Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Rosemary For Remembrance (Encore)

Episode Date: October 5, 2023

Originally Aired: October 6th, 2019 (Season 4 Episode 6) Our story tonight is called Rosemary, for Remembrance and it’s a story about preparing a garden for the coming frost. It’s also about a row of pumpkins waiting to be claimed, what the poets have to say about herbs, and the unending generosity of nature. So get cozy and ready to sleep. Subscribe to our bonus and ad-free episodes, request a cameo from Kathryn, and learn more about the village of Nothing Much at www.nothingmuchhappens.com  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 Katherine 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 follow us on Instagram and Facebook and Twitter

for a bit of extra coziness. And if you need a bit more nothing much in your life, head to nothingmuchappens.com where you can find some special pieces inspired by the show. Let me say a little about how to use this podcast. In order to relax and sleep, your mind needs to rest, and probably it needs a specific place to rest in. Left to its own devices, it's likely to wander and race and keep you up. So these stories are a resting place. Let your mind follow along with the simple shape of the story and the sound of my voice.

As an upturned leaf would rest on the current of a stream. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you find you are still awake at the end of the second telling, don't worry. That's a good rule of thumb when you are trying to fall asleep. Don't worry. You can keep listening, or just think your way back through any details from the story that you can remember. This is grown-up sleep training,

and it may take a bit of time to re-learn how to rest and sleep well. Be patient. With a bit of practice, you'll soon find yourself falling asleep more and more quickly, and returning to sleep easily should you wake in the middle of the night. Now, it's time to turn off the light. It's time to put away anything you've been looking at or playing with. Settle yourself into your preferred sleeping position and let everything relax. Sometimes it helps to say to yourself, I'm about to fall asleep, and I'll sleep deeply all night. Now let's take a deep breath in through the nose,

and let a soft sigh out of the mouth. Good. Do that again. Breathe in. And out. And out. Our story tonight is called Rosemary, for remembrance. And it's a story about preparing a garden for the coming frost.

It's also about a row of pumpkins waiting to be claimed, what the poets have to say about herbs, and the unending generosity of nature. Rosemary, for remembrance. I was out in my herb garden, back behind the edge of the vegetable patch, which by now had mostly been tilled back into the earth after the last years of corn had been eaten. We'd cut the corn stalks and tied them with twine and propped some along the front of the old red barn

with a few bales of drying hay. I'd spent the morning harvesting the last few bits that the garden could give us before the hard frost set in. I had a section of gourds, grown mostly as ornaments, and extra food for the rabbits and the deer. There were soft skin gourds, which are called curcubita. They grow with long, hooked necks and knobbly, shiny skin. They were green and gold,

or a bright, sunrise-orange-red. And most were small enough to be carried in one hand. I'd cut them from the vine and heaped them into wooden baskets. They'd decorate my table, sit in wreaths of bright red maple leaves on my porch, and the extra would be set out at the edge of the woods for any passing animal in search of a nibble. I also grew hard-skin gourds, called Luginaria.

These were a tan, sandy brown, and quite large. In fact, some had grown almost as big as my pumpkins. I'd harvested them one at a time, leaving a few inches of vine on the stem, and carrying each one to the spigot at the edge of the barn. I'd washed each gourd carefully in the cold water of the tap and laid them out on an old patched quilt in the autumn sunlight to dry. The gourds would cure over the winter, and their insides would slowly dry till they were

as light as paper. I had a spot in the barn, warm enough that they wouldn't freeze in the depth of the winter, but dry, and where the air could move around them. I'd set them out in a long row on a screen shelf, with a bit of space between each one, and I would come and give them a turn every couple of months. In the spring, they would rattle when you shook them, as their seeds danced around inside the hard skin. Then I would carefully cut into them,

to make an open space to fill with birdseed, and a slot to thread a bit of rope, and then hang them out to feed the black-capped chickadees, the cerulean warblers, and the yellow-breasted chats. I might paint some in shades of sky blue or shiny black, and give them to friends or neighbors. I'd spent some time cutting pumpkins from their vines and setting them in a row at the end of the long gravel drive. We had more than we could use or eat, so I'd set out a hand-stenciled sign asking a few dollars per pumpkin, and left an old coffee can to collect on top of the mailbox.

Now, in my herb garden, I heard the crunch of tires on the drive, and looked up to see a couple and a little boy inspecting the pumpkins. The boy squatted down to run his tiny hands over the smooth, bright orange skin and the prickly green stem. It's a big decision to a little one. Which pumpkin was the right one? After a minute, he picked one, and though it took him a few tries, he got his arms around it

and shuffled it back to his car. I saw his mom push a few bills into the coffee can, and she raised an arm to wave at me in the garden. I waved back, and turned back to my herbs. At this time of year, many of them had already had their last harvest. I'd cut the last of the parsley, oregano, and basil in September, but there was still plenty of sage and sorrel and thyme. The thyme in particular smelled so good warmed in the sun that I rubbed it between my palms and cupped them in front of my face.

I closed my eyes and pulled several slow breaths of it deeply in. Rudyard Kipling wrote that time smelled like dawn in paradise. Thinking of the poetry of plants and herbs, I reached out to prune the last branches of rosemary. There's rosemary. That's for remembrance. Pray you love, remember I was no Ophelia. I wasn't brokenhearted or lost. Instead, when I was in my garden, I was found. I thought of how abundantly nature gives. I'd harvested a few glossy gray Hubbard squashes that were at least 20 pounds each.

They were sweet and nutty, and one could feed a family for a week. Those cured cords would last indefinitely. Nature gives and gives and gives. I stood a moment, pressing down through the toes of my shoes into the garden. I was trying to connect my body directly into the earth, to say thank you, to say, I am noticing to a friend that I felt the strong need

to be out in nature. He'd said, with kindness in his voice, You are nature. Of course, he was right, and I'd carried that remembrance with me when I couldn't be in the open, fresh air, or touch the soil, or walk in the thick groves of trees. I piled a few inches of pine needles over the pruned stems of the rosemary to protect her from the frost and snow that would come. I cut bunches of sage for our Thanksgiving dinner and stems of catnip for the felines in the family. I tucked a branch of rosemary into the front pocket of my old flannel shirt so that the perfume would follow me all day.

Rosemary was for remembrance, and I was remembering my place in the nature of things. Rosemary for remembrance. I was out in my herb garden, back behind the edge of the vegetable patch, which by now had mostly been tilled down, back into the earth, after the last years of corn had been eaten.

We cut the corn stalks and tied them with twine and propped some along the front of the old red barn with a few bales of drying hay. I'd spent the morning harvesting the last few bits that the garden could give us before the hard frost set in. I had a section of gourds, grown mostly as ornaments,

an extra food for the rabbits and the deer. There were soft-skinned gourds, which are called curcubita. They grow with long, hooked necks and knobbly, shiny skin. They were green and gold or a bright, sunrise-orange-red and most were small enough to be carried in one hand.

I'd cut them from the vine and heaped them into wooden baskets. They'd decorate my table, sit in wreaths of bright red maple leaves on my porch. And the extra would be set out at the edge of the woods, for any passing animal in search of a nibble. I also grew hard-skinned gourds, called Lagenaria. They were a tan sandy brown, and quite large. In fact, some had grown almost as big as my pumpkins. I'd harvested them one at a time, leaving a few inches of vine on the stem, and carrying each one to the spigot at the edge of the barn. I'd washed each gourd carefully in the cold water of the tap, and laid them out on an

old patched quilt in the autumn sunlight to dry. The gourds would cure over the winter, and their insides would slowly dry till they were as light as paper. I had a spot in the barn, warm enough that they wouldn't freeze in the depth of the winter, but dry and where the air could move around them. I'd set them out in a long row on a screen shelf with a bit of space between each one, and I would come and give them a turn every couple of months. In In the spring, they would rattle when you shook them, as their seeds danced around inside the hard skin.

I would carefully cut into them to make an open space to fill with birdseed, and a slot to thread a bit of rope, and then hang them out to feed the black-capped chickadees, the cerulean warblers, and the yellow-breasted chats. I might paint some in shades of sky blue or shiny black and give them to friends or neighbors. I'd spent some time cutting pumpkins from their vines and setting them in a row at the end of the long gravel drive.

We had more than we could use or eat, so I'd set out a hand-stenciled sign asking for a few dollars per pumpkin, and left an old coffee can to collect on top of the mailbox. Now, in my herb garden, I heard the crunch of tires on the drive and looked up to see a couple and a little boy inspecting the pumpkins. The boy squatted down to run his tiny hands over the smooth, bright orange skin and the prickly green stem.

It's a big decision to a little one. Which pumpkin was the right one? After a minute, he picked one, and though it took him a few tries, he got his arms around it and shuffled it back to the car. I saw his mom push a few bills into the coffee can, and she raised an arm to wave at me in the garden. I waved back and turned back to my herbs. At this time of year, many of them had already had their last harvest. I'd cut the last of the parsley, oregano, and basil in September, but there was still plenty of sage and sorrel and thyme. The thyme in particular smelled so good, warmed in the sun,

that I rubbed it between my palms and cupped them in front of my face. I closed my eyes and pulled several slow breaths of it deeply in. Rudyard Kipling wrote that time smelled like dawn in paradise. Thinking of the poetry of plants and herbs, I reached out to prune the last branches of rosemary. There's rosemary. That's for remembrance. Pray you, love, remember. And there's pansies. That's for thoughts I said it aloud although I was no Ophelia I wasn't broken hearted or lost instead

when I was in my garden I was in my garden, I was found. I thought of how abundantly nature gives. I'd harvested a few glossy gray Hubbard squashes that were at least 20 pounds apiece. They were sweet and nutty, and one could feed a family for a week. Those cured gourds would last indefinitely. Nature gives and gives and gives. I stood a moment,

pressing down through the toes of my shoes into the garden. I was trying to connect my body directly into the earth. To say thank you. To say, I am noticing how much you give, and I am grateful. I remembered a moment from years earlier that regularly came to mind when I'd said to a friend that I felt the strong need to be out in nature

he'd said with kindness in his voice, you are nature. Of course he was right, and I'd carried that remembrance with me when I couldn't be in the open fresh air or touch the soil, or walk in the thick groves of trees. I piled a few inches of pine needles over the pruned stems of the rosemary to protect

her from the frost and the snow that would come. I cut punches of sage for our Thanksgiving dinner, and stems of catnip for the felines in the family. I tucked a branch of rosemary into the front pocket of my old flannel shirt so that the perfume would follow me all day. Rosemary was for remembrance, and I was remembering my place in the nature of things. Sweet dreams.