Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Strawberry Moon

Episode Date: May 29, 2023

Our story tonight is called Strawberry Moon and it’s a story about dusk on the porch on one of the first warm evenings of summer. It’s also about the lit window of a neighbor’s house, the quiet tick of clock in the hall and a good book before bed.  This week we are giving to International Rescue Committee whose purpose is to help people whose lives and livelihoods are shattered by conflict and disaster, including the climate crisis, to survive, recover and gain control over their future. https://www.rescue.org/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 Katherine 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 the International Rescue Committee, whose purpose is to help people whose lives and livelihoods

are shattered by conflict and disaster, including the climate crisis, to survive, recover, and gain control over their future. If you'd like to join us in giving, we have a link to them in our show notes. And if you need more Nothing Much in your life, head to nothingmuchappens.com, where you can find links to our beautiful illustrated book, bonus content, and our very caring social media communities. Now, busy minds need a place to rest. Without some framework, some structure for your thoughts, they're likely to run wild and without stop. So just listen to the sound of my voice and follow along with the general shape of this story. And before you know it, you'll be fast asleep.

I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake later and feel your thoughts begin to race again, listen again, or just think your way back through any part of the story that you can remember. That bit of structure will steer you right back to sleep. Now, switch off your light. Put away anything you've been looking at or playing with. Get as comfortable as you can. I'll take the next watch, so you can let go and rest deep. Take a slow breath in through your nose and out through your mouth.

One more. Breathe in. Let it out slow. Good. Our story tonight is called Strawberry Moon. And it's a story about dusk on the porch on one of the first warm evenings of summer. It's also about the lit window of a neighbor's house, the quiet tick of a clock in the hall, and a good book before bed.

Strawberry Moon I was getting ready for bed, padding around in my slippers and filling a glass with water at the sink when I suddenly wanted to step outside one more time to feel the night air around me. I set my glass on the counter and went to the door and pushed it open. After months of feeling chilled at night,

rushing to get under the covers and warm up, it felt like a dream to step onto the porch and be surrounded by soft air that met my skin like perfectly warmed water. I didn't need a sweater. As the breeze blew, it didn't chill my ears or neck. I was just comfortable.

I walked to the edge of the porch and sat down on the top step in my pajamas, propping my elbows on my knees and my chin in my hands. I closed my eyes for a time listening to the nighttime buzz of insects and the songs of drowsy birds

it was dusk the streetlights had come on and the sky was that lovely purple that only lasts for a half hour or so before the full darkness sets in. In the house across the street, a few lights were on here and there. And I was comforted to think of my neighbors finishing up the dinner dishes, stretching out on a sofa to watch something, or tucking in early with a book to read.

Farther down the street, I could hear a screen door banging, a dog barking, and children's voices as they came in after a long day of play. And I was sure that up and down the block, others like me were sitting on their porches, the porch light off so as not to attract the bugs, and just enjoying the peace of the gloaming.

I sat there for quite a while, not a moment of it bored or distracted, just letting the breeze waft over me and thinking of all the summer evenings that I had done this since I was a child. We'd had a swing on the front porch, and at least a few times a year, I'd been allowed to drag my sleeping bag out, along with a pillow from the bed, a flashlight and a book. And though I rarely made it through the night before being chased in by mosquitoes or just wanting my own bed I'd loved those little adventures

and would beg to do it again the very next night. Finally, I felt my eyelids getting heavy, and I pushed myself up from the steps. I took one last long breath of the night air and looked up at the stars now bright above me. The neighborhood was quiet. Most of the houses with just a single light on here or there.

I stepped inside and locked the door behind me and shuffled back to the kitchen for my glass of water. You know those moments when water tastes so good? That was now. I wondered if it was the half hour or so that I'd sat on the step. Had it cleared my palate? Both metaphorically and literally? I did feel like a clean slate. I'd left a colander of strawberries in the sink after I'd rinsed them, and I brought my water glass with me to pick through them.

When I buy a carton of strawberries in February, I almost always regret it. They come out tasting something like sour pink ice cubes, but these ones that I'd picked myself from the patch on my allotment smelled more like strawberries than those others had ever tasted. They were small, about the size of the end of my thumb, and they were soft and meant to be enjoyed as soon as they ripened. I took a bite and it tasted so good I nearly laughed aloud truly sweet and tender melting in my mouth

I ate half the colander full right there listening to the grandfather clock tick in the hall, and blissfully thinking of very little. Finally, I tipped the rest of the berries into a bowl and set them in the fridge for the next day, refilled my glass, and headed

for the stairs. When I passed the big clock in the hall, I stopped, realizing that it probably needed to be wound. It was an eight-day clock meaning that the mainspring would lose power after seven days and need to be wound on the eighth. That was a bit too much math for me, so I just wound it every Saturday night. I set my glass down on a shelf, and by the light of the street lamp shining through the window, I opened the lower door and took the small winding key from its peg.

When I'd first found this old clock wedged into the back of the coat closet, I thought that the key was lost. But when I'd taken it to the horologist, she'd shown me how it was still safe in its keeping place, waiting to be put to work again. The clockwork, on the other hand, was missing a few pieces and had to be taken apart completely, cleaned in clock-cleaning fluid, and painstakingly put back together with replacement parts along the way.

But it ran perfectly now. I opened the beveled glass cover on the clock face and fitted the winding key into its spot and began to wind. I'd been timid about this part when I'd first taken up winding duties, having always heard that it was dangerous to overwind a clock.

But she'd assured me that it couldn't actually be overwound, and that overwinding was likely clockmaker speak for, it's broken, but I can fix it. So when the key was tight, I took it out and hung it back on its peg. I closed the glass cover and looked at the moon dial, a feature not all clocks have, but luckily this one did, which showed the position of the moon in the sky. A full moon was just a few days away, and I smiled, still tasting the sweetness on my tongue,

remembering that this moon was called the strawberry moon. In my bedroom, the windows were open, and it felt a bit like stepping back onto the porch. Cool, sweet, fresh air. And my bed awaited me. Not wanting to turn on a light and in tribute to those front porch swing sleepovers of my childhood. I fished in a drawer until I found a small flashlight and propped up in bed to read my book till I fell asleep.

Strawberry Moon till I fell asleep. Strawberry moon. I was getting ready for bed, padding around in my slippers and filling a glass with water at the sink. When I suddenly wanted to step outside one more time to feel the night air around me, I set my glass on the counter and went to the door and pushed it open. After months of feeling chilled at night, rushing to get under the covers and warm up. It felt like a dream to step onto the porch and be surrounded by soft air

that met my skin like perfectly warmed water. I didn't need a sweater. As the breeze blew, it didn't chill my ears or neck. I was just comfortable. I walked to the edge of the porch and sat down on the top step in my pajamas, propping my elbows on my knees and my chin in my hands. I closed my eyes for a time, listening to the nighttime buzz of insects and the songs of drowsy birds. It was dusk. The streetlights had come on, and the sky was that lovely purple

that only lasts for a half hour or so before the full darkness sets in. In the house across the street, a few lights were on here and there. When I was comforted to think about my neighbors, finishing up their dinner dishes, stretching out on a sofa to watch something, or tucking in early with a book to read. Farther down the street, I could hear a screen door banging,

a dog barking, and children's voices as they came in after a long day of play. I was sure that, up and down the block, others like me were sitting on their porches. The porch light off, so as not to attract the bugs, and just enjoying the peace of the gloaming. I sat there for quite a while, not a moment of it bored or distracted, just letting the breeze waft over me. I'm thinking of all the summer evenings when I had done this since I was a child. We'd had a swing on the front porch, and at least a few times a year, I'd been allowed

to drag my sleeping bag out onto it, along with a pillow from the bed, a flashlight, and a book. And though I rarely made it through the night before being chased in by mosquitoes, or just wanting my own bed. I'd loved those little adventures, and would beg to do it again the very next night. Finally, I felt my eyelids getting heavy and I pushed myself up from the steps I took one last long breath of the night air and looked up at the stars now bright above me the neighborhood was quiet now now bright above me. The neighborhood was quiet now.

Most of the houses with just a single light on. I stepped inside and locked the door behind me and shuffled back to the kitchen for my glass of water. You know those moments when water tastes so good? Well, that was now. I wondered if it was the half hour or so that I'd sat on the step. Had it cleared my palate, both metaphorically and literally? I did feel like a clean slate.

I'd left a colander of strawberries in the sink after I rinsed them, and I brought my water glass with me to pick through them. When I buy a carton of strawberries in February, I almost always regret it. They come out tasting something like sour pink ice cubes, but these ones that I'd picked myself from the patch of my thumb, and were soft and meant to be enjoyed as soon as they ripened. I took a bite, and it tasted so good, I nearly laughed aloud. Truly sweet and tender and melting in my mouth. I ate half the colander full right there, listening to the grandfather clock tick in the hall

and blissfully thinking of very little. Finally, I tipped the rest of the berries into a bowl and set them in the fridge for the next day, refilled my glass, and headed for the stairs.

When I passed the big clock in the hall, I stopped, realizing that it probably needed to be wound. It was an eight-day clock, meaning the mainspring would lose power after seven days and need to be wound on the eighth. That was a bit too much math for me, so I just wound it every Saturday night. I set my glass down on a shelf, and by the light of the street lamp shining through the window,

I opened the lower door and took the small winding key from its peg. When I'd first found this old clock wedged into the back of the coat closet, I thought that the key was lost. But when I'd taken it to the horologist she'd shown me how it was still safe in its keeping place waiting to be put to work again the clockwork on the other hand

was missing a few pieces and had to be taken apart completely, cleaned in clock-cleaning fluid, and painstakingly put back together with replacement parts. But it ran perfectly now. I opened the beveled glass cover on the clock face and fitted the winding key into its spot and began to wind.

I'd been timid about this part when I'd first taken up winding duty, having always heard that it was dangerous to overwind a clock. But she'd assured me that I couldn't actually be overwhelmed, and that overwinding was likely clockmaker speak for, it's broken, but I can fix it. When the key was tight, I took it out and hung it back on its peg. I closed the glass cover and looked at the moon dial,

a feature not all clocks have, but luckily this one did, which showed the position of the moon in the sky. A full moon was just a few days away, and I smiled, still tasting the sweetness on my tongue, remembering that this moon was called the Strawberry Moon. I reached for my glass and climbed the stairs. In my bedroom, the windows were open

and it felt a bit like stepping back onto the porch. Cool, fresh air and my bed awaited me. Not wanting to turn on a light. And in tribute to those front porch swing sleepovers of my childhood. I fished in a drawer until I found a small flashlight and propped up in bed to read my book till I fell asleep. Sweet dreams.