Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - The Innkeeper's Blanket (Encore)

Episode Date: January 11, 2024

Originally Aired: January 22nd, 2023 (Season 11 Episode 4) Our story tonight is called The Innkeeper’s Blanket and it’s a story about a favorite hobby, rediscovered in the quiet of winter. It’s also about a simmering pot in the kitchen, geese gathering before they fly and making something by hand that is perfectly imperfect. 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 podcast 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. https://www.nothingmuchhappens.com/stories-from-the-villagePurchase 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 Katherine Nicolai. I write and read all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. My book, also called Nothing Much Happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. My book, also called Nothing Much Happens, is available wherever books are sold. Thank you for your support. Now, we need a bridge between our daily lives and good sleep. A way to create a little space for your mind to rest in. And that's what our stories are.

They're a soft space to settle. Nothing much happens in them. There's nothing to keep track of. Just listen and relax, and sleep will come. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little bit slower the second time through. If you wake again in the night, you can turn a story right back on, or just think through any detail from it that you can turn a story right back on or just think through any detail from it that you can remember.

Doing that shifts your brain right back into a place where it will fall asleep. Now, it's time to set things down and switch off the lights. Get your eye mask or your teddy bear or your favorite pillow and get as comfortable as you can. Let your muscles soften and your body go heavy into the bed. I'm taking the next watch,

so you can let go. Truly, you're safe. Take a slow breath in through your nose and sigh from your mouth. So relaxed. One more. Breathe in and out. Good. Our story tonight is called The Innkeeper's Blanket, and it's a story about a favorite hobby rediscovered in the quiet of winter. It's also about a simmering pot in the kitchen, geese gathering before they fly,

and making something by hand that is perfectly imperfect. The innkeeper's blanket. It had started as a scarf. I hadn't picked up a crochet hook in ages, a decade maybe. But while I was cleaning out a closet on the second floor, I'd found a basket full of yarn and hooks in several sizes. I'd sat right down on the stairs and pulled a length of fiber from one of the skeins and wondered if my hands still knew how to do this. Sure enough, as I tied off a loop and poked a hook through it, like riding a bike,

I quickly crocheted a long chain of simple stitches. And as I did, I even said aloud, yarn over. That, I remembered, was what my mother had said when she'd taught me this first step in the process when I was a little girl.

I turned the chain around and stitched back over it, marveling at how my fingers remembered the movements of tucking the hook through the loop, wrapping the yarn over, and pulling it back through. When I got to the end of the row and went to turn it again, I remembered my mother counting out three chain stitches before turning so that the design didn't slope at the edges.

And I made them myself, counting one, two, three. I'd sat there in the dim winter light and held the row of stitches out at arm's length to admire it. I knew right then I'd found a project for the winter months. I'd tucked my wobbly first attempt back into the basket and gone back to my chore at the closet that day. After all, I thought that crocheting would not be best enjoyed in the chilly hallway, sitting on a stair, but in front of the fire, in the library, after my work was done. And I always had a good deal of work to do at the inn in the off-season. When guests were coming and going, as they did from late spring to early fall,

we could keep up with daily room cleaning, the cooking and serving. But anything beyond that had to wait. And it waited for me and for the winter. I'd done lots already, and I didn't mind being alone in the big house. I played music to keep me company and worked from room to room, deep cleaning, steaming the curtains, polishing the wooden banister from the front hall all the way up to the attic on the fourth floor. Friends visited now and then, and we'd have tea parties in the giant ballroom. Once a week, I went to book club at the shop in downtown. I cooked pots of soup down in the kitchen

and ate pickles from our pantry that Chef had put up in large batches in the summer. And I liked cleaning out the cupboards and closets most of all. I'd been the innkeeper here for many years already, but I knew that this house still had secrets she kept from me. So each winter, I'd pick a few cubbies and closets and clean them out to their back walls. And I always found some interesting things.

Before I'd come upon the basket of yarn, I'd found a stack of old board games, the seams of their boxes splitting apart, even under a layer of tape that was likely already 40 years old. The best part had been opening them up, taking in their dusty, warm scent, and finding scorecards and faded pencil, showing who had won a hard-fought game of cribbage long before I was a twinkle in the old house's eye. In a box with candlesticks and, for some reason, very old tulip bulbs,

was a stack of menus, some even handwritten, from fancy dinners held here in the inn's earliest years I'd sent pictures of them to Chef who was cooking in a ski resort for the winter they'd called me and we'd spent a silly half hour going through each appetizer, entree and dessert, wondering if our modern diners would be interested in any of these very vintage flavors.

Maybe, we'd said. Maybe we could find a few choice picks and add them to our rotation in the spring and after days like that I'd clean up and reach for my crochet basket and stretch out on the sofa in the library and work away for a while.

That's how the scarf had turned into a blanket. I'd bought some new yarn at the craft shop and a bendier hook that felt better in my hands. The owner had taken some time to kindly show me a few other stitches, and soon I was well on my way into my new project. The nice thing about a scarf, or even a blanket, is that you don't really need a pattern. You just make it. So I'd started stitching a long chain and wrapped it around my neck now and then, till it was as long as I felt it should be. Then turned it and worked my way back across the chain,

and so on, and so on. At some point, I realized that I should probably stop. It was as wide as it needed to be to keep someone's neck and chin warm, but I just didn't want scarf was soon halfway to being a good-sized blanket. I stretched it out over my legs, and it kept me warm while I worked. The evenings passed, and I kept stitching. The snow melted and came again, coating the gardens with white. The lake froze over completely, and the geese gathered and flew off one day, honking their goodbyes. I switched from soups to casseroles and simmered a pot with lemon peels and rosemary on the stove. And one evening, my blanket was finally done.

Though I'd been careful with my stitches, in the end, it came out a bit wonky. Not so as you'd notice when you were cuddled up under it, but when I laid it on my bed, it had a definite hourglass shape I hadn't intended. It felt a bit like the year, actually, ebbing and flowing, full to thin and back again.

And I decided I liked the organic nature of it. It was homemade, and it showed. Well, I said to myself, that settles it. This one is for me. I wouldn't give it away. I'd keep it as proof. But even when things are imperfect, they can still be warm and enjoyable. The innkeeper's blanket. It had started as a scarf. I hadn't picked up a crochet hook in ages,

a decade maybe. But while I was cleaning out a closet on the second floor, I'd found a basket full of yarn and hooks in several sizes. I'd sat right down on the stairs and pulled a length of fiber from one of the skeins and wondered if my hands still knew how to do this. Sure enough, as I tied off a loop and poked a hook through it

just like riding a bike I quickly made a long chain of simple stitches and as I did I even said aloud, yarn over. That, I remembered, was what my mother had said when she taught me this first step in the process when I was a little girl. I turned the chain around and stitched over it, marveling at how my fingers remembered the movements of tucking the hook through a loop, wrapping the yarn over,

and pulling it back through. When I got to the end of the row and went to turn it again, I remembered my mother counting out three chain stitches before she turned, so that the design didn't slope at the edges. And I made them myself, counting one, two, three. I'd sat there in the dim winter light and held the row of stitches out at arm's length to admire it.

I knew right then I'd found a project for the winter months. I'd tucked my wobbly first attempt back into the basket and gone back to my chore at the closet that day. After all, I guessed that crocheting would not be best enjoyed in the chilly hallway, sitting on a stair, but in front of the fire in the library after my work was done. I always had a good deal of work to do at the inn in the off-season. When guests were coming and going, as they did from late spring to early fall. We could keep up with the daily room cleaning, cooking and serving, but anything beyond that had to wait, and it waited for me and for the winter. I'd done lots already, and

I didn't mind being alone in the big house. I played music to keep me company and worked from room to room, deep cleaning, steaming the curtains, polishing the wooden banister from the front hall all the way up to the attic on the fourth floor. Friends visited now and then, and we'd had tea parties in the giant ballroom. Once a week, I went to book club at the shop in downtown. I cooked pots of soup down in the kitchen and ate pickles from our pantry the chef had put up in large batches in the summer. And I liked cleaning out the cupboards and closets, most of all. I'd been the innkeeper here for many years already. But I knew that this house still had secrets she kept from me.

So each winter, I'd pick a few cubbies and closets and clean them out to their back walls. And I always found some interesting things. Before I'd come upon the basket of yarn, I'd found a stack of old board games. The seams of their boxes, splitting apart, even under a layer of tape. That was likely already 40 years old.

The best part had been opening them up, taking in their dusty, warm scent, and finding scorecards and faded pencil, showing who had won a hard-fought game of cribbage long before I was a twinkle in the old house's eye. In a box with candlesticks and, for some reason, very old tulip bulbs was a stack of menus. Some were even handwritten from fancy dinners held here in the inn's earliest years. I'd sent pictures of them to Chef,

who was cooking at a ski resort for the winter. They'd called me, and we'd spent a silly half hour going through each appetizer, entree, and dessert, wondering if our modern diners would be interested in any of these very vintage flavors. Maybe, we'd said. Maybe we could find a few choice picks and add them to our rotation in the spring. After days like that, I'd clean up and reach for my crochet basket and stretch out on the sofa in the library and work away for a while. That's how the scarf had turned into a blanket. I'd bought some new yarn at the craft shop,

and a bendier hook that felt better in my hands. The owner had taken some time to kindly show me a few other stitches, and soon I was well on my way into my new project. The nice thing about a scarf, or even a blanket, is that you don't really need a pattern. You just make it. So I'd started stitching long chain and wrapped it around my neck now and then

till it was as long as I felt it should be. Then turned it and worked my way back across, and so on, and so on. At some point, I realized that I should probably stop. It was as wide as it needed to be to keep someone's neck and chin warm, but I just didn't want to stop. I was having a good time.

So I kept stitching and turning, counting one, two, three. And my scarf was soon halfway to being a good-sized blanket. I stretched it out over my legs, and it kept me warm while I worked. The evenings passed, and I kept stitching. The snow melted and came again, coating the gardens with white. The lake froze over completely and the geese gathered and flew off one day,

honking their goodbyes. I switched from soups to casseroles and simmered a pot with lemon peels and rosemary on the stove. And one evening, my blanket was finally done. Though I'd been careful with my stitches, in the end, it came out a bit wonky. Not so as you'd notice when you were cuddled up under it. But when I laid it out on my bed, it had a definite hourglass shape that I hadn't intended.

It felt a bit like the year, actually, ebbing and flowing, full to thin and back again. And I decided I liked the organic nature of it. It was handmade, and it showed. Well, I said to myself, that settles it. This one is for me. I wouldn't give it away. I'd keep it as proof that, even when things are imperfect, they can still be warm and enjoyable. Sweet dreams.