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

Episode Date: November 20, 2023

Our story tonight is called Thanksgiving at Weathervane Farm, and it's a story about coming together to celebrate on a cool day out in the country. It’s also about a busy kitchen crowded with friends, donkeys lined up along the split rail fence, music played in the open air, and building a family of our friends, furry and otherwise. Subscribe for ad-free, bonus, and extra-long episodes now!→ nothingmuchhappens.com/premium-subscription We donate to a different charity, and this week, we are giving to Sasha Farm Animal Sanctuary, the Midwest’s largest farm animal sanctuary. 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 Catherine Nicolai. I write and read everything you hear on Nothing Much Happens, with audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. I'd like to thank recent premium subscribers Bo, Caroline, Wolf, and Irene. When you subscribe to our premium or premium plus feed, you not only get ad-free content and dozens of bonus and extra long episodes, you make it possible for us to keep creating. So if you'd like to subscribe, you'll find a link in our show notes.

It also means we can keep the circle of giving going. Each week we donate to a different charity, and this week we are giving to Sasha Farm Animal Sanctuary, the Midwest's largest farm animal sanctuary. You'll find a link to them also in our show notes. If you are new to this, well, first, welcome. I'm so glad you're here. Second, you might wonder how this works. And without getting too deep into the brain states involved, I'll just say that by giving your mind something to focus on, something gentle and soothing, you will shift into a place where sleep is much more accessible. So all you have to do is listen.

And the more you do this, the stronger the brain training will become. So have some patience. And know that for most listeners, after about three weeks of regular use, they fall asleep within two to three minutes of pushing play, so most of them are already snoozing. Now I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake later in the night, rather than laying there wondering how long you'll be like that, just turn the story right back on and you'll drift again almost immediately. Okay, it's time. Turn out the light and get as comfortable as you can.

Let every part of your body relax. There is nothing you need to keep track of now. The day is over and you are right where you're supposed to be. Take a slow, deep breath in through your nose. And sigh through your mouth. Once more, breathe in. Big release. Good.

Our story tonight is called Thanksgiving at Weathervane Farm. And it's a story about coming together to celebrate on a cool day out in the country. It's also about a busy kitchen crowded with friends, donkeys lined up against the split rail fence, music played in the open air, and building a family out of friends, furry and otherwise. Thanksgiving at Weathervane Farm

The weathervane on top of the barn was turning in a slow circle. It creaked just a bit as it spun, and often I couldn't hear it over the other sounds in the yard, the quacking and braying and lowing that were part of everyday life. But when I could hear it, I smiled. I liked the sound of it and wouldn't have oiled it, even if I could have easily gotten up onto the peak. It was like the bang of a screen door, or the groan of a squeaky stair, familiar and friendly sounding. These were the sounds of my home, and the home of lots of animals as well. We were a sanctuary of sorts, for those who needed a safe place to land, and all the animals

that came here would never have to leave again. They could spend their remaining years in leisure and surrounded by friends. I've always been sensitive to animals, worried about the bird with the sore wing, bringing in foundlings since I was little and helping them back to health. And though the farm has an awful lot of work, it gives me much more than it takes. Just knowing that our animals are protected, getting to spend time with them. Building trust and friendships with them.

Well, it's hard to explain if you don't think about animals like I do. But I felt very, very lucky to play the role of caretaker here. Our cow, who had come to us scared and pregnant, now walked straight over to me each morning and trusted me to play with her calf, Winnie the Moo, who was a year old.

We'd installed some brushes in their stalls, and they took turns rubbing against them, getting all the best scratches in the right spots and mooing enthusiastically. The donkeys were almost too affectionate. They were like giant puppies who just wanted attention and squeaky toys and as much barley straw as I could supply. If I laid down in the pasture, the pigs were the first to snuggle up to me, and we could happily

nap all afternoon if the chores were done. The ducks came when I called, and if I had a fresh bowl of ice water and frozen peas for them, there was nearly a stampede of orange feet slapping against the old plank floors of the barn. And I wasn't the only one who loved and was loved by our animals. We had an active group of volunteers who helped us do everything,

from mucking out stalls and administering medicines, to setting up salvaged play equipment for the goats, and rebuilding fences that, okay, again, the goats had knocked down. Caring for the animals had brought us all together, and we found that we now felt a bit like a family. So when I thought about Thanksgiving this year, I thought about how thankful I was to them, and how I wanted to share dinner with my family. We extended invitations, guessing that most people would be otherwise spoken for, and that we might only be setting a table for a few folks. But to our surprise, many yeses came back.

In fact, lots of people asked if they could bring their families with them, their kids, their sweethearts. And we were thrilled. The more, the mooier, we said. Dinner would be served at three, but we'd invited our guests to come a bit early so that they could visit with the animals before we ate. Around one o'clock, cars began arriving, pulling onto the verge along our driveway.

And soon there was a trail of folks carrying casserole dishes and laden crockpots up to the house. Luckily, our old farmhouse had a big kitchen, and we somehow managed to find spots for everything to warm before we ate. It was a lovely feeling, friends coming and going, stopping to share a hug or a bit of news over the oven, the dogs giddy with all the attention, and more calls of hello and happy Thanksgiving each time the front door opened. After the food was seen to, most made a beeline out to the pastures or barn.

Everyone had a favorite animal friend to visit, and I'd set out baskets of carrots and apples and peas and barley grass for them to share. I noticed a girl of about ten or eleven standing at the fence with a row of donkeys jockeying for her attention. They batted their long eyelashes at her and were so gentle as she raised a hand to stroke their heads. I ambled up beside her and told her their names.

This one is Penny, I said, pointing. And that's Turnip and Bumblebee. And this girl is Muriel, I said with a chuckle. We had no plan when it came to naming our animals, and it showed. Muriel, she said, and stretched out a flat palm to her, with barley balanced atop it. She was well-versed in donkey facts, and told me that they'd been domesticated 6,000 years ago and that their large ears helped to keep them cool. I smiled to myself as I listened to her.

I had been like that when I was her age. Finding a topic that interested me and then learning as much as I could about it. I hoped she would keep learning, and one day perhaps become a large animal veterinarian, or work in wildlife conservation, or even be a farrier. Just then I felt a tap on my shoulder and heard a whisper in my ear saying, We're ready. I'd arranged for a little surprise before we shared dinner today. I'd been to a wedding in September

that had had an excellent four-piece jazz band. They'd played up in the ballroom at the inn, and dancing to their music had given me an idea. So I'd booked them for today. Early enough that if they wanted to get to their own Thanksgivings afterward, they could. But we'd also have places at our table for them. They would play not so much for our guests, but for our goats, and cows, and donkeys, and all of the animals who we cared for. They set up their drum kit, an upright bass, electric piano, and trumpet beside the pasture. And as the guests looked on, they began to play.

Right away, the cows, who'd been chewing grass and carelessly flicking their tails, turned and began nearly galloping over to the fence line. The goats in their playpen echoed the trumpet, bleeding along, and the donkeys put their ears back and brayed. As I watched, the animals, the musicians, and our guests were all delighting in each other's actions and reactions. I felt my heart fill to the brim.

Here was something I was endlessly thankful for, getting to be a part of this. I thought of a quote by Rabindranath Tagore that summed up what I felt. He said, I slept and dreamt that life was joy. I awoke and saw that life was service. I acted and beheld. Service was joy. Thanksgiving at Weathervane Farm The weathervane on top of the barn was turning in a slow circle.

It creaked just a bit as it spun, and often I couldn't hear it over the other sounds in the yard, the quacking and braying and lowing that were part of everyday life. But when I could hear it, I smiled. I liked the sound of it and wouldn't have oiled it, even if I could have easily gotten up onto the peak. It was like the bang of a screen door, or the groan of a squeaky stare, familiar and friendly sounding. These were the sounds of my home and the home of lots of animals as well. We were a sanctuary of sorts

for those who needed a safe place to land. And all the animals that came here would never have to leave again. They'd spend their remaining years in leisure and surrounded by friends. I've always been sensitive to animals, worried about the bird with the sore wing, bringing in foundlings since I was little and helping them back to health. And though the farm is an awful lot of work,

it gives me much more than it takes. Just knowing that our animals are protected, getting to spend time with them, building trust and friendships with them. Well, it's hard to explain if you don't think about animals like I do. But I felt very, very lucky to play the role of caretaker here. Our cow,

who had come to us scared and pregnant, now walked straight over to me each morning and trusted me to play with her calf, Winnie the Moo, who was now a year old.

We'd installed some brushes in their stall, and they took turns rubbing against them, getting all the best scratches in the right spots, and mooing enthusiastically. The donkeys were almost too affectionate. They were like giant puppies who just wanted attention and squeaky toys and as much barley straw as I could supply.

If I laid down in the pasture, the pigs were the first to snuggle up to me, and we could happily nap all afternoon if the chores were done. The ducks came when I called, and if I had a fresh bowl of ice water and frozen peas for them, there was nearly a stampede of orange feet slapping against the old plank floors of the barn. And I wasn't the only one who loved and was loved by our animals. We had an active group of volunteers who helped us do everything.

From mucking out stalls and administering medicines, to setting up salvaged play equipment for the goats, or rebuilding fences that, okay, again the goats had knocked down. Caring for the animals had brought us all together, and we found that we now felt a bit like a family. So when I thought about Thanksgiving this year I thought about how thankful I was to them and how I wanted to share dinner with my family

we extended invitations guessing that most people would be otherwise spoken for, and that we might only be setting a table for a few folks. But to our surprise, many yeses came back. In fact, lots of people asked if they could bring their families with them, their kids, their sweethearts, and we were thrilled. The more, the mooier, we said. dinner would be served at three, but we'd invited our guests to come a bit early so they could visit with the animals before we ate. Around one o'clock, cars began arriving, pulling onto the verge along our long driveway.

And soon, there was a trail of folks carrying casserole dishes and laden crockpots up to the house. Luckily, our old farmhouse had a big kitchen, and we somehow managed to find spots for everything to warm before we ate. It was a lovely feeling, friends coming and going, stopping to share a hug or a bit of news over the oven, the dogs giddy with all the attention, and more calls of hello and happy Thanksgiving each time the front door opened. After the food was seen to, most made a beeline out to the pastures or the barn.

Everyone had a favorite animal friend to visit, and I'd set out baskets of carrots and apples and peas and barley grass for them to share. I noticed a girl of about ten or eleven standing at the fence with a row of donkeys jockeying for her attention. They batted their long eyelashes at her and were so gentle as she raised a hand to stroke their heads. I ambled up beside her and told her their names. This one is Penny, I said pointing.

And that's Turnip, and Bumblebee, and this girl is Muriel, I said with a chuckle. We had no plan when it came to naming our animals, and it showed. Muriel, she said, and stretched out a flat palm to her, with barley balanced atop it. She was well-versed in donkey facts and told me that they'd been domesticated 6,000 years ago

and that their large ears helped to keep them cool. I smiled to myself as I listened to her. I had been like that when I was her age, finding a topic that interested me and then learning as much as I could about it. I hoped she would keep learning and one day perhaps become a large animal veterinarian or work in wildlife conservation or even be a farrier. Just then, I felt a tap on my shoulder and heard a whisper in my ear saying,

We're ready. I'd arranged for a little surprise before we shared dinner today. I'd been to a wedding in September that had had an excellent four-piece jazz band. They'd played up in the ballroom at the inn, and dancing to their music had given me an idea. So I booked them for today, early enough that if they wanted to get to their own Thanksgivings afterward, they could. But we'd also have places

at our table for them they would play not so much for our guests but for our goats and cows and donkeys and all of the animals who we cared for they'd set up their drum kit, an upright bass,

electric piano, and trumpet beside the pasture. And as the guests looked on, they began to play. Right away, the cows who'd been chewing grass and carelessly flicking their tails turned and began nearly galloping over to the fence line. The goats in their playpen echoed the trumpet,

bleeding along, and the donkeys put their ears back and brayed. As I watched the animals, the musicians, and our guests, all delighting in each other's actions and reactions, I felt my heart fill to the brim.

Here was something I was endlessly thankful for, getting to be a part of this. I thought of a quote by Rabindranath Tagore that summed up what I felt. He said, I slept and dreamt that life was joy. I awoke and saw that life was service. I acted and beheld. Service was joy. Sweet dreams.