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

Episode Date: August 7, 2023

Our story tonight is called Special Delivery at Weathervane Farm and it’s a story about getting chores done in the farmyard on a summer afternoon. It’s also about the animals having their say, a rest with the cows in their pasture, and an invitation stuck to the fridge with a heart-shaped magnet. We give to a different charity each week and this week we are giving to NAMI, the National Association for Mental Illness www.nami.org. Nami works to educate, support, advocate, listen, and lead to improve the lives of people with mental illness and their loved ones. Subscribe to our Premium or Premium Plus feeds, buy an autographed book, and enjoy NMH extras at www.nothingmuchhappens.comPurchase 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 read and write all the stories 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 NAMI, the National Association for Mental Illness. NAMI works to educate, support, advocate, listen, and lead to improve the lives of people with mental illness and their loved ones. We have a link to them in our show notes.

If you're looking for more nothing-much stories, we have 30-plus bonus episodes on our Premium Plus subscription feed. The August bonus is all about a farm stand out in the country, a newborn baby fawn napping in the high grass, and the feeling you get when you are the only one up at dawn on a beautiful day. Our Premium Plus feed also has zero ads, and I know we haven't had many ads for a while. We've been taking a break, but they are coming back as it allows us to keep the show going. So it's a great time to subscribe. Learn more at nothingmuchappens.com. Now, if you are new to this, let me say a few things about how this works.

This is a form of brain training. We are training your brain to respond to the sound of my voice and the soft texture of my stories with relaxation and sleep. It might take a little while to accomplish that training, so please be patient if you're just starting out. Most listeners report that within a month of regular use, they are asleep within two to three minutes of pushing play. So those folks, they're already asleep. Just listen along as I tell you a story in which nothing much happens.

I'll tell it twice, and I'll go a little bit slower the second time through. Now it's time to tuck yourself in. Make yourself as comfortable as you can. I'll be here, reading, watching over, even after you've fallen asleep. The day is done, and you are safe. Take a deep breath in through your nose, and sigh from your mouth. Again, breathe in.

And out. Good. Our story tonight is called Special Delivery at Weathervane Farm. And it's a story about getting chores done in the farmyard on a summer afternoon. It's also about the animals having their say, a rest with the cows in their pasture, and an invitation stuck to the fridge with a heart-shaped magnet. Special Delivery at Weathervane Farm. Nothing much happens on the farm that the animals don't tell us about. Our old rooster crows, not only as the sun rises, but also every time we start the tractor up. The donkeys bray when their feed runs out.

The pigs grunt happily when they spot the ducks coming back to the barn from the pond. And our cows let out slow, ringing moos whenever the mail truck trundles up to the box. So when I heard them lowing while I was spreading straw in the barn, I leaned my rake against the doorframe and braced my hands against my lower back for a good stretch. Time for a break, I thought. This summer had been a hot one, and with a lot to do to take care of our rescue animals. We make sure to stop frequently for cold drinks and just to enjoy our work so we don't overheat or burn out. I took my water bottle from the high shelf where the barn cats like to sleep in

the afternoons and took a long drink. I'd filled it with ice and slices of ginger and a few mint leaves, and it was refreshing in the dusty heat of the barn. I heard the cows again and headed out to them in the field. We only had the two, a mama that we had rescued the autumn before, not knowing that she was pregnant. And her calf, who was now, I stopped to count on my fingers, almost ten months old. He had pretty golden fur,

which was how he'd gotten the name Winnie the Moo, though we usually just called him Win, unless he was naughty, knocking over his kiddie pool or nosing the gate latch till he managed to pop it open and let the goats out. Then we called him Winifred Theodore Moussif. It didn't stop him, but it made us chuckle as we refilled the pool or rounded up the goats.

As soon as I stepped into their pasture, they both turned toward me and started a slow stroll in my direction for ear scratches and pats. No matter how many times I stopped to give some love to our animals, I was always happy to give some more when they were happy to have it. If you have never sat in a field in the shade of a tall tree with a cow beside you, their head resting in your lap as you lay a hand on their neck,

you can't know how absolutely soul-healing it is. You slow way down. You remember that just being in the world, watching the tree branches move in the wind, is a reason to be alive. You remember that your own nature is what you see in growing blades of grass and shifting clouds, evolving, becoming, not possible to be wrong in the way that it is approached. And when you finally get back on your feet, you feel recalibrated, the gears in your mind and heart running smoothly again. It was tempting to sit down with the cows now,

but I had a feeling that if I did, I wouldn't get any other chores done today. So I gave them a few pats and friendly words and headed down the gravel drive to the mailbox. The goats watched me go and bleated in a way that clearly communicated, Mom, come back. I'm just getting the mail, I said,

shaking my head in the way of all parents who've ever gotten out of the shower to find notes shoved under the locked bathroom door. The driveway cut through a shady glade, and as I passed through it, I enjoyed the cooler air and noticed how differently it smelled here. In the bright, sunny fields, it smelled, well, like sunshine. Like how your sheets smell after they dry on the line. Or your skin smells after driving with the windows down through the

country. In the shade I could smell a deep green scent, damp moss and chlorophyll, and the stony shores of the creek. I walked slowly in the shade, seeing that the flag was down on our old mailbox, a sign that the outgoing letters had indeed been picked up, and maybe something new left in their place. It was a clever mailbox.

Instead of just opening from the front flap, causing me to step into the road to get our mail. It opened from the back as well, so I could stay safely in our yard. Though, out here in the country, if we saw a single vehicle every ten minutes, it felt like heavy traffic. I tugged on the latch, and the flap creaked open. Inside, I spied a few larger envelopes. Bills, I assumed.

And a folded collection of flyers and circulars, and tucked in the middle of all of it, as if it were being protected from the dust of the road, a pretty cream envelope, square and small, with our address written by hand in pretty script. I slid it out, leaving the rest of the mail in the box, and opened as I read the details. Yes, we would save the date. Yes, we could attend. I forgot to even close the back flap of the mailbox as I turned and trekked up the drive toward the farmhouse, suddenly energized by the idea of the celebration to come in September. I didn't even notice the wind picking up as I went.

The weather vane on top of the barn starting to spin as the gusts caught it. The animals must have noticed, though. I saw the ducks coming back from the pond early. The barn cats, who never liked to get caught in the rain, were standing just inside the barn door, waiting for everyone to roll in before a storm did. I'd tuck everyone in, snug as bugs, in just a second, but first I climbed the farmhouse steps and swung the screen door open. I took the invitation straight through to the kitchen and cleared a space on the fridge door for it. I scanned the door until I found a heart-shaped magnet to pin it in place

and stood back to smile at it one more time. The dogs gathered around my ankles, looking from me to the fridge, probably hoping I'd open it and drop something tasty on the floor. Instead, I dug around in their cookie jar on the counter, tossing them each one

and telling them the news. I turned on my heel to rush back out to the yard. The sky was getting dark, and an afternoon rainstorm was on its way. As I herded the animals into their stalls, topping up water bowls and food troughs, I wondered what we could gift the happy couple. Maybe we could invite them for an afternoon nap with the cows in the field. If I were them, I'd register for it. Special Delivery at Weathervane Farm Nothing much happens on the farm that the animals don't tell us about. Our old rooster crows, not only as the sun rises, but also every time we start the tractor up.

The donkeys bray when their feed runs out. The pigs grunt happily when they spot the ducks coming back to the barn from the pond. And our cows let out slow, ringing moos whenever the mail truck trundles up to the box. So when I heard them lowing while I was spreading straw in the barn, I leaned my rake against the doorframe and braced my hands against my lower back for a good stretch. Time for a break, I thought. This summer had been a hot one, and with a lot to do to take care of our rescue animals, we made sure to stop frequently for cold drinks and just to enjoy our work, so we didn't overheat or burn out.

I took my water bottle from the high shelf where the barn cats like to sleep in the afternoons, and took a long drink. I'd filled it with ice and slices of ginger and a few mint leaves, and it was refreshing in the dusty heat of the barn. I heard the cows again and headed out to them in the field. We only had the two. A mama that we had rescued the autumn before, not knowing that she was pregnant.

And her calf, who was now, I stopped to count on my fingers, almost ten months old. He had pretty golden fur, which was how he'd gotten the name Winnie the Moo, though we usually just called him Win, unless he was naughty, knocking over his kiddie pool or nosing the gate latch till he managed to pop it open and let the goats out.

Then we called him Winifred Theodore Moussef. It didn't stop him, but it made us chuckle as we refilled the pool rounded up the goats as soon as I stepped into their pasture they both turned toward me and started a slow stroll in my direction for ear scratches and pats.

No matter how many times a day I stopped to give our animals some love, I was always happy to give some more, and they were happy to have it. If you have never sat in a field in the shade of a tall tree with a cow beside you. Their head resting in your lap. As you lay a hand on their neck.

You can't know how absolutely soul healing it is. You slow way down. You remember that just being in the wind is a reason to be alive. You remember that your own nature is to be wrong in the way that it is approached. And when you finally get back on your feet, you feel recalibrated, the gears in your mind and heart running smoothly again. It was tempting to sit down with the cows now, but I had a feeling that if I did, I wouldn't get any other chores done today. So I gave them a few pats and friendly words and headed down the gravel drive to the mailbox.

The goats watched me go, and bleated in a way that clearly communicated, Mom, come back. I'm just getting the mail, I said, shaking my head, in the way of all parents who've ever gotten out of the shower to find notes shoved under the locked bathroom door. The driveway cut through a shady glade, and as I passed through it, I enjoyed the cooler air.

I noticed how differently it smelled here. In the bright, sunny fields, it smelled, well, like sunshine. Like how your sheets smell after they dry on the line. Or your skin smells after driving with the windows down through the country. In the shade, I could smell a deep green scent, damp moss and chlorophyll on the stony shores of the creek. I walked slowly in the shade, seeing that the flag was down on our old mailbox,

a sign that the outgoing letters had indeed been picked up, and maybe something new was left in their place. It was a clever mailbox. Instead of just opening from the front flap, causing me to step into the road to get my mail. It opened from the back as well so I could stay safely in our yard. Though, out here in the country, if we saw a single vehicle every ten minutes,

it felt like heavy traffic. I tugged on the latch, and the flap creaked open. Inside, I spied a few larger envelopes. Bills, I assumed. And a folded collection of flyers and circulars. Tucked in the middle of all of it as if it was being protected from the dust of the road

was a pretty cream envelope square and small with our address written by hand in pretty script. I slid it out, leaving the rest of the mail in the box, and opened it on the spot. A smile spread over my face as I read the details.

Yes, we would save the date. Yes, we could attend. I forgot to even close the back flap of the mailbox as I turned and trekked up the drive toward the farmhouse. Suddenly energized by the idea of the celebration to come in September. I didn't even notice the wind picking up as I went. The weather vane on top of the barn starting to spin as the gusts caught it. The animals must have noticed, though. I saw the ducks coming back from the pond early.

The barn cats, who never like to get caught in the rain, were standing just inside the barn door, waiting for everyone to roll in before a storm did. I took everyone in, as snug as bugs, in just a second. But first, I climbed the farmhouse steps and swung the screen door open. I took the invitation straight through to the kitchen and cleared a space on the fridge door for it. I scanned the door until I found a heart-shaped magnet to pin it in place, and stood back

to smile at it one more time. the dogs gathered around my ankles, looking from me to the fridge, probably hoping I'd open it and drop something tasty on the floor. Instead, I dug around in their cookie jar on the counter, tossing them each one and telling them the news. I turned on my heel to rush back out into the yard. The sky was getting dark, and an afternoon rainstorm was on its way.

As I herded the animals into their stalls, topping up water bowls and food troughs. I wondered what we could gift the happy couple. Maybe we could invite them for an afternoon nap with the cows in the field. If I were them, I'd register for it. Sweet dreams.