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

Episode Date: June 15, 2020

Our story tonight is called The Inn Keeper and it’s a story about a morning in early summer on the lake. It’s also about taking the time to do something well, a porch swing that faces the water and a slice of coffee cake on thin china plate. Buy the book Get beautiful NMH merch Get autographed copies Get our ad-free and bonus episodesPurchase 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 read and write all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. Read and write all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. You can follow us on Instagram and Facebook and Twitter for a bit of extra coziness. A beautiful book of our bedtime stories is coming out all over the world in a few months. It will have many of your

favorite stories, along with 16 new stories that will only ever appear in the book. It also has really charming illustrations, recipes, meditations, and lots more. To learn more, or to pre-order your copy, go to nothingmuchappens.com. Sometimes, even when you are very tired and ready for sleep, it doesn't come. You know this, I'm sure. But the reason it doesn't come is usually because your mind is too busy, overstimulated, planning, or just generally swinging like a monkey from branch to branch.

The story I'm about to tell you is a place to rest your mind, a way to put it into a sort of holding pattern. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. As you listen, imagine yourself in the story. Occupy your mind with the details, and before you know it, you'll be out like a light.

If you wake in the middle of the night, think back through whatever you can remember, and that monkey will again cease to swing and return to sleep. This is habit building, and it takes a little practice, so be patient if you are new to this. It's time to turn off the light.

Set aside anything you've been looking at or playing with. If you tend to clench your jaw when you sleep, place the tip of your tongue at the spot where your top teeth meet the gums on the inside. This will help you to keep your jaw relaxed. Now let's take a slow breath in through the nose and out through the mouth. Again, breathe in. Let it go.

Good. Our story tonight is called The Innkeeper. And it's a story about a morning in early summer on the lake. It's also about taking the time to do something well. A porch swing that faces the water, and a slice of coffee cake on an old china plate. The Innkeeper In the mornings, on the water, the seagulls play a game of round robin on the mossy tops of dock posts and pilings.

There are more gulls than places to land, so they circle in the air, cawing and crooning those quick repeating songs. And they suddenly drop down to push a flockmate off their perch and into their own circling flight. I sat and watched them from the edge of the water. It was my spot in the morning. A wrought iron bench with a worn wooden seat that each spring was scrubbed down and repainted a dark, grassy green. It caught morning sun, and except for the call of the birds and a few frogs still croaking from the night before, it was very quiet and still.

At the edge of the water, in the shallow spots where the land curved into little protected pools, a chain reaction of jumping, excited minnows rippled across the surface. Far out into the lake, past the edge of the farthest dock, a bevy of swans,

and beyond them a plump of geese were pushing through the water. The geese had a zigzagged line of goslings between them. I watched the way the parents steered, their long black necks bobbing back and forth, indicating which way to paddle. I took the last swallow of my coffee from my cup and stood up, making my way up the gravel path, past the stone patio with its loungers and umbrellas, past the small shed that held the croquet

sets and the dusty tennis rackets, and the hammocks that we strung from the trees in the afternoon shade and up the steps to the back porch of the inn. It ran the full width of the house with a low, broad railing that let the breeze in. We had a few tables laid out ready for breakfast service, with cups turned upside down in their saucers, and silverware on napkins, and the salt shakers showing a few grains of rice mixed with the crystals to keep the humid air from sticking them up. I straightened a few of the chairs as I walked down the length of the porch

and smoothed the tablecloths where they were creased. Our place was small. Our hospitality could only accommodate a dozen or so folks at a time. But it mattered to me that for those few, the inn felt comfortable and well taken care of, so that, at least while they were here, they could feel the same way. The porch swing in the corner was draped with a discarded blanket from one of last night's stargazers.

I folded it and relayed it across the seat for the next person in need of a place to rest. I stepped inside, leaving the bright sunshine of the porch for the cool corridors of the old house. The house, built right at the beginning of the last century, had high ceilings and tall, triple-hung windows looking out at the water, with a broad lawn on either side. There was a study whose walls were lined with books, where guests could sit on rainy days and sip hot drinks and play cribbage or backgammon at the games table, or take naps in the deep armchairs. Upstairs, off a long branching hallway that smelled of wood polish and clean linen were our guest rooms, of which only two or three were occupied right now.

The season was just picking up, and by the end of the week we'd be full up, and the place would be busy all day with vacationers reading paperback mysteries on our lounge chairs and pushing the old rowboats out into the water, signing their names into the big book at the front desk and turning over the cups at the breakfast tables, ready for them to be filled with their morning coffee.

I continued with my morning rounds, working my way through the rooms, tidying and checking things as I went. I opened the windows in the reception room and pulled a wilting dahlia from the arrangement on the desk. I turned the page in the guest ledger and wrote the date across the top. I spun it on its lazy Susan toward the front door,

laying an ink pen in the inner seam, ready for our new arrivals. I went through to the kitchen and checked on how breakfast was coming. We were known for a few things, and our coffee cake was one of them. Our cook was turning one out from its bunt pan as I came in, and they kindly cut me a slice, tipping it onto a thin china plate that had been part of this house longer than I'd been alive. Quality control, they said,

as they slid a fork and napkin across the counter to me. Our coffee cake has a crunchy seam of cinnamon and brown sugar running through the vanilla cake. It's sweet, but just barely. And we serve it with a pile of fresh berries or melon slices. And for most guests, two slices are required before setting out for a mid-morning walk. I pulled up a stool to the counter as I ate, and we talked through the shopping lists for the day. We weren't a restaurant and didn't serve three-course

meals. Most guests would walk into town to eat their dinner. But we liked to serve up an afternoon tea with sandwiches or vegetable salads or a slice of pie. So Cook made me a list, and I thanked them for the bit of breakfast and went out to the garden in the front yard. The air was warmer already. We'd need beach blankets and inner tubes today.

I added them to my list as I took a pair of snips from my back pocket to cut a few delphinium for the breakfast tables. As I carried them back in, I heard the first sleepy voices in the hall overhead and slow steps making their way down the carpeted stairs. It was time to fill the carafts and pour the orange juice. Time to slice up the coffee cakes

and get ready for another summer day by the water. The Innkeeper In the mornings, on the water, the seagulls play a game of round robin on the mossy tops of dock posts and pilings. There are more gulls than places to land, so they circle in the air, cawing and crooning those quick repeating songs, and suddenly drop down to push a flockmate off their perch

and into their own circling flight. I sat and watched them from the edge of the water. It was my spot in the morning. A wrought iron bench with a worn wooden seat that each spring was scrubbed down and repainted a dark grassy green. It caught morning sun, and except for the call of the birds and a few frogs still croaking from the night before, it was very quiet and still. At the edge of the water, in the shallow spots where the land curved into little protected pools, a chain reaction of jumping, excited minnows rippled across the surface. Far out into the lake, past the edge of the farthest dock, a bevy of swans, and beyond them, a

plump of geese were pushing through the water. The geese had a zigzagged line of goslings between them. I watched the way the parents steered them, their long black necks bobbing back and forth, indicating which way to paddle. I took the last swallow of coffee from my cup and stood up, making my way up the gravel path.

Making my way up the gravel path past the stone patio with its loungers and umbrellas, past the small shed that held croquet sets and dusty tennis rackets and the hammocks that we strung from the trees in the afternoon shade. And up the steps to the back porch of the inn, it ran the full width of the house with a low, broad railing that let the breeze in.

We had a few tables laid out, ready for service, with cups turned upside down in their saucers and silverware on napkins, and the salt shakers showing a few grains of rice mixed with the crystals to keep the humid air from sticking them up. I straightened a few of the chairs as I walked down the length of the porch and smoothed the tablecloths where they were creased. Our place was small. Our hospitality could only accommodate a dozen or so folks at a time.

But it mattered to me that for those few, the inn felt comfortable and well taken care of, so that, at least while they were here, they could feel the same way. The porch swing in the corner was in need of a place to rest. I stepped inside, leaving the bright sunshine of the porch for the cool corridors of the old house. The house, built right at

the beginning of the last century, had high ceilings and tall, triple-hung windows looking hung windows, looking out to the water, or the broad lawns on either side. There was a study whose walls were lined with books, where guests could sit on rainy days and sip hot drinks and play cribbage or backgammon at the games table or take naps in the deep armchairs. Upstairs, off a long branching hallway that smelled of wood polish and clean linen were our guest rooms, of which only two or three

were occupied right now. The season was just picking up, and by the end of the week we'd be full up, and the place would be busy all day, with vacationers reading paperback mysteries on our lounge chairs, and pushing the old rowboats out into the lake, signing their names into the big book at the front desk, and turning over

the cups at the breakfast tables, ready for them to be filled with my morning rounds, working my way through the rooms, tidying and checking things as I went. I opened the windows in the reception room and pulled a wilting dahlia from the arrangement on the desk. I turned the page in the guest ledger and wrote the date across the top. I spun it on its lazy Susan toward the front door, laying an ink pen in the inner seam, ready for new arrivals. I went through to the kitchen and checked on how breakfast was coming.

We were known for a few things, and our coffee cake was one of them. Our cook was turning one out from its bundt pan as I came in, and they kindly cut me a slice, tipping it onto a thin china plate that had been part of this house longer than I'd been alive. Quality control, they said, as they slid a fork and napkin across the counter to me. Our coffee cake has a crunchy seam of cinnamon and brown sugar running through the vanilla cake. It's sweet, but just barely, and we serve it with a pile of fresh berries or melon slices. And for most guests, two slices are required before setting out for a mid-morning walk.

I pulled up a stool to the counter as I ate, and we talked through the shopping lists for the day. We weren't a restaurant and didn't serve three-course meals. Most guests would walk into town to eat their dinner. But we liked to serve up afternoon tea with sandwiches or vegetable salads

or a slice of pie. So Cook made me a list, and I thanked them for the bit of breakfast and went out to the garden in the front yard. The air was warmer already. We'd need beach blankets and inner tubes today. I added them to my list, as I took a pair of snips from my back pocket to cut a few delphinium for the breakfast tables. As I carried them back in, I heard the first sleepy voices in the hall overhead, and slow steps making their way down the carpeted stairs. It was time to fill the carafts and pour the orange juice.

Time to slice up the coffee cakes and get ready for another summer day by the water. Sweet dreams.