Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - The Greenhouse

Episode Date: February 12, 2024

Our story tonight is called The Greenhouse, and it’s a story about flowers and vases and the deep green scent of plants in a warm space in the winter. It’s also about a silver wine bucket, music playing while you work, pine needles and mint, and the small and big ways of building the life you want. We give to a different charity each week, and this week, we are giving to ParaCliffHangers, creating opportunities for people with disabilities to overcome mountains.  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 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.

Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Everyone, in which nothing much happens. You feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Catherine Nicolai. I read and write all the stories you'll 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 Paracliff Hangers, creating opportunities for people with disabilities to overcome mountains.

We have a link to them in our show notes. If this podcast works a little too well for you, if you haven't heard more than a few minutes of it, and you sometimes wish you could actually hear the story, well, we made something for that. It's called Stories from the Village of Nothing Much, and it's a daytime version of the show. It's a really enjoyable way to relax, refocus,

and take a short vacation to our village. Bob makes a beautiful soundscape for each episode. Listen on any podcast app. Just search stories from the village of Nothing Much. As always, you can support what we do, as well as get ad-free and bonus episodes of our shows, by subscribing to our premium feed. There is a link in our notes,

or you can just search NMH Premium on your Apple Podcast app. Now, let's train your brain for some good sleep hygiene. All you need to do is listen. Rest your mind on my words and the sound of my voice. I'll tell our story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake later in the night, you can play the story again, or just think through any part of it you can remember. The more you do this, the more reliable the response will become. Our story tonight is called The Greenhouse, and it's a story about flowers and vases

and the deep green scent of plants in a warm space in the winter. It's also about a silver wine bucket, music playing while you work, pine needles and mint, and the small and big ways of building a life that you want. Now, it's time to settle in. Pull your comforter up over your shoulder. Get the right pillow in the right spot and let everything relax. You have done enough for the day. Really, it is enough. Nothing remains but rest, my friend. And I'll be here watching over till you wake. Draw a deep breath in through your nose

and sigh from your mouth. Nice. Again, fill it up. And let it go. Good. The Greenhouse When I was younger, there was a shop I would visit all year round,

though it was most magical in the winter. It sold flowers and houseplants, candles and journals and blocks of French soap tied with ribbons. It was built inside of an old farmhouse, and in each room a fountain burbled, and the air smelled of wood smoke and lavender. Outside of the back door was a pond that filled with tadpoles each spring, and a stony path leading down to their greenhouse. The greenhouse felt like a miracle on cold winter days. You would trek through the snow to the door, and up the legs of cast-iron chairs,

out of broken terracotta pots on shelves that seemed impossible to reach with a watering can. It felt like they hardly even had to try to grow things there. In fact, it seemed they might be working harder to keep the space from being taken over by the creeping vines and shoots. They'd had a dog that often greeted you when you climbed out of your car and walked companionably beside you as you browsed,

eventually finding a sunny patch to lie in. I think he was a setter, with coppery red fur and gentle eyes, and though I often left without buying anything, I felt I was always coming away with more than I'd entered. Eventually, the owner had retired and reclaimed the house for herself. And I wondered if the plants still grew like they had before. It's funny how you don't always see the paths that brought you to where you end up. The connections aren't always clear

while you're hip-deep in them. But now I realize that place planted a seed in me, pun intended. I'd been young then, just starting out in life. I'd been in my first apartment trying to figure out what I wanted my life to look like. And each time I would step into that greenhouse, though I wasn't conscious of it at the time, I realize now I felt like I was coming home.

I'm smiling at that feeling now in my own greenhouse. It's not nearly as big as the one behind that lovely shop, but it is warm and tropical and smells of soil and chlorophyll and jasmine. And I feel so lucky to be the caretaker of all of its plants and flowers. Mine is more of a workshop than a place open to the public, but I think I was

influenced by the charm and whimsy of that special place, because I find that we, me and the flora, are happiest when it is neat and pretty. I have a pegboard strung with a couple dozen colors of ribbon for my bouquets and pretty baskets for my tools and gloves. I play music for us. Again, that's me and the plants. And on sunny days, we listen to happy songs, the kind you sing along to in the shower. When it rains and storms,

we listen to powerful classical music, full of strings and drama. My own dog, a basset hound whose howl sounded so much like arugula that I named him that, scuttled along the stone floor and snored while I worked. I have a long work table that I rescued from an estate sale in a barn a few years ago. Its scrubbed top has seen many repottings and propagations, and today it was lined with faces that I was preparing for Valentine's Day at the inn. For music, I'd turned on a station of crooners and sirens, which seemed to fit the theme, and pulled on a fresh pair of red garden gloves, and began to look through the roses I'd cut. Each room in the inn would have a small vase

of them for the bedside tables, and then I was making a large arrangement for the entryway beside the grand staircase. I was proud of my roses when I walked through their section in the greenhouse and saw how tall they stood on their long stems, the variety of colors and the sweet scent that came from them. I felt like I had really achieved something. Some roses look beautiful, but offer nothing to appreciate when it comes to perfume.

Others have scent, but only a thin ring of fragile petals. These roses would last a while, were truly beautiful to look at, and the inn would smell like romance in every room. I had plenty of deep red roses. They are classic and are always requested. But I also grew pale pink, tangerine orange, a deep purple that was almost black, an elegant antique white, and a sweet periwinkle blue rose.

I decided to cut some of each and tuck one into each of the bedroom bouquets. I wondered what the guests would think about that extra bloom of color. I hoped, if luck was on my side, that, for at least a few of the guests, I'd be adding a favorite or something that might spark a happy memory. I built each bouquet with a non-red rose at its center,

adding in some greenery and ribbons. I had a selection of green plants cut to fold in, some that may surprise you. I like to use sweet anise and silver cardoon leaves, but I also used curly parsley, which held up well and stayed a pretty bright green against the red. I had stems of mint, nothing refreshed love like mint, and soft needle pine branches. All these scents together sang of winter and romance.

For the large table arrangement, I had a beautiful old silver ice bucket, one that had, I imagined, held many celebratory bottles of champagne in its day. I'd started to polish it up and make it like new, but then decided I wanted it to show its years and use. It felt fitting for the old inn. And I started to layer flowers and herbs and greens into it until it was nearly bursting. I wanted each guest to stop when they came into that grand old entryway and literally smell the roses. It called out to your senses to be enjoyed. When I was done, I stooped down to pet Arugula, who was on his bed beneath the work table. I wouldn't mind some company

as I loaded the vases into my truck and delivered them to the inn. Arugula was half asleep, but I leaned in close to his giant floppy ear and whispered, want to go for a ride in the car? His eyes opened and he stared at me, his tail beginning to bang out a rhythm behind him. I heard the innkeeper has a new kitty. Maybe we can meet him. He was up on his short legs in an instant.

I'd wondered, all those years ago, what my life should look like. I smiled as I picked up a box packed with vases, thinking that if this was it, I'd done well. The Greenhouse When I was younger, there was a shop I would visit all year round, though it was most magical in the winter. It sold flowers and houseplants,

candles and journals, and blocks of French soap tied with ribbons. It was built inside of an old farmhouse, and in each room a fountain burbled, and the air smelled of wood smoke and lavender. Outside of the back door was a pond that filled with tadpoles each spring, and a stony path leading to their greenhouse. The greenhouse felt like a miracle on cold winter days. You would trek through the snow to the door, and as soon as you pushed it open, a wave of warm tropical air would wrap around you.

Inside, plants grew everywhere, from the cracks in the field stone up the legs of old cast-iron chairs, out of broken terracotta pots on shelves that seemed impossible to reach with a watering can. I felt like they hardly even had to try to grow things there. In fact, it seemed they might be working harder to keep the space from being taken over by the creeping vines and shoots. They'd had a dog that often greeted you when you climbed out of your car and walked companionably beside you as you browsed, eventually finding a sunny patch to lie down in.

I think he was a setter, with coppery red fur and gentle eyes. And though I often left without buying anything, I felt I was always coming away with more than I'd had when I'd entered. Eventually, the owner had retired and reclaimed the house for herself. I wondered if the plants still grew there like they had before. It's funny how you don't always see the paths that brought you to where you end up. The connections aren't always clear

while you're still hip-deep in them. But now I realize that place planted a seed in me, pun intended. I'd been young then, just starting out in life. I'd been in my first apartment, trying to figure out what I wanted my life to look like. And each time I would step into that greenhouse, though I wasn't conscious of it at the time, I realize now I'd felt like I was coming home. I am smiling at that feeling now in my own greenhouse. It's not nearly as big as the one behind that lovely shop,

but it is warm and tropical and smells of soil and chlorophyll and jasmine. I feel so lucky to be the caretaker of all its plants and flowers. Mine is more of a workshop than a place open to the public. But I think I was influenced by the charm and whimsy of that special place, because I find that we, me and the flora, are happiest when it is neat and pretty. I have a pegboard strung with a couple dozen colors of ribbon for my bouquets and pretty baskets for my tools and gloves.

I play music for us. Again, that's me and the plants. And on sunny days, we listen to happy songs, the kind you sing along to in the shower. When it rains and storms, we listen to powerful classical music full of strings and drama. My own dog, a Basset Hound, whose howl sounds so much like arugula that I named him that, scuttled along the stone floor and snored while I worked.

I have a long work table I rescued from an estate sale in a barn a few years ago. Its scrubbed top has seen many repottings and propagations, and today it was lined with faces that I was preparing for Valentine's Day at the inn. For music, I'd turned on a station of crooners and sirens, which seemed to fit the theme, and pulled on a fresh pair of red garden gloves, began to look through the roses I'd cut. Each room in the inn would have a small vase of them for the bedside tables, and then I was making a large arrangement for the entryway beside the grand staircase.

I was proud of my roses when I walked through their section in the greenhouse and saw how tall they stood on their long stems, the variety of colors, and the sweet scent that came from them, I felt like I had really achieved something. Some roses look beautiful, but offer nothing to appreciate when it comes to perfume. Others have a scent, but only a thin ring of fragile petals. These roses would last a while, were truly beautiful to look at, and the inn would smell like romance in every room. I had plenty of deep red roses.

They are classic and are always requested. But I also grew pale pink, tangerine orange, a deep purple that was almost black, an elegant antique white, and a sweet periwinkle blue rose. I decided to cut some of each and tuck one into each of the bedroom bouquets. I wondered what the guests would think about the extra bloom of color. I hoped, if luck was on my side, that for at least a few of the guests, I'd, adding in some greenery and ribbons. I had a selection of green plants cut to fold in, some that may surprise you. I like to use sweet anise and silver cardoon leaves. But I also used curly parsley, which held up well

and stayed a bright, pretty green against the red. I had stems of mint, nothing refreshed love like mint, and soft needle pine branches. All these scents together sang of winter and romance. For the large table arrangement, I had a beautiful old silver ice bucket, one that had, I imagined, held many celebratory bottles of champagne in its day. I'd started to polish it up and make it like new, but then I decided I wanted it to show its years and use.

It felt fitting for the old inn. And I started to layer flowers and herbs and greens into it until it was nearly bursting. I wanted each guest to stop when they came into that grand old entryway and literally smell the roses that called out to your senses to be enjoyed. When I was done, I stooped down to pet Arugula, who was on his back beneath the work table. I wouldn't mind some company as I loaded the vases into my truck and delivered them to the inn. Arugula was half asleep, but I leaned in close to his giant floppy ear and whispered, Want to go for a ride in the car? His eyes opened, and he stared at me,

his tail beginning to bang out a rhythm behind him. I heard the innkeeper has a new kitty. Maybe we can meet him. He was up on his short legs in an instant. I'd wondered all those years ago what my life should look like. I smiled as I picked up a box packed with vases, thinking that if this was it, I'd done well. Sweet dreams.