Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Someplace Only We Know

Episode Date: July 1, 2019

Our story tonight is called “Someplace only we know” and it’s a story about being drawn out on a summer night to explore and feel the evening air on your face. It’s also about a cup of lemon ice, riding down a hill on your bicycle, and remembering something sweet that you’d long ago forgotten. So get cozy and ready to sleep. 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. All stories are written and read by me, Catherine Nicolai, with audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. Nothing Much Happens is a proud member of the CuriousCast podcast network. Follow us on Facebook and Instagram and Twitter for some extra coziness. If you need a little bit more nothing much in your life, head over to nothingmuchappens.com, where you can order yourself a lovely first this, then that mug, or a Three Good Things travel cup. I'll wrap it up with my own two hands and send it out to you. They make great gifts for our listeners and are designed and etched by a woman-owned small business. Now I have a story to tell you, and listening

to it will help you relax and fall asleep. Our minds wander. That's just their nature. And if we don't give them a path to stick to, they can wander all night. So the story keeps your thinking mind occupied and lets your body drift off to sleep. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower on the second telling. If you wake again later, you can listen again,

or just think back to any part of the story you remember. You're working on some brain training as you do this, so know that your sleep habits will improve. You'll drift off sooner and get back to sleep much more easily over time. Now, reach out and switch off the light. Snuggle down into your sheets and slip the blanket over your shoulder. Feel your body, heavy and relaxed. Settled and calm.

Eyes closed. Let's take a deep breath in through the nose. And out through the mouth. Nice. One more, please. In. In. And out.

Good. Our story tonight is called, Someplace Only We Know. And it's a story about being drawn out on a summer night to explore and feel the evening air on your face. It's also about a cup of lemon ice riding down a hill on your bicycle and remembering something sweet that you'd long ago forgotten. Someplace only we know. As a teenager, I had a fascination with the feel and the smell and the look of summer evenings.

It was the romance of them. I'd be hopping down the front steps of my house, and I'd think anything could happen tonight. Unlikely, nothing much would. My friends and I would spend another night drinking coffee in a diner, or watching a movie, or listening to music on someone's car stereo in the lot by the park. But still, I never lost the feeling that summer nights had an extra dose of magical possibility.

It's that warm, humid night air that makes us less afraid The winter keeps us inside Nested and resting The summer pushes us out Go meet someone Make a friend Discover something, it says Go meet someone. Make a friend.

Discover something, it says. And I had. I'd almost stayed in tonight. I'd stood in the kitchen, rinsing my plate after dinner, pasta tossed with olive oil, the first few cherry tomatoes in the kitchen, rinsing my plate after dinner, pasta tossed with olive oil, the first few cherry tomatoes of the season, and a handful of herbs from the window box, and looked out at the evening sky.

I could stay in, I thought. I'd been sketching in my notebook and listening to music. And more of that sounded just fine. But then the wind shifted. And I felt the touch of it on my face. The kitchen filled up with the scent of summer night air, and I felt that same pull from when I'd been fifteen. Come out. Come see.

Who knows what you might find. A few minutes later, I was coasting on my bike, through the streets of my quarter. The day had been hot, and the air rushing over my skin was cooling and felt just right. I didn't know where I was going, just kept pedaling. I stood up on my pedals and pushed my way up a hill, then soared giddily down the other side. I circled through the district of old Victorian homes and slowed down to nosily peek through the wrought-iron gates,

hiding, in some cases, tidy English gardens with rows of evenly spaced lavender plants, and in others, overgrown wilderness, slowly reclaiming an abandoned yard. I thought I liked the abandoned places the best. They seemed full of secrets and stories. I rode into town and skimmed past corners of bustling street cafes. People were eating and drinking and telling stories.

I stopped at a light and looked at a couple sharing a meal. I thought it might be their first date. They seemed a little tentative. Quick glimpses back and forth, but then a laugh and an earnest smile. Ah, maybe the second date. I pedaled into the park, and racked my bike by the bookstall, now shuttered for the night.

I bought a lemon ice from a man with a cart and sat by the path for a few minutes to eat it. There was something on the edge of my memory. Something about this park. Maybe it was the lemon ice on my tongue that brought it back. Had we eaten it that night? Deep summer. Cicadas singing. And we'd parked our bikes over there.

I got to my feet and dropped my empty cup in the recycle can. I turned and looked through my memory toward a path at the back edge of the park. I felt pulled down it, narrow gravel at first, then becoming wood chips and packed sandy earth under my feet. We'd come here, down this path. We'd found it, just walking and exploring. The path opened up into a broad meadow, with a row of close arborvitaes along one side.

I turned to look at them. They made a thick wall of green branches and seemed to mark the end of the park. But no, there was a space, camouflaged in the evening twilight, no wider than my shoulders, where you could slip through and step down. And yes, here it was.

That night we'd stepped through and found this place, a sunken garden. We'd stood with wide eyes, and I'd laughed in a nervous, giddy way. We thought we'd stumbled on a place that had never been found before. Isn't it that way when you're young? You feel like you are discovering and inventing everything as you go.

Like no one's ever loved like this before, or had their heart broken like yours, or a million other instances of growing up and becoming yourself. There was a stone pool, long and a little green, running along the line of trees, and in the corner a small mossy bench and a crumbling statue of a lady disappearing into ivy. My heart beat a bit faster remembering. We'd been like the couple at the cafe, tentative and a little timid. But we couldn't beat back the power of a summer night.

It won out over shyness. Had it been me to reach out first, to lean in, or had it been... On my way back home, I paddled along with the gift of memory like a sweet taste left on the tongue. I'm so glad I'd gone out tonight.

On a summer night, anything might happen. You could find your way back to something forgotten. To a place only we knew. Someplace only we know. As a teenager, I had a fascination with the feel and the smell and the look of summer evenings. It was the romance of them. I'd be hopping down the front steps of my house, and I'd think,

anything could happen tonight. And likely, nothing much would. My friends and I would spend another night drinking coffee in a diner, or watching a movie, or listening to music on someone's car stereo in the lot by the park. But still, I never lost the feeling that summer nights had an extra dose of magical possibility. It's that warm, humid night air. It makes us less afraid. The winter keeps us inside, nested and resting.

The summer pushes us out. Go meet someone. Make a friend. Discover something, it says. And I had. I'd almost stayed in tonight. I'd stood in the kitchen rinsing my plate after dinner, pasta tossed with olive oil,

the first few cherry tomatoes of the season, and a handful of herbs from the window box, and looked out at the evening sky. I could stay in, I thought. I'd been sketching in my notebook and listening to music, and more of that sounded just fine. But then the wind shifted, and I felt the touch of it on my face.

The kitchen filled up with the scent of summer night air, and I felt that same pull from when I'd been fifteen. Come out. Come out. Come see. Who knows what you might find. A few minutes later, I was coasting on my bike through the streets of my quarter.

The day had been hot, and the air rushing over my skin felt cooling and just right. I didn't know where I was going, just kept pedaling. I stood up on my pedals and pushed my way up a hill, then soared giddily down the other side. I circled through the district of old Victorian homes and slowed down to nosily peek through the wrought iron gates, hiding, in some cases, tidy English gardens with rows of evenly spaced lavender plants, and in others, overgrown wilderness, slowly reclaiming an abandoned

yard. I thought I liked the abandoned places the best. They seemed full of secrets and stories. I rode into town, skimmed past corners of bustling street cafes. People were eating and drinking and telling stories. I stopped at a light and looked at a couple sharing a meal. I thought it might be their first date.

They seemed a little tentative, quick glimpses back and forth, but then a laugh and an earnest smile. Ah, maybe the second date. I pedaled into the park and racked my bike by the bookstall, now shuttered for the night. I bought a lemon ice from a man with a cart and sat by the path for a few minutes to eat it. There was something on the edge of my memory, something about this park. Maybe it was the lemon ice on my tongue that brought it back. Had we eaten it that night?

Deep summer. Cicadas singing. And we'd parked our bikes over there. I got to my feet and dropped my empty cup into the recycle bin. I turned and looked through my memory toward a path at the back edge of the park. I felt pulled down it, narrow, gravel at first, then becoming wood chips and packed sandy earth under my feet. We'd come here, down this path. We'd found it,

just walking and exploring. The path opened up into a broad meadow with a row of close arborvitaes along one side. I turned to look at them. They made a thick wall of green branches and seemed to mark the end of the park. But no, there was a space, camouflaged in the evening twilight, no wider than my shoulders, where you could slip through and step down. And yes, here it was.

That night we'd stepped through and found this place. A sunken garden. We'd stood with wide eyes, and I'd laughed in a nervous, giddy way. We thought we'd stumbled on a place that had never been found before. Isn't that the way when you're young? You feel like you are discovering and inventing everything as you go. Like no one's ever loved like this before.

Or had their heart broken like yours was. Or a million other instances of growing up and becoming yourself. There was a stone pool, long and a little green, running along the line of trees, and in the corner a small mossy bench and a crumbling statue of a lady disappearing into ivy. My heart beat a little faster, remembering. We'd been like the couple at the café, tentative and a little timid. But we couldn't beat back the power of a summer night.

It won out over shyness. Had it been me to reach out first to lean in or had it been hmm on my way back home, I peddled along with the gift of memory,

like a sweet taste left on the tongue. So glad I'd gone out tonight. On a summer night, anything might happen. You could find your way back to something forgotten. To a place only we knew. Sweet dreams.