Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Ship In A Bottle (Encore)

Episode Date: November 7, 2024

Originally Aired: November 14th, 2022 (Season 10, Episode 24) Our story tonight is called Ship in a Bottle, and it’s about a crate of bequests ready to be unwrapped. It’s also about the dark bark of oak trees after a storm, garden benches waiting to be sat on, and the ordinary magic of handmade things. Subscribe for ad-free, bonus, and extra-long episodes now, as well as ad-free and early episodes of Stories from the Village of Nothing Much! Search for the NMH Premium channel on Apple Podcasts or via our website. Listen to our new show, Stories from the Village of Nothing Much, on your favorite podcast app. Join us tomorrow morning for a meditation at www.firstthispodcast.com. Experience ultimate relaxation with the Nothing Much Happens Wind-Down Box, a thoughtfully curated collection of Kathryn’s go-to favorites for winding down. Save over $100 on this serene set from trusted wellness partners, including A Brighter Year Mini Coloring Book, NuStrips Sleep Strips, a Woolzies Lavender Roll-On, and more. Treat yourself to a peaceful night’s sleep with everything you need for the ideal bedtime routine.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 write and read all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. We are bringing you an encore episode tonight, meaning that this story originally aired at some point in the past.

It could have been recorded with different equipment in a different location. And since I'm a person and not a computer, I sometimes sound just slightly different. But the stories are always soothing and family-friendly. And our wishes for you are always deep rest and sweet dreams. Now let's get ready to sleep. I'll read you a story. It's a place to rest your mind like an upturned leaf resting on the surface of a river. Your mind will follow along with the moving current of my voice and our story and before you know it you'll be eased into

deep sleep. I'll read the story twice and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake in the night, take yourself back into the story, either by listening again or thinking back through any bit you can remember. This interrupts your brain's tendency to cycle through thought, and will put you right back into sleep mode. It is brain training, and it might take a bit of practice, so be patient if you're new to this. Our story tonight is called Ship in a Bottle, and it's a story about a crate of bequests ready to be unwrapped.

It's also about the dark bark of oak trees after a storm, garden benches waiting to be sat on, and the ordinary magic of handmade things. Now it's time to switch off the light and set aside anything you've been looking at or working on. Adjust your pillows, your comforter, until you feel completely at ease. If you sometimes clench your jaw as you sleep, try resting the tip of your tongue at the place where your upper teeth meet the gums on the inside. That will help keep your jaw relaxed. But first, take a deep breath in through your nose and sigh through your mouth. Again, breathe in and out.

Good. Ship in a bottle. Autumn had stretched itself about as far as it could go, and I was grateful for every extra moment. On my walk in this morning, along the gravel path from the parking lot up to the great house, I stopped to admire a few of the towering oaks and maples that were still in full color. It had stormed the night before, and their bark showed nearly black from the rain. The long, straight line of their trunks pulled pulled my eyes up to the bounty of bright yellow leaves above. Had they always been this tall? I felt like I had never really seen them before.

They were like arrows that had been shot down into the soil with foliage as fletching rather than feathers. And I imagined one of the old gods of mythology drawing back a bow to send them to Earth. Something about this place lent itself to fanciful thoughts. From the labyrinth out in the East Meadow where I walked at lunchtime. To the solarium where I'd watched the amorphophallus titanium bloom for the first time in three years. To the map room up on the third floor, filled with books that were written when my great, great grandparents were children.

And glass display cases of the artifacts and rare objects we collected. That was a special place, this estate, and I hoped our visitors felt the magic of it the way I did. It had been a family home when it was first built, with acres of gardens and forests around it. A stately home with turrets and wings and a dumb waiter that had once brought tea trays up from the kitchen to the drawing room. When it had passed to a new generation, it was converted into a museum of sorts. We had collections of paintings and portraits, local histories and maps. The grounds had likewise been made public, and many people came every day to trek through the woods or quietly pace the labyrinth.

There were fountains and statues to admire, benches to sit at with a book or sack lunch, and a broad pond filled with bright orange fish that swam in a mesmerizing school, like an underwater murmuration. I'd done a bit of everything in the years I'd been here. I'd led tours and planted flowers and dusted cases. I'd raked the white stones of the labyrinth into place at the end of the day. Now I worked just inside the front door, behind a small desk, to direct visitors and hand

out leaflets. I knew the story of just about every painting in the ballroom. Every plant and the solarium and map up on the third floor. and map up on the third floor. And when asked, was happy to share, though mostly I was called upon simply to welcome people in as they stepped through the heavy oak door. I kept a basket at the desk with my crochet hook and skein of yarn, and had made quite a few scarves while sitting in the calm quiet of the entryway. Today, though, would be a bit more eventful. We'd gotten a bequest,

a legacy from the estate of a distant cousin related to the original owners. He'd come to visit us, in fact, many years ago, while he was researching his family tree. He'd spent a good amount of time up in the map room, gazing at the portraits of his distant relatives. Like so many of our visitors, he'd fallen in love with the house and gardens. But obviously, this place had meant something a bit more to him, and he'd remembered us in his will. We didn't know exactly what was in the crate, but today we would find out. We'd set aside a room off the main hall that had once been a small sitting room. But now, it was a place

things were stored and restored, went out of the collections. We had a sturdy work table spread with a heavy drop cloth, and the crate waiting for us on top of it.

It had arrived late in the afternoon and the crate waiting for us on top of it. It had arrived late in the afternoon the day before. And though I'd been impatient to dig right in, we'd agreed to wait till today when more staff could participate. And we would have the whole day to catalog what we unpacked. I'd been so curious about what we might find inside that I'd fallen asleep and dreamt about the crate. In the dream, when we pried open the top and looked down into it, instead of seeing objects, there were stairs, like the ones in the large entryway, carpeted in dark red velvet and with a handrail of polished wood. I had been able to follow them down into a room version of going through the looking glass.

A place where I could just discover to my heart's content. And as I'd parked my car and walked up the path this morning. I thought to myself that I needed to adjust my expectations, that our bequests would be much more mundane, not nearly so otherworldly. But then I'd stop to stare at those trees and the grounds, with their nearly black trunks and bright yellow leaves, and remembered that the quotidian world would never be short of astounding wonders. So now we were ready.

I noticed that none of my colleagues were late this morning, as we gathered around the work table. I took a few good whacks with a mallet against the crowbar, but then the crate was open, and we all leaned forward and looked down into the trove. Everything had been carefully wrapped, but right away I could make out the shape of a couple of paintings. There were several small boxes and something very big, like a large cylinder whose wrapping was marked with the word fragile. We, each of us, reached in at the same time and bumped into each other and laughed. Okay, someone said. Let's do one thing at a time, shall we? We sheepishly agreed. One of the boxes held a collection of antique miniature books, tiny things but properly

printed and illustrated. And our map room docent took them aside straight away. Another box held fountain pens and a hat pin with a pale green stone in it, as well as some tarnished silver serving spoons. All of these things had clearly been handed down through the Bequether's family. Just as so many objects in this house had, I could see why they had been left to us. The paintings, when unwrapped, were portraits, and judging by the style and the clothing, had been painted around the time our great house was built. In fact, one face was very familiar, and we carried it out into the hall to set it on the rail beside the portrait of the family's patriarch.

We looked back and forth, from one face to another. Brothers, we asked each other. Maybe even twins, I said. The last bit of treasure to be unwrapped, the piece marked fragile, proved to be a ship in a bottle. According to the yellowed label on its base, it was more than 140 years old. Through a layer of dust, I marveled at the tiny, intricate pieces that came together so perfectly. It had a foremast, a midmast and a mizzen, a quarter deck, a crow's nest, and even a tiny figurehead.

I could look at it for ages and still not see every detail. Right beside my desk in the entryway was a large round table we usually topped with fresh flowers. But I would do my best to convince my colleagues that this amazing artifact should sit at its center. Guess, and also I, would be able to enjoy it in the light of the front windows, and imagine ourselves sailing away into the horizon. Ship in a bottle. stretched itself about as far as it could go. When I was grateful for every extra moment. On my walk in this morning, along the gravel path, from the parking lot up to the great house. I'd stopped to admire a few of

the towering oaks and maples that were still in full color. But it stormed the night before, and their bark showed nearly black from the rain. The long, straight line of their trunks pulled my eyes up to the bounty of bright yellow leaves above. Had they always been this tall? I felt like I had never really seen them before. They were like arrows that had been shot down into the soil, with foliage as fletching rather than feathers. And I imagined one of the old gods of mythology drawing back a bow to send them to earth. Something about this place lent itself to fanciful thoughts.

From the labyrinth out in the east meadow where I walked at lunchtime. To the solarium, where I'd watched the Amorphophallus titanum bloom for the first time in three years. To the map room on the third floor, filled with books that were written when my great-great-grandparents were children, and glass display cases of the artifacts and rare objects we collected. It was a special place, this estate, and I hoped our visitors felt the magic of it the way I did. It had been a family home when it was first built, with acres of gardens and forests around it.

A stately home with turrets and wings and a dumb waiter that had once brought tea trays up from the kitchen to the drawing room. When it had passed to a new generation, it was converted into a museum of sorts. We had collections of paintings and portraits, public, and many people came every day to trek through the woods or quietly pace the labyrinth. There were fountains and statues to admire, benches to sit at with a book or sack lunch, pond filled with bright orange fish that swam in a mesmerizing school like an underwater murmuration. I'd done a bit of everything in the years I'd been here. I'd led tours and planted flowers and dusted cases. I'd raked the white stones of a labyrinth into place at the end of the day.

Now I worked just inside the front door, behind a small desk, to direct visitors and hand out leaflets. I knew the story of just about every painting in the ballroom. Every plant in the solarium and map up on the third floor, and when asked, was happy to share, though mostly I was called upon simply to welcome people in as they stepped through the heavy oak door. I kept a basket at the desk with my crochet hook and skein of yarn, and had made quite a few scarves while sitting in the quiet calm of the entryway. Today, though, would be a bit more eventful. We'd gotten a bequest, a legacy from the estate of a distant cousin related to the original owners.

He'd come to visit us once many years ago while he was researching his family tree. He'd spent a good amount of time up in the map room and gazing at the portraits of his distant relatives. Like so many of our visitors, he'd fallen in love with the house and gardens. But obviously, this place had meant something a bit more to him, and he remembered us in his will. We didn't know exactly what was in the crate that had arrived, but today we would find out.

We'd set aside a room off the main hall that had once been a small sitting room, but was now a place where things were stored and restored when out of the collections. We had a sturdy work table spread with a heavy drop cloth and the crate waiting for us on top of it. It had arrived late in the afternoon the day before, and though I had been impatient to to dig right in. We'd agreed to wait till today when more staff could participate and we would have the whole day to catalogue what we unpacked. I'd been so curious

about what we might find inside that I'd fallen asleep thinking about it and dreamt of the crate and the dream when we pried open the top and looked down into it, instead of seeing objects, there were stairs, like the ones in the large entryway, carpeted in dark red velvet and with a handrail of polished wood. I'd been able to follow them down into a room full of new treasures, and it had felt like a better version of going through the looking glass. A place where I could just discover to my heart's content. And as I'd parked my car and walked up the path this morning, I thought to myself that I probably needed to adjust my expectations. That our bequests would be much more mundane, not nearly so otherworldly. But then I'd stopped to stare at those trees

in the grounds, with their nearly black trunks and bright yellow leaves, and remembered that the Quotidian world would never be short of astounding wonders. So now we were ready, and I noticed that none of my colleagues were late this morning as we gathered around the work table. It took a few good whacks with a mallet against the crowbar, but then the crate was open and we all leaned forward and looked down into the trove. Everything had been carefully wrapped, but right away I could make out the shape of a couple of paintings. There were several small boxes and something very big, like a large cylinder whose wrapping was marked with the word fragile. We, each of us, reached in at the same time and bumped into each other and laughed. Okay, someone said, let's do one thing at a time, shall we?

We sheepishly agreed. One of the boxes held a collection of antique miniature books. Tiny things, but properly printed and illustrated. And our map room docent took them aside straight away. Another box held fountain pens and a hat pin with a pale green stone in it, as well as some tarnished silver serving spoons. All of these things had clearly been handed down through the Bequeather's family. Just as so many objects in this house had, I could see why they had been left to us.

The paintings, when unwrapped, were portraits, and judging by the style and clothing, had been painted around the time our great house was built. In fact, one face was very familiar, and we carried it out into the hall to set it on the rail beside the portrait of the family's patriarch. We all looked back and forth from one face to another. Brothers, we asked each other. Maybe even twins, I said. The last bit of treasure to be unwrapped, the piece marked fragile, proved to be a ship in a bottle. According to the yellowed label on its base, it was more than a hundred and forty years old. Through a layer of dust, I marveled at the tiny, intricate pieces that came together

so perfectly. It had a foremast, a midmast, and a mizzen, a quarter deck, a crow's nest, and even a tiny figurehead. I could look at it for ages and still not see every detail. Right beside my desk in the entryway was a large round table we usually topped with fresh flowers. But I would do my best to convince my colleagues that this amazing artifact should sit at its center. Guests, and also I, would be able to enjoy it in the light of the front windows and imagine ourselves

sailing away into the horizon. Sweet dreams.