Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Sycamore & the Gravestones, Part 3

Episode Date: October 30, 2023

Our story tonight is called Sycamore and The Gravestones, Part 3, and is the finale of this year's Halloween special. It’s a story about a good deed undertaken in a forgotten corner of the village. It’s also about train tracks and moss, mending something that was long broken, and being seen for who you are. We give to a different charity each week, and this week we are giving to a charity founded in my own neighborhood. It’s called Natalie Jane’s Book Club, and it supports initiatives that bridge the access gap in kindergarten readiness. https://www.pagesbkshop.com/wishlist/351 For ad-free and bonus episodes, we’d love for you to become a subscriber to our Premium feeds. Learn more at 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 Katherine Nicolai. I create everything 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 a charity founded in my own neighborhood. It's called Natalie Jane's Book Club,

and it supports initiatives that bridge the access gap in kindergarten readiness. We have a link to them in our show notes. For ad-free and bonus episodes, we'd love for you to become a subscriber to our premium feeds. Learn more at nothingmuchappens.com. Now, since every episode is someone's first, let me say a little about how this works. I have a story to tell you. It's a place to rest your mind. It's full of sensory details that help you sink into the story. And as you do, the steady sound of my voice

will lull your thinking mind and everything else to sleep. Really, it is that simple. It's brain training, and falling asleep or returning to sleep will get smoother, faster, more reliable each time you listen. So be patient if you are new to this. I'll read the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. Let's get comfortable. Set yourself up for an excellent night's sleep. Lights off, devices down. Get the right pillow in the right spot and feel your whole body relax into your bed. Maybe this is a moment you've been waiting for

since you woke up this morning. Well, now we're here. Take a slow, deep breath in through your nose and sigh through the mouth. Again, fill it up. Out with sound. Good.

Our story tonight is called Sycamore and the Gravestones, Part 3, and is the finale of this year's Halloween special. It's a story about a good deed undertaken in a forgotten corner of the village. it's also about train tracks and moss mending something that was long broken and being seen for who you are. Sycamore and the Gravestones Part 3 I spotted the pretty cast-iron gates and turned down the drive. The cemetery was not quite on the outskirts of town, but I guessed would have been when it was built. Now it sat between busy neighborhoods and was probably often overlooked,

unless one had a visit to make. I was making a visit today, though I didn't yet know to whom, which was precisely why I was here. My small coven of friendly neighborhood witches was here today to clean a few headstones, to scrape away lichen and scrub and wash till the and dates, which were nearly illegible, became clear and bright again. We didn't know who the gravestones belonged to yet, but we would before we left.

I parked my car with the others and my small gray cat, Cinder, who accompanied me on nearly all of my adventures, followed me out onto the path. This was pure October, a peak day in the autumn experience, and I adored it. The air was so crisp, I thought it might crackle around us. The smell of dry leaves and wet earth and many, many trees was thick. And I breathed in deeply several times,

imagining it as a vital nutrient that I could absorb through my lungs, which, of course, was exactly what it was. The sky was full of gray clouds, and while my intuition told me we wouldn't have rain until after midnight, I'd certainly looked gloomy enough for a storm. I found the others in the oldest corner of the cemetery, with a collection of cleaning potions and scrapers and scrub brushes. We were modern witches, so while we knew we could spell away some of the overgrowth. We agreed it would likely be faster and more foolproof to break out the rubber gloves and apply some elbow grease. I'd lugged my own bag of supplies out,

and as we set about getting organized, Cinder wandered through the graves and made some clicking noises at the ravens in the trees above us. We started with a stone that was laid flat into the earth, a grass marker, they are called, whose borders had been completely lost by overgrown grass. We clipped it away and edged it clean, laying a charm on the stone that would deter new growth for a while. Under a coat of dirt, we found the name Clarence

and dates that told us he'd lived to be 57 I set my palm flat on the stone and smiled feeling suddenly that he had been a kind man he even made me laugh as I watched some pale images flash across my mind.

My fellow witches watched me with curiosity, and I pointed to his brief epitaph, where it now clearly said, Husband, husband, friend, and said that they could have added in goofball, as he was the type to find humor and silliness in most any circumstance. He had been the uncle you sought out at the family party

who made the day a delight the friend you called upon to celebrate good news he'd always had a joke in his back pocket and when he had been thought of by those who knew him he was remembered for the laughter they'd shared. Now, when a passerby saw his stone, he might be remembered again, or at least known by his name.

And I had a feeling that those who were sensitive to such things might smile when they read it, just feeling the leftover effervescence of who he had been while he lived. The next headstone was a tall, upright piece of marble with elaborate carvings that must have been costly. Part of the stone had broken off and lay in the grass beside the base, and it must have fallen long ago, as it took us a few minutes to dig it out. We scrubbed away at the two parts with our brushes, rinsing them frequently, and watching as the layers came away. The coats themselves told the story of changing times.

The top ones were mostly organic. Moss, lichen, simple dirt and dust. As we worked our way down, we found the stone pitted by smoke. And I thought of the train tracks that ran through the field at the bottom edge of the graveyard, and the old trains that would have rained down soot and cinders from their smokestacks

as they chugged by. Once the stones were cleaned, we joined the broken piece back to the hole. We hadn't thought about the possibility of doing these kinds of repairs and had no tools for it. but luckily one of our number often worked with natural materials and had a try at seaming them back together. She was a potter and threw the most beautiful mugs and vases on her wheel at home. Whenever I drank from the cup she'd given me, I found the tea would warm me instantly from head to toe, that my senses sharpened,

I would taste the herbs and see the day clearly. Flowers in her vases lasted for weeks and weeks, and their perfume scented the whole house. She held the pieces together, and we stepped back to give her some room. She was patient. She seemed to just be speaking quietly to the stones reminding them that they used to be one she blew on the spot where they met and a cloud of dust swirled around it

when it cleared the seam was invisible and the headstone restored. She stepped back with a sigh, put her hands on her hips, and smiled at the result. Now, nobody push on it, okay? She choked. I've never done that before. We promised we wouldn't and came closer to read the name on the stone. Her name was Rosa, and she'd been gone for a long, long time. Cinder came to join us, and she sat at my feet, as if reading the stone herself. Now that the grime was gone, we could see that the carvings weren't just random decorations.

They were roses, and I traced my finger over one. I felt a strong maternal love moving through me and was gifted with a glimpse into her life. Oh, she was so loved, I said, feeling that I would have loved her too if I had gotten the chance to know her. She kept a rose garden, and she wrote poems, and I paused as I waited to understand more.

Oh, she was like us. We smiled at each other. She didn't have others to share it with, though. She didn't have a coven. The stone healer squatted down next to Cinder and laid a hand on the earth, what she does now. We'd brought some flowers, the last of the autumn blooms, and laid them on the graves we'd restored. We would be back.

There was much more work to do here and whenever we came we would stop and visit keep these spaces clean and respected and remembered Sycamore and the Gravestones

Part 3 I spotted the pretty cast-iron gates and turned down the drive. The cemetery was not quite on the outskirts of town, but I guessed would have been when it was built. Now, it sat between busy neighborhoods and was probably often overlooked, unless one had a visit to make.

I was making a visit today, though I didn't yet know to whom, which was precisely why I was here. My small coven of friendly neighborhood witches was here today to clean a few headstones, to scrape away lichen and scrub and wash, till the names and dates, which were nearly illegible, became clear and bright again.

We didn't know who the gravestones belonged to yet, but we would before we left. I parked my car with the others and my small gray cat, Cinder, who accompanied me on nearly all of my adventures, followed me out onto the path. This was pure October, a peak day in the autumn experience,

and I adored it. The air was so crisp, I thought it might crackle around us. The smell of dry leaves and wet earth and many, many trees was thick. And I breathed in deeply several times, imagining it as a vital nutrient that I could absorb through my lungs,

which, of course, was exactly what it was. The sky was full of gray clouds, and while my intuition told me we wouldn't have rain until after midnight, it certainly looked gloomy enough for a storm. I found the others in the oldest corner of the cemetery, with a collection of cleaning potions and scrapers and scrub brushes. We were modern witches, so while we knew we could spell away some of the overgrowth. We agreed it would likely be faster and more foolproof to break out the rubber gloves

and apply some elbow grease. I'd lugged my own bag of supplies out, and as we set about getting organized, Cinder wandered through the graves and made some clicking noises at the ravens in the trees above us. We started with a stone that was laid flat into the earth.

A grass marker, they were called, whose borders had been completely lost by overgrown grass. We clipped it away and edged it clean, laying a charm on the stone that would deter new growth for a while. Under a coat of dirt, we found the name Clarence and dates that told us

he'd lived to be 57. I set my palm flat on the stone and smiled, feeling suddenly that he had been a kind man. He even made me laugh as I watched some pale images flash across my mind. My fellow witches watched me with curiosity,

and I pointed to his brief epitaph where it now clearly said, husband, friend. And said that they could have added in goofball, as he was the type to find humor and silliness in most any circumstance. He had been the uncle you sought out at the family party, who made the day a delight. The friend you called upon to celebrate good news.

He'd always had a joke in his back pocket. And when he had been thought of by those who knew him, he was remembered for the laughter they'd shared. Now, when a passerby saw his stone, he might be remembered again, or at least known by his name. And I had a feeling that those who were sensitive to such things

might smile when they read it, just feeling the leftover effervescence might smile when they read it, just feeling the leftover effervescence of who he had been while he lived. The next headstone was a tall, upright piece of marble with elaborate carvings that must have been costly. Part of the stone was broken off and lay in the grass beside the base,

and it must have fallen long ago as it took us a few minutes to dig it out. We scrubbed away at the two parts with our brushes, rinsing them frequently, and watching as the layers came away. The coats themselves told the story of changing times. The top ones were mostly organic. Moss, lichen, simple dirt and dust. As we worked our way down, we found the stone pitted by smoke.

And I thought of the train tracks that ran through the field at the bottom edge of the train tracks that ran through the field at the bottom edge of the graveyard, and the old trains that would have rained down soot and cinders from their smokestacks as they chugged by. Once the stones were clean, we joined the broken piece back to the hole. We hadn't thought about the possibility

of doing these kinds of repairs and had no tools for it. But luckily, one of our number often worked with natural materials and had a try at seaming them back together. She was a potter and threw the most beautiful mugs and vases on her wheel at home.

Whenever I drank from the cup she'd given me, I found the tea would warm me instantly from head to toe, and that my senses sharpened. I would taste the herbs and see the day more clearly. Flowers in her vases lasted for weeks and weeks, and their perfume scented the whole house. She held the pieces together, and we stepped back to give her some room. She was patient.

She seemed just to be speaking quietly to the stones, reminding them that they used to be one. She blew on the spot where they met, and a cloud of dust swirled around it. When it cleared, the seam was invisible, and the headstone restored. she stepped back with a sigh put her hands on her hips smiling at the result now nobody push on it okay

she joked I've never done that before we promised we wouldn't and came closer to read the name on the stone. Her name was Rosa, and she'd been gone for a long, long time. Cinder came to join us, and she sat at my feet, as if reading the stone herself. Now that the grime was gone, we could see that the carvings weren't just random decorations. They were roses, and I traced my finger over one. I felt a strong maternal love moving through me,

and was gifted a glimpse into her life. Oh, she was so loved, I said, feeling that I would have loved her too if I had gotten the chance to know her. She kept a rose garden, and she wrote poems, and I paused as I waited to understand more. Oh, she, she was like us. We smiled at each other.

She didn't have others to share it with, though. She didn't have a coven. The stone healer squatted down beside Cinder and laid a hand on the earth. She does now. We'd brought some flowers, the last of the autumn blooms, and laid them on the graves we'd restored. We would be back.

There was more work to do here. And whenever we came, we would stop and visit. Keep these spaces clean and respected and remembered. Sweet dreams.