Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Something Old (Encore)

Episode Date: August 27, 2026

Originally presented as Episode 13 of Season 12 (August 28, 2023) Our story tonight is called Something Old, and it’s a story about a gift found on a treasure hunt. It’s also about taking the time to do something well, an embroidery hoop and an orange ribbon, and seeing magic in every day objects that can tell stories from the past. Upgrade your everyday. Download the Quince app for app-exclusive offers, or go to quince.com/nothingmuch. Get free shipping on your order and 365-day returns. Now available in Canada and the UK, too. Subscribe to our ⁠⁠⁠Premium channel⁠⁠⁠. The first month is on us. 💙 Join⁠⁠ the Village of Nothing Much App! Order Kathryn’s new book ⁠⁠On the Street Where You Live⁠⁠ ⁠⁠NMH Merch, Autographed Books and More!⁠⁠ Listen to our daytime show ⁠⁠Stories from the Village of Nothing Much⁠⁠ ⁠⁠Sit Meditation with Kathryn⁠⁠ Follow us on ⁠⁠Instagram⁠⁠ Visit ⁠⁠Nothing Much Happens⁠⁠ for more Village fun! Sign up for our Newsletter ⁠⁠here⁠⁠ to be in the know! Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Get more Nothing Much Happens with bonus episodes, extra long stories, and ad-free listening, all while supporting the show you love. Subscribe now. Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Everyone, in which nothing much happens. You feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Catherine Nikolai.

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, we have a lot of new listeners lately, so welcome. I have a tried and true method for helping you fall asleep and return to sleep if you wake in the night. It involves a bit of brain training, so be patient if you are new to this. Just by listening, by resting your mind on the sound of my voice, we'll catch enough of your attention to shift your brain activity into its task positive mode.

And that is where you'll fall asleep. So just listen, relax. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake again in the night, you can turn an episode right back on, you'll be out in a flash, or just think through any part of the story you can remember. Our story tonight is called Something Old, and it's a story about a gift found on a treasure hunt. It's also about taking the time to do something well, an embroidery hoop and an orange ribbon,

and seeing magic in everyday objects that can tell stories from the past. I really think your bedroom should feel like a place that's taking care of you. For me, that starts with the bed itself. I've been using quince bedding, and I love how easy it is to make the whole room feel softer and more inviting without doing some enormous bedroom makeover. Their 100% European linen gets softer with every wash and has that relaxed, slightly rumpled look that I personally love. And if you're more of a crisp sheets person,

they also make organic cotton bedding that's breathable and incredibly soft. I also love adding a lightweight quilt, or I really love their coverlet this time of year, when the night start getting just a little cooler. Quince works directly with ethical factories and cuts out the middlemen, so everything has priced 50 to 80% less than similar brands. I use quince at home. I'm wearing quince right now as I record this.

I genuinely love the quality, and I think it's a really lovely way to make bedtime feel a little better. Upgrade your every day. Download the quince app for app exclusive offers or go to quince.com slash nothing much. Get free shipping on your order and 365-day returns. Now available in Canada and the UK too. That's QI-N-C-E.com slash nothing much.

Now, lights out. Set yourself up for good night's sleep. Get comfortable and let your whole body relax into your sheets. You have enough. You do enough. You are enough. Take a deep breath in through your nose. Let it out your mouth. Nice. One more. Breathe in. And out. Good. Something old. I have to admit. I haven't used my iron in a long, long time. It took me a while to find it, in fact. It had been pushed all the way back on a shelf over the washing. and dryer, and I'd had to get a stepstool out to bring it down.

But I needed it. It was required in order for this to be done properly. And that mattered to me. I'd spent a good bit of time trying to find the right thing after the invitation had come. We'd RSVP'd right away, yes for both of us. And I'd circled the date on the calendar that hung inside the pantry. Exciting. A wedding. And at the old inn.

It would be beautiful, I was sure. I imagined the large porch that ran along the back of the house, lit with candles and string lights. the path down to the lake decorated with flowers, and the great ballroom up on the second floor, filled with folks dancing and raising their glasses to toast the couple. There'd be favors and a giant cake,

and a pretty table for gifts and cards. Hmm, a gift. What should it be? I wanted to give them some, something sentimental rather than practical. Let someone else get them a new blender or fancy wine glasses. And I suppose that is part of who I am. I spend a lot of my time taking care of old, precious things,

things that are kept even though they are not at all practical. There is a great old house a little outside of the village. It was once a private residence, but has for decades now been a sort of museum, its rooms full of the restored and archived belongings of the family that lived there, as well as things from other villagers of the past. There is a room on the third floor that is full of maps, local and exotic, hand-drawn or printed on inky presses long ago,

in the entryway, on a table under an impressive chandelier, is a meticulously built miniature of the entryway, a sailing ship with a rudder and crow's nest and hand-carved figurehead of a mermaid. There are rooms of books and portraits. The old kitchens are full of patinated copper pans hanging from hooks and clever cooking apparatuses. The newly renovated celerium houses rare tropical plants and a collection of hanging prisms that throw rainbows against the floor and walls on sunny days. Then there are the grounds, gardens upon gardens, tended by a crowd of volunteers each year. They're full of walking paths.

that the public are welcome to and frequently use. There is a labyrinth that takes a good half hour to walk and a stretch of woods full of deer. And when I park my car in the lot there and step out and smell the air and look up at the lovely old house, I am regularly astonished that I get to work. there. I'm only there a few days a week now. I spent most of my career teaching history at the college,

and when I was ready to downshift a bit, I found a warm welcome at the great house. I spent some time going through boxes and cataloging, sometimes teaching on the history of the house and the objects in it, and sometimes just scouting out new finds in estate sales, and at swapmeats. And that's where I found my wedding gift. I'd been deep in a wardrobe at an estate sale, an old Victorian house that was being cleaned out completely for a renovation. It was full of old suits, and while I didn't have much interest in the clothes, I always checked pockets for pens or little notebooks, the everyday objects that got carried around, almost like afterthoughts. They had a lot to tell us about the quotidian moments of their owner's lives. I'd come away with

a bare money clip, with initials carved into the tarnished silver. and a nub of a pencil with teeth marks in the wood. I chuckled as my own pencils often end up looking the same way. I pushed aside an armful of the suits, and at the bottom of the wardrobe found a stack of small boxes. Jackpot. They were made of thin cardboard and warmed my local historian heart.

as they were stamped with the names and addresses of their suppliers. One held dress socks and had been opened with a pair missing. One held a shooshine kit that had clearly been well used, and one was still unopened, a gold label taping the box of the handsome white handkerchiefs clothes. there were a dozen of them hemmed in different colors. I assumed to match different shirts or ties. Fines like these helped us document where various shops had been the cost of things

as they often still had a tag on them or a handwritten receipt tucked inside. They were a glimpse into a simple interaction in the past, here in the village. I purchased the socks and the shooshine kit for the museum. We could stage them in one of the dressing rooms, where we had other bits of clothing and personal care objects to flesh out the picture of life at the time.

But I used my own money to buy the handkerchiefs. Because as soon as I saw them, I thought of the adage about gifts at a wedding, that the couple needs something old, something new, something borrowed, and something blue. These could be there something old, so at home I'd broken the seal that had been set in place decades before and washed and dried them carefully. I'm not the best at embroidery, but I've gotten out my hoop and thread and sewn something onto each one,

their first names, rather amateurish but recognizable paw prints crawling across the fabric to represent their dogs and cat and the date of the wedding. And now I was ironing them so that, though they were old, they would feel crisp and fresh.

Just the thing to tuck into a pocket or purse, to clean glasses or wipe away a tear. I smiled as I fitted them back into their original box, unwrapped it in shiny paper, tying it with an orange ribbon, thinking that some future local historian might find these handkerchiefs in a drawer or a cupboard like I had and try to match up the names and the date

to learn a little bit about a special moment in the lives of our friends. Something old, I have to admit, I haven't used my iron. in a long, long time. It took me a while to find it, in fact. It had been pushed all the way to the back of a shelf, over the washer and dryer,

and I'd had to get a stepstool out to bring it down. But I needed it. It was required in order for this to be done properly. And that mattered to me. I'd spent a good bit of time trying to find the right thing after the invitation had come. We'd RSVP'd right away.

Yes, for both of us. And I'd circled the date on the calendar. That hung inside the pantry. Exciting. A wedding. And at the old inn. It would be beautiful. I was sure.

I imagine the large porch that ran along the back of the house, lit with candles and string lights, the path down to the lake, decorated with flowers, and the great ballroom up on the second floor, filled with folks dancing and raising their glasses. to toast the couple. There would be favors and a giant cake and a pretty table for gifts and cards.

Hmm, a gift. What should it be? I wanted to give them something sentimental, rather than practical. Let someone else get them a new blender or fancy wine glasses. And I suppose that is part of who I am. I spend a lot of my time taking care of old, precious things,

things that are kept, even though they are not at all practical. There is a great old house, a little outside of the village. It was once a private residence, but has for decades now been a sort of museum, its rooms, full of the restored and archived belongings of the family that lived there. As well as things from other villagers of the past, there is a room on the third floor that is full of maps, local, and exotic. Hand-drawn or printed on inky presses long ago. In the entryway, on a table under an impressive chandelier, is a meticulously built miniature of a sailing ship

with a tiny rudder and crow's nest, and hand-carved figurehead of a mermaid. There are rooms of books and portraits. The old kitchens are full of patinated copper pans hanging from hooks and clever cooking apparatuses. The newly renovated celerium houses rare tropical plants and a collection of hanging prisms that throw rainbows against the floor and walls on sunny days.

Then there are the grounds, gardens upon gardens, tended by a crowd of volunteers each year and full of walking paths, that the public are welcome to and frequently use. There is a labyrinth that takes a good, half hour to walk and a stretch of woods full of deer. And when I park my car in the lot there and step out and smell the air and look up at the lovely old house, I am regularly astonished, that I get to work there. I'm only there a few days a week now. I spent most of my my career, teaching history at the college. And when I was ready to downshift a bit,

I found a warm welcome at the great house. I spend some time going through boxes and cataloging, some time teaching on the history of the house and the objects in it, and sometime just scouting out new fines, an estate sales, and swapmeats. That's where I'd found my wedding gift. I'd been deep in a wardrobe at an estate sale. In an old Victorian house that was being cleaned out completely for a renovation. It was full of old suits, and while I didn't have my interest in the clothes. I always checked pockets for pens or little notebooks, the everyday objects that got carried around, almost like afterthoughts. They have a lot to tell us about the quotidian moments of their owner's lives. I'd come away with a bare money clip, with initials carved into the

tarnished silver and a nub of a pencil with teeth marks in the wood. I chuckled, as my own pencils often end up looking the same way. I pushed aside an armful of the suits and at the bottom of the wardrobe found a stack of small boxes. Jackpot. They were made of thin cardboard. and warmed my local historian heart as they were stamped with the names and addresses of their suppliers. One held dress socks and had been opened with one pair missing. One held a shooshine kit that had clearly been well used, and one was still unopened, a gold. label, taping the box of the handsome white handkerchiefs closed.

There were a dozen of them hemmed in different colors. I assumed to match different shirts or ties. Fines like these helped us document where various shops had been, the cost of things, as they often still had a tag attached. or a handwritten receipt tucked inside. They were a glimpse into a simple interaction in the past here in the village. The socks and the shooshine kit I purchased for the museum.

We could stage them in one of the dressing rooms, where we had other bits of clothing and personal care objects to flesh out the picture of life at the time, but I used my own money to buy the handkerchiefs. Because as soon as I saw them, I thought of the adage about gifts at a wedding that the couple needs something old, something new,

something borrowed, and something blue. These could be their same. something old. So at home, I'd broken the seal that had been set in place decades before and washed and dried them carefully. I'm not the best at embroidery, but I'd gotten out my hoop and thread and sewn something onto each one, their first names, rather amyed. Rather, amateurish but recognizable paw prints crawling across the fabric to represent their dogs and cat and the date of the wedding. And now I was ironing them so that, though they were old, they would feel crisp and fresh, just the thing to tuck into a pocket or purse, to clean

glasses or wipe away a tear. I smiled as I fitted them back into their original box and wrapped it in shiny paper, tying it with an orange ribbon, thinking that some future historian might find these handkerchiefs in a drawer or cupboard like I had and try to match up the name. and the date to learn a little bit about a special moment in the lives of our friends. Sweet dreams.