Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Summer at the Inn Part 3

Episode Date: July 11, 2022

Our story tonight is the last installment in our Summer at the Inn series, at least for now. It’s a story about a book waiting to be picked up and read. It’s also about a cool sleeping porch, empty and quiet in the afternoon, a cup of sweet espresso and having a bit of time all to yourself. Order the book now! Get our ad-free and bonus episodes.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. I'm Catherine Nicolai. I write and read all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens, with audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. Often people write me, suggesting themes for stories they might like to hear. And just as often, I have to write back and say, that story exists. It's in the book. There are 16 stories in my book that have never been heard on the podcast. So, if you want to take a trip to the museum on a summer afternoon, visit the lavender farm outside of town. Dive into a whole story just about beautiful and unusual words.

Hear a concert in the park or go stargazing up in the mountains. Well, I invite you to pick up my book. It's beautifully illustrated and has a map in the front to situate you in the village of Nothing Much. Would you rather hear me read those stories? Well, the audiobook is also available.

You can buy from your favorite bookseller or get an autographed copy at nothingmuchappens.com. Now, let me say a little about how this podcast works. Most often, when we struggle to sleep, the bit holding us back is the mind. We may even be kept awake by the worry that we won't sleep. If we can positively distract the mind, occupy it for a bit,

the body will take over and sleep will come. And the more consistently you do this, the more your overall sleep will improve. So, I'll tell you a story. A pleasant place to occupy your mind. I'll tell it twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. All you need to do is listen.

Really, if you just listen, everything else will fall right into place. Now, turn out your light. Slip down into your sheets and feel how cool and soft they are. Let your body be heavy. I'll be right here, a voice in the darkness, guarding over you as you rest. I am here with you. Take a slow, deep breath in through your nose and let it out through your mouth. Do that again. Breathe in and out. Good.

Our story tonight is the last installment in our Summer at the Inn series, at least for now. It's a story about a book waiting to be picked up and read. It's also about a cool sleeping porch, empty and quiet in the afternoon, a cup of sweet espresso, and having a bit of time all to yourself. Summer at the Inn, Part 3

I had an hour all to myself. Most afternoons gifted me a little time to go for a bike ride, or drive into town and browse the shops, or sometimes to fall asleep with my bedroom windows open high on the third floor, where the breeze was cool. Today, I had a book that I'd stayed up late reading the night before. It had taken all my discipline to finally put it down and turn out the light, and it had been calling to me since then, sitting tucked under the counter at the front desk.

I remembered reading this way when I was a child, being pulled into books so deeply that I could barely stand to come up for air at mealtimes. But as a grown-up, that happened less and less. Maybe younger brains are just more given to disappearing into other worlds. So when I found a book that I couldn't put down, well,

what a gift. And I made it last as long as I could. So all morning, while I tended to my innkeeping duties, serving breakfast on the porch, helping to make up beds and fill the bird feeders. I'd been thinking about it, thinking about finding a shady spot to settle down in

and read a few more chapters. But the day had been busy. We'd been visited by one of our local farmers, bought fresh produce from the open bed of her truck, and laid out lunch for our guests on the back porch. Then I'd eaten a plate of sandwiches and cucumber salad down in the cool kitchen, while Chef shuffled pots and pans around on the stove. Chef was a firm believer in the importance of finishing

most any meal with a small cup of sweet, strong espresso. But by the time I'd pushed my plate back, the mocha pot had gone lukewarm. I'd volunteered to drink it as it was, but Chef took it from the counter, saying they would make me a fresh pot. I watched them take a large container from the freezer and add the tepid coffee to it. Mmm, I recognized that. Perfect on a hot afternoon.

Chef would serve up espresso granita with sweet whipped cream, the top scattered with fresh coffee grounds or dotted with a couple chocolate-covered espresso beans. They sealed up the container and slid it back into the deep freeze and set about washing out the pot

and refilling it for me. While I waited for it to perk, we talked about the menu for dinner. Grilled zucchini, pasta with our homemade pesto, and watermelon salad. Chef was still talking about which dishes to use and when we'd ring the dinner bell. But my mind was wandering back to my book.

It was one of those books that I'd seen a few times over the years. Maybe it had been in the window of the bookshop. I'd definitely seen guests read it, hungrily, like I was. But it wasn't one of those titles that's on every bestseller list. Sometimes when too many people tell me to read something, I just can't. It's too much pressure. And by the time I finally get to it, I have a bunch of expectations. And they interfere with me being able to just enjoy. So when I found this book in a guest's room after their stay,

set on the dresser beside a note saying, Couldn't put it down. Please share with anyone in need of a good book. I thought, well, I'm in need of that, and slipped it into my pocket. Still, it had sat for weeks in my room, till I'd finished a few other novels I'd been dipping in and out of. It had been waiting for me, so patient and quiet, and all the time holding a story that felt like it was written just for me.

It made me wonder about the other books in my stack. I might not yet have read my favorite book. I might not read it for another ten years. It isn't that exciting. Chef set my cup of espresso down in front of me and leaned their elbows on the counter. Drink up and go do whatever it is you're thinking about. I chuckled and did as they said. Coffee was sweet and delicious and did feel like it put a period at the end of my meal. I was sated and ready for my book. Chef waved me out of the kitchen and I ran up the stairs to the landing. I headed down the long hallway that ran the length of the house,

where portraits hung and the polished wood paneling shone in the afternoon light. In the front office, I checked for messages, and happily, there weren't any. No one needed me, just now. I took the book from under the counter and tucked it into the crook of my elbow. I thought about where I wanted to read. I stepped to the window and pushed aside the thin curtain. Bright sunlight was shining down through the leaves. The hammocks were probably full by now,

and the lawn chairs by the water didn't have shade. It wasn't that I minded running into guests while I read, but sometimes I just liked a bit of privacy to just not be noticed for a bit then I remembered the sleeping porch it was up on the second floor a small screened-in veranda with a glider and a few wicker chairs.

With all the lovely spots to sit and relax around the inn, it was often forgotten by our guests, and I had a feeling it would be empty now. I carried my book up the great winding staircase and down the hall to the porch. Just as I'd hoped, it was empty. And I pulled open the door and stepped out. The inn was full of smells when I'd started renovating it. Most of them very nice. The scent of old wood, books, and curling wallpaper.

But with all the work we'd done, most rooms had lost those bits of atmosphere, which sometimes made me a little nostalgic. But this porch had barely been touched. We'd replaced the screens where they'd rotted away and brought down the chairs from the attic, cleaning and polishing and adding new cushions. Once the space was swept out and set up, we'd left it.

And it held the scent of nearly a hundred and fifty summers. The dry wood of the screen frames and the cool stone floors. It caught the sunlight in the morning, but by design, in the afternoons, it sat on the shaded side of the house, and the temperature was perfect. I settled onto the glider and tucked my feet underneath me. I had an hour, at least, maybe more, before anyone was likely to need anything. I opened my book.

Summer at the Inn, Part 3 I had about an hour to myself. Most afternoons gifted me a little time to go for a bike ride or drive into town and browse the shops or sometimes to fall asleep with my bedroom windows open high on the third floor,

where the breeze was cool. Today, I had a book that I'd stayed up late reading the night before. It had taken all my discipline to finally put it down and turn out the light, and it had been calling to me since then. Sitting tucked under the counter at the front desk. I remembered reading this way when I was a child,

being pulled into books so deeply that I could barely stand to come up for air at mealtimes. But as a grown-up, that happened less and less. Maybe younger brains are just more given to disappearing into other worlds. So when I found a book that I couldn't put down, well, what a gift. And I made it last as long as I could. So all morning, while I tended to my innkeeping duties, serving breakfast on the porch, helping to make up beds and filling the bird feeders

I'd been thinking about it thinking about finding a shady spot to settle down and read a few more chapters. But the day had been busy. We'd been visited by one of our local farmers, bought produce from the open bed of her truck, and laid out lunch for our guests on the back porch.

Then I'd eaten a plate of sandwiches and cucumber salad down in the cool kitchen while Chef shuffled pots and pans around on the stove. Chef was a firm believer in the importance of finishing most any meal with a small cup of sweet, strong espresso. But by the time I'd pushed my plate back, the mocha pot had gone lukewarm. I'd volunteered to drink it as it was, but Chef took it from the counter,

saying they would make me a fresh pot. I watched them take a large container from the freezer and add the tepid coffee to it. Ooh, I recognized that. Perfect on a hot afternoon. Chef would serve up espresso granita with sweet whipped cream. The top scattered with fresh coffee grounds or dotted with a couple chocolate-covered espresso beans.

They sealed up the container and slid it back into the deep freeze and set about washing out the pot and refilling it for me. While I waited for it to perk, we talked about the menu for dinner. Grilled zucchini, pasta with our own homemade pesto, and watermelon salad. Chef was still talking about which dishes to use and when we'd ring the dinner bell,

but my mind was wandering back to the book. It was one of those books that I'd seen a few times over the years. Maybe it had even been in the window of the bookshop. I'd definitely seen guests read it, hungrily, like I was. But it wasn't one of those titles that's on every bestseller list. Sometimes when too many people tell me to read something, I just can't. It's too much pressure. And by the time I finally get to it,

I have a bunch of expectations, and they interfere with me being able to just enjoy. So when I found this book in a guest's room after their stay, set on the dresser beside a note saying, Couldn't put it down. Please share with anyone in need of a good book. I'd thought, well, I'm in need of that, and slipped it into my pocket. Still, it had sat for weeks in my room

till I'd finished a few other novels I'd been dipping in and out of. It had been waiting for me, so patient and quiet and all the time holding a story that felt like it was written just for me. It made me wonder about the other books in my stack. I might not yet have read my favorite book. I might not read it for another ten years.

And isn't that exciting? Chef set down my cup of espresso in front of me and leaned their elbows on the counter. Drink up and go do whatever it is you're thinking about. I chuckled and did as they said. The coffee was sweet and delicious, and did feel like it put a period at the end of my meal. I was sated and ready for my book. Chef waved me out of the kitchen,

and I ran up the stairs to the landing. I headed down the long hallway thating shone in the afternoon light. In the front office, I checked for messages. Unhappily, there weren't any. No one needed me just now. I took the book from under the counter and tucked it into the crook of my elbow. I thought about where I wanted to read. I stepped to the window and pushed aside the thin curtain.

Bright sunlight was shining down through the leaves. The hammocks were probably full by now, and the lawn chairs by the water didn't have shade. It wasn't that I minded running into guests while I read, but sometimes I liked a bit of privacy, just to not be noticed for a bit. Then I remembered the sleeping porch. It was up on the second floor, a small screened-in veranda with a glider and a few wicker chairs. With all the lovely spots to sit and relax around the inn,

it was often forgotten by our guests, and I had a feeling it would be empty now. I carried my book up the great winding staircase and down the hall to the porch. Just as I'd hoped, it was empty, and I pulled open the door and stepped out. The inn was full of smells when I'd started renovating it, most of them very nice. The scent of old wood, books, and curling wallpaper.

But with all the work we'd done, most rooms had lost those bits of atmosphere, which sometimes made me a little nostalgic. But this porch had barely been touched. We'd replaced the screens where they'd rotted away, and brought down the chairs from the attic, cleaning and polishing and adding new cushions. Once the space was swept out and set up, we'd left it, and it held the scent of nearly a hundred and fifty summers.

The dry wood of the screen frames and the cool stone floors caught the sunlight in the morning, but by design in the afternoons. It sat on the shaded side of the house, and the temperature was perfect. I settled onto the glider and tucked my feet underneath me. I had an hour, at least, maybe more, before anyone was likely to need anything. I opened my book. Sweet dreams.