Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Snowstorm at Weathervane Farm

Episode Date: January 13, 2025

Our story tonight is called Snowstorm at Weathervane Farm, and it’s a story about settling all the animals on the farm into their cozy stalls and pens before the blizzard arrives. It's also about the pond icing over, friendships that reach beyond species, blueberries and extra blankets, rubber boots, and the excitement of fresh snow. We give to a different charity each week and this week we are giving to the International Fund for Animal Welfare. They are a global non-profit helping animals and people thrive together. www.ifaw.org Order your own NMH weighted pillow now! shop.nothingmuchhappens.com/products/weighted-pillows  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 NMH Premium channel on Apple podcast or follow the link below nothingmuchhappens.com/premium-subscription  Listen to our new show Stories from the Village of Nothing Much on your favorite podcast app. nothingmuchhappens.com/stories-from-the-village  Join us tomorrow morning for a meditation at nothingmuchhappens.com/first-this  Save over $100 on Kathryn’s hand-selected wind-down favorites with the Nothing Much Happens Wind-Down Box. A collection of products from our amazing partners: • Eversio Wellness: Chill Now • Vellabox: Lavender Silk Candle • Alice Mushrooms Nightcap • Nutrachamps Tart Cherry Gummies • A Brighter Year Mini Coloring Book • NuStrips Sleep Strips • Woolzies Lavender Roll-On

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'll 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 the International Fund for Animal Welfare. They are a global nonprofit helping animals and people thrive together. Learn more in our show notes. This is a moment we can take care of a touch of housekeeping. So it's a good time to be

brushing your teeth, turning on Do Not Disturb, putting in your sock curls, or finding your teddy bear. If you've ever wished you could actually stay awake and hear a whole story, you know we have a show for that? A daytime version called Stories from the Village of Nothing Much. It's like easy listening, but for fiction. And if you are a premium subscriber, not only do you get this show ad-free, along with bonus and extra long episodes,

you get that show ad-free as well. And you support us and keep us going. All for like a dime a day. I think it's a steal, personally. Learn more in our show notes or go to nothingmuchhappens.com. Okay, this works because we are giving your brain a steady point to focus on. You need that minimal

but constant engagement to ease you into sleep and keep your mind from wandering. I'll tell our story twice, and I'll go a little bit slower the second time through. If you wake later in the night, just turn an episode back on. Most folks fall back to sleep within seconds. Our story tonight is called Snowstorm at Weathervane Farm, and it's a story about settling all the animals on the farm into their cozy stalls and pens before the blizzard arrives. It's also about the pond icing over, friendships that reach beyond species. Blueberries and extra blankets. Rubber boots.

And the excitement of fresh snow. I care that you sleep. It is always my first thought and priority in making this show. And sometimes you need extra help. Sometimes even when your sleep hygiene is top tier, sleep doesn't come. Some nights you might struggle to fall asleep or wake after a few hours and toss and turn.

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So lights out, devices down. Plump your pillow and pull your blanket up over your shoulder. Feel your whole body drop heavy into the bed. You have done enough for the day. It was enough. Now it's time for rest. Draw a deep breath in through your nose and sigh through your mouth. Nice. Again, breathe in and let it out. Good. Snowstorm at Weathervane Farm. They had been predicting it for days. A snowstorm like we hadn't seen in years. And to be honest, I've heard that before. Probably more than once per winter. So at the beginning of the week, when all this snow was much more hypothetical, yes, we'd made sure the barns were stocked with extra hay and the plow was on the truck. But we hadn't made any other plans. We just watched the forecasts and waited. But each day they sounded more sure, and their predictions had grown along with their confidence.

Now we weren't looking at just five inches of snow or even eight. Now they seemed pretty sure that by the time Old Man Winter had finished with us, we'd have two feet of fresh flakes to contend with. Today, when that latest prediction had played over the radio, I'd been standing in the kitchen of the farmhouse, the scent of breakfast, toast and coffee, still rich in the air, and I smiled and rubbed my hands together in excitement. Looking out from the kitchen window, I could see the calm before the storm. Our paddocks and yards were clear, trampled grasses still visible,

and our rescue animals were out playing and feeding. I like at least one solid snowstorm each year. I don't know, I find them fun. Especially if we didn't have to go anywhere, which we didn't, and we had plenty of supplies. We did. I loved watching the landscape change hour over hour. The goats becoming indignant about it, and then about a half hour later playing wildly in the snow. I liked talking everyone into their stalls and pens with straw and treats and blankets and retreating back to the house for cocoa and cookies.

So now that it seemed like a sure thing that the snow was coming and coming soon, we set about making a list of things to get done before it got too late. Once we had our marching orders, we layered on our coats and hats and stepped into our rubber boots. My first stop was the pond on the far edge of the property, where the ducks and geese were out for their daily splash. I wondered if it would be frozen over by the end of the storm and guessed that it probably would. I swiped a package of blueberries from the fridge as they were one of our feathered friends' favorite treats.

And I met them at the water's edge and tossed a handful of berries among their waddling bodies. It's going to snow, y'all, I called through my muffler. I turned toward the barn and tossed a few more over my shoulder when they came toddling after. Just then the first flakes started to fall, and from our spot on the edge of the farm. We could see it dropping like fairy dust over the fields and outbuildings. I smiled as we trudged down the path. When the ducks and geese were all inside their pen

with fresh water and the last of the berries, I went to settle the donkeys. Our youngest, a donkey named George, who had been born in the spring, was excitedly chasing through the yard with our husky, Frigo. They had become good friends over the summer, and often napped together in the donkey enclosure. I wondered if I'd have a hard time getting Frigo to come into the house with me once the chores were done today. He loved the snow and the cold, and I decided that if he wanted to snuggle with George and Muriel and the other donkeys, they would be fine. Their part of the barn was well insulated, and a few years back, while we were renovating, pulling out rotten floorboards, we'd installed some underfloor heating, which the animals

loved. It was never toasty in there, but it was never frigid either, and one of the promises we made to the animals we gave sanctuary to was that their best days lay ahead of them, that they would feel cared for, and if we could manage it, even a bit pampered, and heated floors definitely helped. I called for George and Frigo. The snow was thick now, and I couldn't see much past the edge of the corral. The ponies who'd been out with them had had enough, and came clippity-clopping through the open barn doors. I brushed the snow out of their hair and settled them into their pen.

I called again for George and Frigo and in the distance heard the goats being called in from their yard. We decided to divide and conquer in our chores, and I was a bit glad I'd not ended up with the goats on my list. They were stubborn and silly, and while I loved them very much, I knew getting them to all go in the same direction was a bit like herding cats. Speaking of cats, I looked down the row of pens, past the pigs who were snoring in their straw and the llamas munching their grasses, to see if the barn cats had shown up to snuggle in. They, unlike the goats and George and Frigo, did not need to be convinced to come in out of the weather. I found them stretched out on the elevated walkway

we'd built for them over the summer. They liked to make their rounds around the barn and look down on the other animals. It's a cat thing. I filled their water and food bowls and added extra blankets on the beds, balanced up on their shelf. Finally, I'd had it waiting on my silly donkey and dog and tromped out into the snow to hustle them inside. When I stepped out, it seemed a full two or three inches had already fallen.

The whole landscape was draped in white, and it was a beautiful sight. George was trotting through it and called out to me with a long hee-haw, his little whip-tail wagging behind him. He nudged me for kisses and cuddles, and I stood there with him, his long head in my arms, murmuring to him about the fun he could have tomorrow, when there would be even more powder to prance through. Frigo was rolling in the snow, his fuzzy fur inundated with it. And I couldn't help but laugh. These kids made me so happy. From the other barn I could just hear the lowing of the cows and the bleeding of the who had finally been tucked in. I leaned into George's shoulder and kissed his soft cheek. Come on, Georgie, nap time. He and a well-chilled Frigo followed me in, and as they settled into the straw with the other donkeys, there was

a chorus that began and resounded through the barn. Each animal called out to hear the others. Was everyone inside? they seemed to be asking. I looked and listened, and assured myself, as well as them. Yes, everyone was accounted for. Everyone had bedding and food and water, favorite stuffies and balls to play with. As I pulled the heavy barn door closed behind me and turned back to the farmhouse, ready for cocoa, and a spot by the fire, I hummed under my breath. Let it snow. Let it snow. Let it snow.

Snowstorm at Weathervane Farm. They had been predicting it for days. A snowstorm like we hadn't seen in years. And to be honest, I'd heard that before. Probably more than once per winter. So, at the beginning of the week, when all this snow was much more hypothetical, yes, sure the barns were stocked with extra hay and that the plow was on the truck. But we hadn't made any other plans. We just watched the forecasts and waited. But each day they'd sounded more sure, and their predictions had grown along with their confidence. Now, we weren't looking at just five inches of snow, or even eight. Now they seemed pretty sure that by the time Old Man Winter had finished with us. We'd have two feet of fresh flakes to contend with. Today, when the latest prediction had played over the radio. I'd been standing in the kitchen of the farmhouse,

the scent of breakfast, toast and coffee, still rich in the air. And I smiled and rubbed my hands together in excitement. Looking out from the kitchen window, I could see the calm before the storm. Our paddocks and yards were clear, trampled grasses still visible, and our rescue animals were out, playing and feeding. I like at least one solid snowstorm each year. I don't know, I find them fun. Especially if we didn't have to go anywhere. Which we didn't. And we had plenty of supplies. We did. I loved watching the landscape change hour over hour. The goats becoming indignant about it, and then about a half hour later, playing wildly in the snow.

I liked tucking everyone into their stalls and pens with straw and treats and blankets and retreating back to the house for cocoa and cookies. that this snow was coming and coming soon. We set about making a list of things to get done before it got too late. Once we had our marching orders, we layered on our coats and hats and stepped into our rubber boots. My first stop was the pond on the far edge of the property Where the ducks and geese were out for their daily splash I wondered if it would be frozen over by the end of the storm. And guessed it probably would.

I'd swiped a package of blueberries from the fridge, as they were one of our feathered friends' favorite treats. And I met them at the water's edge and tossed a handful of berries among their waddling bodies. It's going to snow, y'all, I called through my muffler. I turned toward the barn and tossed a few more and tossed a few more over my shoulder, and they came, toddling after. started to fall. And from our spot on the edge of the farm, we could see it dropping like fairy dust over the fields and the outbuildings. I smiled as we trudged down the path. When the ducks and geese were all inside their pen with fresh water and the last of the berries, I went to settle the donkeys. husky, Frigo.

They had become good friends over the summer, and often napped together in the donkey enclosure. I wondered if I'd have a hard time getting Frigo to come into the house with me once the chores were done today. He loved the snow and the cold donkeys, it would be fine. Their part of the barn was well insulated. And a few years back, while we were renovating, pulling out rotten floorboards. We'd installed underfloor heating, which the animals loved. It was never toasty in there, but it was never frigid either.

And one of the promises we made to the animals that we gave sanctuary to was that their best days lay ahead of them, that they would feel cared for, and if we could manage it, even a bit pampered, and heated floors definitely helped. I called for George and Frigo. The snow was thick now, and I couldn't see much past the edge of the corral. The ponies who'd been out with them had had enough and came open barn doors. I brushed the snow out of the goats on my list, they were stubborn and silly, and while I loved them very much, I knew getting them all to go in the same direction was a bit like herding cats. Speaking of cats, I looked down the row of pens, past the pigs who were snoring in the straw, and the llamas munching their grasses, to see if the barn cats had shown up to snuggle in. They, unlike the goats and George and Frigo, did to come in out of the weather.

I found them stretched out on the elevated walkway we'd built for them over the summer. They liked to make their rounds around the barn and look down on the other animals. It's a cat thing. I filled their water and food bowls and added extra blankets on the beds balanced up on their shelf. Finally, I'd had it, waiting on my silly donkey and dog and tromped out into the snow to hustle them inside. When I white, and it was a beautiful sight. and called out to me with a long hee-haw, his little whip tail wagging behind him.

He nudged me for kisses and cuddles, and I stood there with him, his long head in my arms, murmuring to him about the fun he could have tomorrow, when there would be even more powder to prance through. Frigo was rolling in the snow, his fuzzy fur inundated with it. And I couldn't help but laugh. These kids made me so happy.

From the other barn, I could just hear the lowing of the cows and the bleeding of the goats who had finally been tucked in. I leaned into George's shoulder and kissed his soft cheek. Come on, Georgie. Nap time. He and a well-chilled Frigo followed me in, and as I settled them into the straw with the other donkeys. There was a chorus that began and resounded through the barn. Each animal called out to hear the others. Was everyone inside? They seemed to be asking. I looked and assured myself as well as them. Yes, everyone was accounted for. Everyone had bedding and water, favorite stuffies, and balls to play with. As I pulled the heavy barn door closed behind me and turned back to the farmhouse ready for cocoa and a spot by the fire. I hummed under my breath,