door, full of all the good things that would make our meal. There were butternut squashes to be blended into a rich soup, bright red cranberries that we'd stew into a sauce with honeycrisp apples and walnuts. There were jars of pickles that I'd canned myself, ready to be laid out on trays alongside crackers and warm toasted nuts. I had bundles of thyme and rosemary

and wide, stippled leaves of sage. From the bakery, I'd bought heaps of dinner rolls and pecan pies, all tied into white boxes with string, along with a few loaves of day-old bread, which I'd let dry on the counter for stuffing. I had mushrooms that smelled of the forest floor

to be made into a thick gravy, and, of course, bags and bags of potatoes. We'd laughed at all the food as we packed it up, knowing that every other member of the family was likely to come with just as much. And my poor aunt, the current caretaker of the old, white, clappered farmhouse, would have to get very creative when it came to storing, cooking, and serving it all.

The sacks of groceries went into the car, and we wedged in our bags and tucked the dogs into the back seat. We made ourselves cups of hot tea and coffee to keep us company on the long drive. Fiddled with the radio till we found a station of old songs we could sing along to. And backed the car out onto the road. It was a few hours out to the farm. But the way was lovely. Soft, sloping hills. Stands of beech trees and fields. Tilled over after the harvest. And sometimes dotted in the distance with parcels of deer as they bent their necks to find lost ears of corn

and leftover shafts of wheat. There were a few geese and ducks still floating on the river, postponing their flight south till after the holiday, I imagined. The dogs gave over to the rocking sway of the car, and were soon snoring in the back while we watched the scenery go by, sometimes quiet with our own thoughts, and sometimes talking and laughing, remembering other years at the farm. The house stood well back from the road, with fields all around it, and a long, fading red barn at its back. It had a wide front porch that my cousins and I had jumped from as children,

and broad window sills that I'd sat on to read books in the summers of my teenage years. The driveway was full of cars, and through the lit windows of the house, I could see our family, gathered in clumps, spread from the kitchen to the front room. The dogs flew out of the car when we opened the doors and went racing through the yard. They knew this place and loved to run till they couldn't run anymore. They'd eventually duck in through the doggy door in the back and find a friendly lap or stretch a floor by the fire or a generous hand sneaking a treat under the kitchen table to cozy up to. we loaded our arms with our sacks

and stepped up onto the porch to happily enter the melee of a bustling family holiday. Embraces, jokes, our names being called from every corner of the room, as happened whenever someone new came in. We turned over our burdens and shut our coats. Little ones raced up to show us how much they'd grown,

to tell us the name of their favorite teacher, to grab our hands and show us the secret door in the back of the coat closet that, though it simply hid an old, disconnected panel of fuses, in their minds could possibly lead to Narnia. A cousin squeezed my hand and winked twice, a secret signal we'd used since we were both eight years old, which had then meant something like hello, but had evolved as we aged to mean something more like meet me on the back porch later for a good gossip on a glass of wine. Making my way through nephews and nieces,

cousins and family friends who'd been adopted in years ago, I eventually got to the kitchen where my aunt, keeper of the family treasures, wrapped her arms around me and squeezed my still cold fingers until they were warm. The kitchen counters were full of dishes, casseroles with spoons sticking out of them,

ready to feed the next hungry person to find their way in. Salads made with dark greens and dried cherries and nuts. Breads baked and brought just for today, and trays of cookies and sweets. My aunt looked at the two of us and said,

what must be the friendliest sentence anyone can ever hear? Sit down, and I'll fix you a plate. We scooted into some mismatched chairs, probably brought up from the basement or down from the attic, as part of the youngest cousin's chores that day. And space was made for us at the long wooden table where various relatives were digging in or pushing back well-scraped plates, bouncing kids on their knees, or arguing over the next day's menu.

My aunt set down plates in front of us and we grinned up at her. Having someone fix you a plate is always better than doing it yourself. They'll give you loving portions and cram every inch of the plate with what they know you'll like best. Even if I'd filled my plate the same way, it wouldn't have tasted as sweet. We pulled forks from an old coffee mug, full of them in the center of the table,

and were happy to sit back and fill our stomachs and just listen to the overlapping conversations of all these people who knew us in a way that no one else did, in the way that family does. Later, there would be a walk, out in the brisk air with the dogs, and then some pretty serious card games that would go until late.

The rivalries of decades carried out in hand after hand. The children, worn out from the excitement, would fall asleep on sofas and be carried up to bed. Tomorrow, a group of us, the early risers, would be up before the sun to start coffee, flip pancakes, and divvy up the work of the big meal of the day. Someone would organize a nature walk or a treasure hunt for the kids.

Someone would turn on old movies. Someone would nap all day on a couch. Together, we'd all be grateful. Certainly for the big things. Each other. Health. Food. This place.

But also for the millions of little things that we were learning to pay more attention to as the years passed. The paw prints in the frost. The plate fixed for you. The quiet cup of coffee after it was all done, and put away. Sweet dreams.