Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - The Back Stairs
Episode Date: April 22, 2024Our story tonight is called The Back Stairs, and it’s a story about a bit of spring cleaning at the Inn by the lake. It’s also about the special features and details in old houses, clever engineer...ing, the honesty of patina and a space where imperfection is welcome. We give to a different charity each week, and this week, we are giving to World Central Kitchen provides meals in response to humanitarian, climate, and community crises. It builds resilient food systems with locally-led solutions. Subscribe for ad-free, bonus, and extra-long episodes now, as well as ad-free and early episodes of Stories from the Village of Nothing Much! Search for NMH Premium channel on Apple Podcasts, or follow the link below https://www.nothingmuchhappens.com/premium-subscription. Listen to our new show, Stories from the Village of Nothing Much, on your favorite podcast app.Purchase Our Book: https://bit.ly/Nothing-Much-HappensSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.
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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.
Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim.
We give to a different charity each week.
And this week we are giving to World Central Kitchen,
providing meals in response to humanitarian, climate, and community crises.
Learn more about them in our show notes.
Our goal is to be here for you throughout the day, throughout your life. When you need a soft landing into dreams.
A way to get centered and practice useful techniques for equanimity.
And when you need a trip to the village.
Where kindness is commonplace.
And small pleasures are enjoyed.
So we have three shows for that,
just three for now.
Who knows what we'll dream up next?
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or the links in our show notes.
Now,
the stories work
by occupying just enough of your mind
to keep it from wandering.
If we can find a point of soft focus, we have a clear path to sleep.
All you need to do is listen.
Just follow along with the sound of my voice. I'll tell the story twice,
and I'll go a little slower
the second time through.
If you wake again in the night,
turn it back on.
You'll drop right back off again,
usually within seconds.
And if you're new to this,
know that this training will improve with use,
so be patient.
Give it time to work.
Our story tonight is called The Backstairs,
and it's a story about a bit of spring cleaning
at the inn by the lake.
It's also about the special features
and details of old houses.
Clever engineering.
The honesty of patina.
And a space where imperfection is welcome.
Now, lights out campers.
Snuggle down and get as comfortable as you can.
The day is done.
Whatever it was is what it was.
And now we are here.
I'll take the next watch
so you can let everything
relax.
Draw a full, deep breath in through your nose
and sigh from your mouth.
Again, breathe in.
Let it out.
Good.
The back stairs.
These old houses, especially the big ones,
they have a lot of forgotten features that newer houses just don't come
with anymore. Some are easy to see, like the back stairs, a less pretty but more functional set than the grand front staircase in the entryway,
or the transom windows that have let light into the inner rooms
since before the place was wired for electricity.
But some are less obvious,
like the dumbwaiter that might be mistaken for a cupboard in the hall
till you open its doors to find a tray of food sent up from the kitchen.
And some are actually hidden in the walls,
as the call-bell system was,
which we'd only uncovered while mending some plumbing.
We freed the chimes and replaced the wires, and now I can step on a button beside my desk
to signal Chef down in the kitchen that guests are arriving or that the produce delivery truck
is trundling down the drive.
If I was just a householder
living here,
I don't imagine
I'd have too much call to ring the bells
or to load the breakfast dishes into the dumbwaiter.
But I am not just a householder.
I am lucky.
I am an innkeeper.
I look after my guests, and I look after this great old house.
It wouldn't suit everyone, but it suits me perfectly.
I look forward to the busy summer days when every room is filled,
and I rise early to pour coffee for diners on the porch, in between handing
out beach towels and welcoming new guests at the reception desk.
In the off-season, when the inn is closed or has just a couple of rooms booked, I enjoy
the quiet and rest.
I read books.
I sit with my cat, Sycamore,
and watch the ducks swimming on the lake.
Besides the weekend of Valentine's,
when we'd opened for a few days. When the whole second floor
and most of the third had been full, we were still in rest and relaxation mode. But all
of that was about to change. In a week, our regular season would begin. I was glad we weren't booked solid
right at the start. May was an excellent month to come to the inn, but for many,
kids were still in school. The weather wasn't quite warm enough to swim and boat,
and it just didn't feel like summer vacation yet.
It was a chance for us to ease ourselves into our routines,
for Chef to test out new recipes,
for the vegetable garden to begin to grow,
and for Sycamore to learn more about being a good host.
He'd come to me in the late autumn of last year,
so this would be his first summer as an innkeeper
an inn-catter, as it were.
There was a chore I needed to take care of
before our guests arrived.
It had to do with some of those details of old houses
I'd mentioned earlier,
both the obvious and less obvious sort, in the same location.
When guests came down the long gravel drive to the inn,
they entered the big front doors and stepped into our entryway, a pretty paneled
space with a dramatic sweeping staircase that carried them and their luggage up to our guest
rooms. But when they came back down,
especially when they came down for breakfast or to head out to the lake,
they came down the back stairs,
which were less ornate,
though still well-crafted,
and which brought them to the back of the inn,
where we served coffee and meals on a screened-in porch overlooking the water.
When the house was built,
20 years before the start of the 20th century,
these stairs were most likely not used by the wealthy family
that lived here. Maids, cooks, I imagine even a butler would have used them to carry tea trays and deliver messages, and probably to hide out and have
a few moments to themselves.
As someone who serves in this house, I care about these stairs and the people who had
climbed them back then, as well as the ones who had climbed them back then,
as well as the ones who did today.
So every spring, I spent an afternoon sweeping and dusting,
polishing up the wood till it shone,
and relaying the runner on carpet rails.
Sycamore was helping, in a sense.
He was keeping me company.
He had one of his tiny stuffed mice in his mouth,
and every once in a while he'd set it down in front of me,
sit back on his rear legs and shadowbox with it.
He'd swing his paws in a mock fight
until I caught on
and I'd flick the mouse down the stairs.
It tumbled to the next landing
and he'd chase after it.
A midnight black streak with green eyes.
Once he caught it, he'd chew on it,
bat it around, maybe even lay he'd chew on it, bat it around,
maybe even lay his head down on it and doze
till I made my way with my polishing rag and broom
down to where he was, and we'd go again. In the corner of each step
was the other old house feature,
the less obvious one.
It was a small brass triangle
that fitted right into the space
where the bottom of the riser met the wall.
It was called a dust corner, and like you might have guessed, it kept dust out of the corner
of the stair. If you've ever tried to work a broom into that space,
you know how tricky it is to clean out.
Well, the housekeepers of the past
must have pointed that out to a clever inventor at some point.
Because if you look closely, a lot of old houses have these.
Since they were brass, they could be polished up to look absolutely brand new.
And when we renovated the inn many years ago, that's what I did.
I'd replaced the missing ones and polished the old ones till they were indistinguishable.
And they had been very pretty.
But there was something about them that just didn't feel like they fit
with the back stairs.
A bit of patina.
A less perfect shine seemed fitting for these stairs,
where things were allowed to not be perfect.
So I dusted and swept and warmed the wood railings with oil, but left the honest age as I went.
As I made my way to the bottom of the stairs, the end of my chore in sight, I heard Chef out on the porch.
I stuck my head through the doorway and saw them setting down a platter of sandwiches on a table,
along with some glasses and napkins.
Go wash your hands and come eat, they called,
and I gratefully pushed into the butler's pantry
and turned on the sink.
I heard the tinkle of Sycamore's bell
as he went out to see what else Chef had made.
I pulled up my chair and looked out at the sun
shimmering on the lake.
I was so grateful for this old house and the ones who came to share it with me.
The back stairs.
These old houses,
especially the big ones,
they have a lot of forgotten features
that newer houses just don't come with anymore.
Some are easy to see,
like the back stairs, a less pretty but more functional set than the grand front staircase in the entryway, or the transom windows that have let light into the inner rooms since before the place was wired for electricity.
But some are less obvious. like the dumbwaiter that might be mistaken for a cupboard in the hall
till you open its doors to find a tray of food sent up from the kitchens.
And some are actually hidden in the walls,
as the call bell system was, and some are actually hidden in the walls,
as the call bell system was,
which we only uncovered while mending some plumbing.
We freed the chimes and replaced the wires,
and now I can step on a button beside my desk to signal Chef down in the kitchen
that guests are arriving
or that the produce delivery truck
is trundling down the drive.
If I was just a householder living here, I don't imagine I'd have too
much call to ring the bells or to load breakfast dishes into the dumbwaiter.
But I am not just a householder.
I am lucky.
I am an innkeeper.
I look after my guests,
and I look after this great old house. It wouldn't suit everyone, but it suits me perfectly. I look forward to the busy summer days when every room is filled, and I rise early to pour coffee for diners on
the porch, in between handing out beach towels and welcoming new guests at the reception
desk.
In the off-season, when the inn is closed or has just a couple of rooms booked,
I enjoy the quiet and rest.
I read books.
I sit with my cat Sycamore and watch the ducks swimming on the lake. Besides the weekend of Valentine's,
when we'd opened for a few days, and when the whole second floor and most of the third we were still in rest and relaxation mode
but all of that was about to change
in a week our regular season would begin
I was glad we weren't booked solid right at the start.
May was an excellent month to come to the inn,
but for many, kids were still in school.
The weather wasn't quite warm enough
to swim and boat
and it just didn't feel like summer vacation yet
it was a chance for us to ease ourselves
into our routines
for Chef to test out new recipes,
for the vegetable garden to begin to grow,
and for Sycamore to learn more
about being a good host.
He'd come to me in the late autumn of last year, so this would be his first summer
as an innkeeper, an incatter, as it were. And there was a chore I needed to take care of
before our guests arrived.
It had to do with some of those details of old houses
I'd mentioned earlier,
both the obvious and less obvious sort, though in the same location.
When guests came down the long gravel drive to the inn, they entered the big front doors
and stepped into our entryway.
A pretty paneled space with a dramatic sweeping staircase
that carried them and their luggage up to our guest rooms.
But when they came back down,
especially when they came down for breakfast,
or to head out to the lake,
they came down the back stairs,
which were less ornate, though still well-crafted, and which brought them to the back of the inn, where we served coffee and meals on a screened-in porch overlooking
the water. When the house was built,
20 years before the start of the 20th century,
these stairs were most likely not used by the wealthy family that lived here.
Maids, cooks,
I imagine even a butler
would have used them to carry tea trays
and deliver messages.
And probably to hide out
and have a few moments to themselves.
As someone who serves in this house,
I care about these stairs and the people who climbed them back then,
as well as the ones who did today.
So every spring, I spent an afternoon sweeping and dusting, polishing up the wood till it shone, and relaying the runner and carpet rails.
Sycamore was helping, in a sense.
He was keeping me company.
He had one of his tiny stuffed mice in his mouth,
and every once in a while, he'd set it down in front of me, sit back on his rear legs and shadow box with it.
He'd swing his paws in a mock fight until I caught on and I'd flick the mouse down the stairs.
It tumbled to the next landing
and he'd chase after it,
a midnight black streak
with green eyes.
Once he caught it,
he'd chew on it,
bat it around,
maybe even lay his head down on it
and doze
till I made my way
with my polishing rag and broom
down to where he was,
and we'd go again.
In the corner of each step
was the other old house feature,
the less obvious one.
It was a small brass triangle
that fitted right into the space
where the bottom of the riser met the wall.
It was called a dust corner,
and like you might have guessed, it kept dust out of the corner of the stair.
If you've ever tried to work a broom into that space, you know how tricky it is to clean out.
Well, the housekeepers of the past must have pointed that out to a clever inventor at some point.
Because if you look closely,
a lot of old houses have these.
Since they were brass,
they could be polished up to look absolutely brand new.
And when we renovated the inn many years ago, that's what I did. I'd replaced the missing ones and polished the old ones
till they were indistinguishable
and they had been very pretty
but there was something about them
that just didn't feel like they fit
with the back stairs.
A bit of patina.
A less perfect shine seemed fitting for these stairs,
where things were allowed to not be perfect.
So I dusted and swept and warmed the wood railings with oil,
but left the honest age as I went.
As I made my way to the bottom of the stairs,
the end of my chore in sight,
I heard Chef out on the porch.
I stuck my head through the doorway
and saw them setting down a platter of sandwiches on a table, along with some
glasses and napkins.
Go wash your hands and come eat, they called.
And I gratefully pushed into the butler's pantry
and turned on the sink.
I heard the tinkle of Sycamore's bell
as he went out to see what else Chef had made.
I pulled up my chair and looked out at the sun shimmering on the lake. I was
so glad for this old house and the ones who came to share it with me.
Sweet dreams.