Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - The Innkeeper's Holiday

Episode Date: December 20, 2021

Our story tonight is called The Innkeeper’s Holiday and it’s a story about a favorite time of year celebrated at the Inn by the lake. It’s also about glass ornaments and pinecones, twinkling lights on the water, and caring for a place where cheer and merriment can live. 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. If you're looking for a lovely gift to share with the cozy, craving folks in your life, you can give a subscription to our ad-free and bonus episode feeds of Nothing Much. Even if it's the last minute and time has run away from you,

and rather than give a thing, you want to give the experience of rest and gentleness. It's perfect, and it's available immediately at NothingMuchHappens.com. Now, let me say a bit about how this podcast works. Just as your body needs a bed to sleep in, your mind needs a place to rest. Someplace calm and safe and simple. That's what the story is. It's a sort of slot to fit your mind into.

And once you do, relaxation and sleep are right around the corner. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a bit slower the second time through. If you wake again in the middle of the night, walk yourself back through any details you can remember from the story. It'll slip your mind right back into that story slot. And soon, you'll be waking up tomorrow,

feeling relaxed and refreshed. This is brain training, and with time, you'll notice that you drop off sooner and that your sleep is more complete. Now, it's time to settle in and set yourself up for sleep. Turn off the light. Set aside anything you've been looking at or working on. Adjust your pillows and comforter until you feel completely at ease.

Just as a parent might read past the point of their child sleeping, continuing on so that the steady sound of their voice seals them into their dreams. I'll be here reading even after you've drifted off. Take a deep breath in through your nose and sigh through the mouth. Again, breathe in and out. Again, breathe in. And out. Good. Our story tonight is called The Innkeeper's Holiday.

And it's a story about a favorite time of year, celebrated at the inn by the lake. It's also about glass ornaments and pine cones, twinkle lights on the water, and caring for a place where cheer and merriment can live. The Innkeeper's Holiday For most of the winter season, the inn sits quiet and dark. There might be a light on in one of the rooms on the top floor or in the library, as the innkeeper caught up on her rest and relaxation. She cooked small meals for herself down in the kitchen, and shoveled just enough of the front drive to get in and out. She watched from the back porch as the lake froze over and answered the phone

when it rang, with guests calling to book their summer stays. But starting in the middle of December, the great house began to light up. Strands of twinkle lights were wound around the fence posts in the drive and along the roof lines and porch rails. The window boxes were stuffed with pine boughs and holly berries and tall, dried pine cones. The innkeeper thought that there was something reminiscent of a honeycomb in their shape as she tucked them into place. In the attic, she found boxes of glass ornaments and pretty ceramic reindeer that looked like they'd been sculpted by hand.

She'd been pushing the attic stairs back up into place when she heard a car door slam from the drive. She hurried to the window in the staircase and saw Chef standing on the cobblestones looking up at her. She waved and Chef waved back and popped open the hatchback on their car showing the crates of fresh food and cases of champagne they'd brought. The innkeeper smiled wide and clapped her hands like a child.

She liked having the place to herself for a while, to read her books and make plans for next summer. But she was ready for a bit of company, for the house to hum with life again, for the good scents of coffee cake and scones to rise up from the kitchen, and for guests to come and celebrate the end of one year and the beginning of another. She set her boxes of decorations down at the foot of the staircase and pulled her overcoat from the hook in the front office and went out to help Chef with the food. They embraced in the cold air and caught up as they carried the food and wine

down the long hallway and into the kitchen. Chef had been traveling, as they always did during the off-season. Some of it for rest and vacation, and some to cook in other kitchens. They'd been somewhere sunny and warm, and after the holidays were headed to a ski chalet for the rest of the winter. In the boxes were jars of beautiful green olives, packets of pine nuts, bags of red onions and sleeves of fancy crisp crackers. The innkeeper recognized the ingredients for Chef's fancy green olive pate that they served as past appetizers for their guests. There were lots of other things, too.

They'd be making a few big meals and afternoon teas and breakfast over the week or so that the inn was full. The chef would make a gingerbread inn that would sit on the entryway table and plates of their dark chocolate truffles with flakes of sea salt on top. She left chef to their work and got back to decorating. She was dusting the reindeer and setting them in a scene on the long mantle above the fireplace, when she realized music would make her work a little merrier.

They had a fancy sound system with speakers in all the common rooms, but she also kept a turntable on the desk by the window, and in the boxes she'd brought down were a few holiday albums in cardboard sleeves. She took one out, holding it carefully along its edges with her fingertips, and spun it to read the list of songs on each side. They were old, jazzy versions sung by crooners and sirens, and she set it on the player and flipped the switch to start it turning.

She laid the needle carefully into the groove and listened to the piano and horns and jingle bells as she looked at the cover art. By the afternoon, the tables and mantles

were done up, the wreath was on the front door, and the guest rooms had been made ready with fresh sheets and towels, and small tabletop ceramic trees that lit up with a switch and made the rooms glow with soft colors. She shared a plate of sandwiches with Chef in the kitchen and they talked through the menus. The next day, guests would begin to arrive

and they were booked full for the holiday. What's left? Chef asked. The innkeeper took a long drink of her tea and said, Just the tree. In years past, they'd had it in different spots sometimes in the front hall to greet guests as they arrived and sometimes on the back porch

where they served champagne and looked out at the houses across the lake, lit up with holiday lights. But this year they were doing something different. They'd been working for months to restore the ballroom on the second floor. There had been a leak in the ceiling that had damaged the plaster, and there had been many missing tiles in the parquet floor. The light fixtures had needed rewiring, and the whole space needed fresh paint, new curtains, and furnishings.

Now it was ready, the ceiling patched and painted, glowing filament bulbs in the sconces, and a charming, if slightly mismatched, collection of settees and side tables clustered in groups. The innkeeper thought it would make the perfect spot for the Christmas tree, for guests to gather to share gifts and wishes for peace on earth. And then, when the year ended, to clink champagne glasses and have a midnight kiss. She climbed the stairs to check the space and found the freshly polished floors glowing and the candles on the windowsills ready to be lit.

She had the boxes of ornaments and many, many strings of light ready for the tree from one window she could see the lake frozen for a dozen feet at the shore and with dark, rippling water further out. There were still ducks, a dozen or more with dark green and gray feathers and one white farm duck among them.

And she smiled and said in a whisper that fogged the glass found family. It's how she felt too here with the house with Chef and the guests who'd be arriving soon.

She crossed the room and looked out another window and saw a big truck with a tall Norway spruce in its bed trundling down the drive, beeping its horn. The Innkeeper's holiday. For most of the winter season, the inn sat quiet and dark. There might be a light on in one of the rooms on the top floor, or in the library as the innkeeper caught up on her rest and relaxation.

She cooked small meals for herself down in the kitchen and shoveled just enough of the front drive to get in and out. She watched from the back porch as the lake froze over and answered the phone when it rang with guests

calling to book their summer stays but starting in the middle of December, the great house began to light up. Strands of twinkle lights were wound around the fence posts in the drive and along the roof lines and porch rails. The window boxes were stuffed with pine boughs and holly berries and tall, dried pine cones. The innkeeper thought that there was something reminiscent of a honeycomb in their shape as she tucked them into place.

In the attic, she found boxes of glass ornaments and pretty ceramic reindeer that looked like they'd been sculpt the attic stairs back up into place when she heard a car door slam from the drive. She hurried to the window in the staircase and saw a chef standing on the cobblestones looking up at her. She waved and Chef waved back and popped open the hatchback on their car

showing the crates of fresh food and cases of champagne they'd brought. The innkeeper smiled wide and clapped her hands like a child. She'd liked having the place to herself for a while, to read her books and make plans for next summer. But she was ready for a bit of company, for the house to hum with life again, for the good sense of coffee cake and scones to rise up from the kitchen, and for guests to come and celebrate the end of one year and the beginning of another.

She set her boxes of decorations down at the foot of the staircase and pulled her overcoat from the hook in the front office, and went out to help Chef with the food. They embraced in the cold air, and caught up as they carried the food and wine down the long hallway and into the kitchen. Chef had been traveling, as they always did during the off-season,

some of it for rest and vacation, and some to cook in other kitchens. They'd been somewhere sunny and warm, and after the holidays were headed to a ski chalet for the rest of the winter. In the boxes were jars of beautiful green olives, packets of pine nuts, bags of red onions and sleeves of fancy crisp crackers. The innkeeper recognized the ingredients for Chef's fancy green olive pate

that they served as past appetizers for their guests. There were lots of other things too. They'd be making a few big meals and and afternoon teas and breakfast over the week or so that the inn was full. Chef would make a gingerbread inn that would sit on the entryway table and plates of their dark chocolate truffles with flakes of sea salt on top. She left Chef to their work and got back to decorating. She was dusting the reindeer and setting them in a scene on the long mantle above the fireplace. When she realized music would make her work a little merrier. They had a fancy sound system with speakers in all the common rooms. But she also kept a turntable

on the desk by the window. And in the boxes she'd brought down were a few holiday albums in cardboard sleeves. She took one out, holding it carefully along its edges with her fingertips, and spun it to read the list of songs on each side. They were old, jazzy versions sung by crooners and sirens, and she set it on the player and flipped the switch to start it turning. She laid the needle carefully into the groove, to start it turning. She laid the needle carefully into the groove and listened to the piano and horns and jingle bells

as she looked at the cover art. By the afternoon, the tables and mantles were done up, the wreath was on the front door, and the guest rooms had been made ready with fresh sheets and towels, and small tabletop ceramic trees that lit up with a switch and made the rooms glow with soft colors. She shared a plate of sandwiches with Chef in the kitchen, and they talked through the menus. The next day, guests would begin to arrive, and they were booked full for the holiday.

What's left? Chef asked. The innkeeper took a long drink of her tea and said, Just the tree. In years past, they'd had it in different spots. Sometimes in the front hall, to greet guests as they arrived, and sometimes on the back porch where they served champagne and looked out at the houses across the lake lit up with holiday lights. But this year, they were doing something different.

They'd been working for months to restore the ballroom on the second floor. There had been a leak in the ceiling that had damaged the plaster, and there had been many missing tiles in the parquet floor. The light fixtures had needed rewiring and the whole space needed fresh paint, new curtains and furnishings. Now it was ready. The ceiling patched and painted, glowing filament bulbs in the sconces,

and a charming, if slightly mismatched, collection of settees and side tables clustered in groups. The innkeeper thought it would make the perfect spot for the Christmas tree, for guests to gather, to share gifts and wishes for peace on earth. And then, when the year ended, to clink champagne glasses and have a midnight kiss. She climbed the stairs to check the space and found the freshly polished floors glowing and the candles on the windowsills ready to be lit. She had the boxes of ornaments and many, many strings of lights ready for the tree.

From one window, she could see the lake, frozen for a dozen feet at the shore, and with dark, rippling water farther out. There were still ducks, a dozen or more, with dark green and gray feathers, and one white farm duck among them. And she smiled and said in a whisper that fogged the glass, found family. That's how she felt too, here with the house,

with Chef and the guests who'd be arriving soon. She crossed the room and looked out another window and saw a big truck with a tall Norway spruce in its bed, trundling down the drive, beeping its horn. Sweet dreams.