Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - RSVP

Episode Date: July 3, 2023

Our story tonight is called RSVP and it’s a story about a stack of envelopes on their way to being delivered. It’s also about a day many have suspected was on its way, the view from the front porch swing and how good it is to have something to look forward to. This week we are giving to monafoundation.org. They work to support grassroots initiatives around the world that educate all children, empower women and girls, and enable them to transform their own communities.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 Catherine Nicolai. I create everything you hear on Nothing Much Happens, with audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. We give to a different charity each week, and this week we are giving to Mona Foundation. They work to support grassroots initiatives around the world that educate all children, empower women and girls, and enable them to transform their own communities. You'll find a link to them in our show notes.

If you are interested in subscribing to our ad-free and bonus feeds, visit us at nothingmuchappens.com. And why not ask your friendly local librarian to order Nothing Much Happens the book. There's a beautiful hand-drawn map in the front, so you can see where all your favorite Nothing Much Happens locations are in the village. Now, there is a technique to these bedtime stories. They have just enough happening in them

to keep your thinking mind engaged, but not enough to keep you awake. This engagement shifts your brain activity from its default mode to task mode, and when you reach task mode, sleep comes easy. So just listen to the sound of my voice follow along with the general shape of the story which I'll tell twice going a little slower the second time through

and if you wake later in the night to get back to task mode, you can listen again or just think through any part of the story you can remember. This is brain training, and you will become more proficient with practice, but be patient if you're new to it. Now, lights out campers. Snuggle into your sheets and make yourself as comfortable as you can. If there's anything still kicking around in your head that might keep you up, first acknowledge it. that helps. And then we'll let it go with a couple big breaths. Breathe in through your nose and sigh through your mouth.

Nice. One more. All the way in. And out. Good. Our story tonight is called RSVP, and it's a story about a stack of envelopes on their way to being delivered. It's also about a day many have suspected was on its way. The view from the front porch swing. And how good it is to have something to look forward to.

RSVP Some days my mail sack is heavy, loaded down with catalogs or junk mail. Some days, the rain creeps down the back of my jacket as I walk the neighborhoods, or the sidewalks are icy and the wind cold. But today, today my bag was as light as my heart. The sky was bright blue and dotted with soft, wispy clouds. Today I looked forward to climbing porch steps and delivering the mail, because in my sack were dozens of square, hand-addressed envelopes. They were slotted in between circulars and magazines and bills

and other bits of correspondence. I'd spotted them as I sorted this morning. The creamy paper, the careful handwriting, the love stamps that were popular for such missives. And it had made me smile in a quiet, knowing way. So, it was official. I think we'd all seen it coming and just been waiting for the announcement.

I certainly had. Not that I'm nosy. I just pay attention. And when you deliver mail, well, you notice what car someone drives. You learn the names of their dogs. You notice when something changes. And a few months ago, something had changed at Marmalade's house. The orange kitty who sat on her perch beside the front door, watching me bring the mail each day, watching as her scraggly dog brother, Crumb, barked at me through the letter slot. She now had another dog friend with her, and he was one I recognized from a neighborhood I also delivered to. I remember that first day I'd seen the giant greyhound

asleep beside the radiator under Marmalade's spot. Crumb barking away as usual and the greyhound barely lifting a heavy eyelid to see what all the fuss was about. I pushed the bundle of mail in through the slot, peeking in the window and said, Birdie? Was that you? He didn't get up, which, in a way, was only a confirmation of his identity,

because Bluebird is a very lazy boy. But he did thump his tail a few times against the floor, and I turned back to my route with a smile on my face. Well, well, well, I thought. Looks like I'll be delivering Birdie's treats to Marmalade's house from now on. And here I was, months later. I was delivering more than that to all their neighbors and friends. I turned at a driveway.

Every house in this old neighborhood has a different kind of mailbox or slot, and when I first started on this route, there were a few that had seemed like puzzles I'd needed to solve. This house in particular had stumped me for a few days, until I'd finally knocked on the door and asked them where in the Waldo was their mailbox. In the casement surrounding the door, all of which was painted black, was a little hidden flap, invisible unless you knew where to look. The woman who'd answered the door had laughed and apologized as she'd pointed it out.

It had been easier to see, she'd said, before they'd painted, and they kept meaning to let her in the word male in red. Well, that was a few years ago, and it still hadn't been done. But I didn't mind. It was like knowing a password to a secret room. And as I climbed to her front porch, I took her mail from the bag.

She'd gotten one of the pretty cream envelopes, and I imagined her wrestling it from her chihuahua, who usually grabbed the letters right from the slot as soon as I pushed them through. Today, there was no barking as I stepped to the door. They must be out on a walk. Lucky timing. Her invitation wouldn't have teeth marks in it. A few houses down, I took another envelope from my pack. This house had a mailbox by the street, but I kept an eye on it to see that it was regularly emptied.

The man who lived in this house sometimes had a hard time getting around, and luckily the whole neighborhood watched out for him. On a spring cleanup day, his storm windows were taken down. His front porch swept and tidied. And now and then, when I climbed his steps, I'd find a bag of groceries left by a neighbor waiting at the door.

Today, his mailbox wasn't overly full. Maybe just one other day's worth of mail inside of it. But I was eager to make sure he got his invitation. So I emptied it out and arranged the bundle with the card on top and turned toward his porch.

He surprised me, sitting in his porch swing with a glass of iced tea in his hand. He waved me up and patted the spot beside him, suggesting I take a little break. It was a warm day, and a few minutes' rest did sound good. But mostly, I wanted to chat about the news I was bringing. So I plopped down and handed over the bundle. He nearly set it aside, saying he'd look through it later, when the envelope caught his eye. He looked at me when he read the return address and said,

Is this what I think it is? Well, open it up. I haven't actually seen one yet, just the outside. He turned the envelope in his old hands, carefully tucking his thumb under the flap and popping it open. He slid out a thick card in the same cream color as the envelope, and I leaned in and read it over his shoulder. Pretty, engraved calligraphy. The names we knew we'd find.

A date in September. And a little surprise. The wedding would be at the inn, the old one at the lake. I imagined that old restored ballroom up on the second floor I'd heard about, but hadn't yet seen, full of folks dancing and eating, and wondered if the animals would be at the ceremony by the lake. We smiled at each other as I pushed up off the seat to continue my route. I pointed out that the invite included a plus one.

Did he have a date in mind? He blushed a bit and told me to mind my business. And I chuckled as I hopped back down to the sidewalk. Like I said, I'm not nosy, but when I saw the stack of invites waiting to be sorted this morning, I had admittedly looked through them all. I'd seen one for Weathervane Farm, one for that old house where the lilacs grew outside of town the bakery, the bookshop, the library a few dozen names I didn't know

but happily, one for me I'd be sure to RSVP RSVP. RSVP. Some days my mail sack is heavy, loaded down with catalogs or junk mail. Some days the rain creeps down the back of my jacket as I walk the neighborhoods, or the sidewalks are icy and the wind cold. But today, today my bag was as light as my heart. The sky was bright blue and dotted with soft, wispy clouds.

Today, I looked forward to climbing porch steps and delivering the mail, because in my sack were dozens of square, hand-addressed envelopes. They were slotted in between circulars and magazines and bills and other bits of correspondence. I'd spotted them as I sorted this morning. The creamy paper. The careful handwriting.

The love stamps that were popular for such missives. And it had made me smile in a quiet, knowing way. So, it was official. And I think we'd all seen it coming, just been waiting for the announcement. I certainly had.

Not that I'm nosy. I just... I pay attention. And when you deliver mail, you notice what car someone drives. You learn the names of their dogs. You notice when something changes. And a few months ago, something had changed at Marmalade's house.

The orange kitty who sat on her perch beside the front door, watching me bring the mail each day, watching as her scraggly dog brother Crumb barked at me through the letter slot. Now had another dog friend with her. And he was one I recognized from a neighborhood I also delivered to. I remember that first day I'd seen the giant greyhound asleep beside the radiator under marmalade spot, Crumb barking away as usual, and the greyhound barely lifting a heavy eyelid

to see what all the fuss was about. I pushed the bundle of mail in through the slot, peeking in the window, and said, Bertie? Is that you? He didn't get up, which, in a way,

was only a confirmation of his identity, because Bluebird is a very lazy boy. But he did thump his tail a few times against the floor. And I turned back to my route with a smile on my face. Well, well, well, I thought. Looks like I'll be delivering

birdie's treats to Marmalade's house from now on. And here I was, months later, delivering more than that to all their neighbors and friends. I turned at a driveway. Every house in this old neighborhood has a different kind of mailbox or slot. And when I first started on this route, there were a few that had seemed like puzzles I'd needed to solve. This house in particular had stumped me for a few days, until I'd finally knocked on the

door and asked them where in the Waldo was their mailbox. In the casement surrounding the door, all of which was painted black, was a little hidden flap, invisible unless you knew where to look. The woman who'd answered the door had laughed and apologized, as she'd pointed it out. It had been easier to see, she'd said, before they'd painted, and they kept meaning to letter in

the word male in red. Now, like knowing a password to a secret room. And as I climbed to her front porch, I took her mail from the bag. She'd gotten one of the pretty cream envelopes, and I imagined her wrestling it from her chihuahua, who usually grabbed the letters from the slot as soon as I pushed them through. Today, there was no barking as I stepped up to the door. They must be out on a walk.

Lucky timing. Her invitation wouldn't have teeth marks in it. A few houses down, I took another envelope from my pack. This house had a mailbox by the street, but I kept an eye on it to see that it was regularly emptied. The man who lived in this house sometimes had a hard time getting around, and luckily the whole neighborhood watched out for him. On spring cleanup day, his storm windows were taken down. His front porch swept and tidied.

And now and then, when I climbed his steps, I'd find a bag of groceries left by a neighbor waiting at the door. Today, his mailbox wasn't overly full, maybe just one other day's worth of mail inside of it. But I was eager to make sure he got his invitation. So I emptied it out and arranged the bundle with the card on top and turned toward his porch. He surprised me, sitting in his porch swing with a glass of iced tea in his hand.

He waved me up and patted the spot beside him suggesting I take a little break. It was a warm day and a few minutes rest did sound good. But mostly I wanted to chat about the news I was bringing, so I plopped down and handed over the bundle. He nearly set it aside, saying he'd go through it later, when the envelope caught his eye.

He looked at me when he read the return address and said, Is this what I think it is? Well, open it up. I haven't actually seen one yet, just the outside. He turned the envelope in his old hands, carefully tucking his thumb under the flap and popping it open. He slid out a thick card

in the same cream color as the envelope, and I leaned in and read it over his shoulder. Pretty, engraved calligraphy. The names we knew we'd find, a date in September, and a little surprise. The wedding would be at the inn, the old one at the lake.

I imagined that old, restored ballroom up on the second floor. I'd heard about, but hadn't yet seen. Full of folks dancing and eating, and wondered if the animals would be at the ceremony by the lake. We smiled at each other, and as I pushed up off the seat to continue my route, I pointed out that the invite included a plus one.

Did he have a date in mind? He blushed a bit and told me to mind my business, and I chuckled as I hopped back down to the sidewalk. Like I said, I'm not nosy. When I saw the stack of invites waiting to be sorted this morning, I had, admittedly, looked through them all. I'd found one for Weathervane Farm. One for that old house where the lilacs grew outside of town.

The bakery, the bookshop, the library. A few dozen names I didn't know, and happily, one for me. I'd be sure to RSVP. Sweet dreams.