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

Episode Date: March 23, 2020

Our story tonight is called The Jewelry Box and it’s a story about a an heirloom handed down through a family. It’s also about a jeweled broach pinned on the lapel of a jacket, Spring sunlight, and some good advice for when things break. So get cozy and ready to sleep. Buy the book!Purchase 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 write and read all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. We are proud members of the CuriousCast podcast network. You can follow us on Twitter or Instagram or Facebook for extra coziness.

Let me say a little about how to use this podcast. Our minds are busy, now maybe more than ever, and a busy mind can keep you up all night. So let this story that I'm about to tell you become a resting place for your mind. Once your mind settles, you will find sleep. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through.

If you wake in the middle of the night, you can listen again, or just walk yourself back through any part of the story you remember. This will disrupt the wandering and get you back to sleep. This is brain training, so have a bit of patience if you are new to it. Over time, you will find you fall asleep faster and stay asleep longer. Now, it's time to set down anything you've been looking at or working on. Switch off the light and slide down into your sheets. Pull the blanket over your shoulder and feel how good it is to be safe in your bed.

Let's all take a breath in through the nose and out through the mouth. Nice. One more. In and Good. Our story tonight is called The Jewelry Box. And it's a story about an heirloom handed down through a family. It's also about a jeweled brooch pinned on the lapel of a jacket, spring sunlight, and some good advice for when things break. The jewelry box. On my dresser,

beside the stack of books that are waiting to be read. And the framed photo of my sweetheart and me on one of our first dates. There's a jewelry box. It's made of dark walnut and lined with green velvet. That must have been a bright emerald when it was first fitted into place by my grandfather's hands, but has faded over the years into the soft green of reindeer moss. He crafted it many years ago for my grandmother, out in the workshop in his garage. It was a rare creation for him. He was mostly a fixer, a mender, who could step in when the furnace was on the fritz or when the attic stairs were stuck.

He'd stand with hands on hips and just look at the problem for a while, picturing where the trouble was and how to sort it out. Then he'd slip a screwdriver from his shirt pocket and go to work. But for this box, he'd been starting from scratch. Not mending, but creating. He'd sketched out the shape with a flat carpenter's pencil onto the pages of a steno notebook in the garage and gone looking for the right piece of wood.

When he found it, he'd measured and cut and fitted the box together, the edges of the wood dovetailing like puzzle pieces. Then he'd divided the interior with thin slats and lined it all velvet. He'd let me watch as he created slots for grandma's rings, hooks to secure her necklaces, and a soft, raised mound to loop her bracelets around. The top tray lifted out to reveal an open space underneath, inlaid with more velvet. The box was meant to be a surprise for her, and he'd asked me if I could keep a secret before he'd let me into the workshop. I'd kept my promise and got to be there on her birthday as she unwrapped it.

I remember how quiet the room was as she ran her soft creased hands over the smooth edges that he'd spent ages carefully sanding and shaping. She lifted the lid and looked down at the velvet, and then up at Grandpa, with such a bright, happy smile on her face, that we all beamed back at her. She was a laugher, not a crier, and she laughed now, clapping her hands like a little girl and leaning over to plant a

kiss on Grandpa's cheek. The jewelry box had sat on her vanity table for the rest of her life, next to her tubes of lipstick and tiny precious bottles of perfume. I remember sitting on the edge of her bed, my bare feet swinging, as I watched her make herself up for a Saturday night out with Grandpa. She'd picked out her favorite necklace and lifted the tray out to peruse her brooches. I nosily looked over her shoulder as she did and saw a few yellowed envelopes addressed to her and Grandpa's hand. She saw me looking and winked at me in the mirror. She still had their love letters. When the box came to me,

I'd gratefully found I could still smell a bit of her perfume whenever I lifted the lid. Now it held my rings, my bracelets and necklaces. In the compartment underneath were my own love letters, the stubs of concert tickets, and one of Grandma's brooches. It was fragile, with a thin pin at its back that had been mended more than once. On its face was a collection of bright red stones, circled with gold, in the shape of a ladybug. Her wings were dotted with glossy black jewels.

I suspected none of them were real gems. They were probably polished glass, what they used to call paste. But they were precious to me. I was careful with what Grandma had passed on to me, but I wasn't afraid to wear her brooch. I had her china, too, and used it nearly every day. Once, when we'd been drying dishes in her kitchen, and a slippery plate had slid out of my hands to crash into a million pieces on the black and white tiles of her floor.

I turned a teary face up to her, and she caught my chin in her hand and kissed the tip of my nose, saying, Baby, it's a thing, not a person. It made me feel so unashamed and immediately realigned with what actually mattered. To this day, when something breaks, I stop and ask myself,

is it a thing or a person? And like her, I can usually laugh instead of cry. I'd pinned her ladybug onto the lapel of my jacket today as I'd gotten ready to go out the door, just feeling the need to have her around me. When I'd stepped out of my apartment and into the narrow alleys of the oldest part of downtown, I stopped to look up at the way the spring sunlight shone on the tops of the buildings.

Autumn sun is brassy in the best possible way, but spring sunlight is bright gold, and I was happy to need my sunglasses as I walked. At the corner shop, I stopped to buy a newspaper and a lemon muffin dotted with poppy seeds to tuck into my bag for later. The man who ran the shop had been sweeping the front steps when I came in, and his grandson stood proudly behind the counter, his chin just clearing the stacks of newspapers.

He added up my purchases and with a serious face told me how much it would be. His grandfather smiled down at his broom as he swept. I handed over the money and waited until the change was counted back. I thanked the little boy and resisted the urge to wink or make a joke. I remembered how important it was, when you were young and trying to seem grown up, that you were taken seriously. We shouldn't forget what being young feels like, even when we are young no longer.

On the street again, with Grandma's ladybug on my shoulder and the golden spring light making me squint, I headed for the park. The geese would be back, honking their news and splashing the cold lake water around their long black necks. I would find a bench, take my muffin from my bag, open my paper,

and look for things to laugh about. The jewelry box. On my dresser, beside the stack of books that are waiting to be read, and the framed photo of my sweetheart and me on one of our first dates. There's a jewelry box. It's made of dark walnut and lined with green velvet. That must have been a bright emerald when it was first fitted into place by my grandfather's hands. but has faded over the years

into the soft green of reindeer moss. He crafted it many years ago for my grandmother out in the workshop in his garage. It was a rare creation for him. He was mostly a fixer, a mender, who could step in when the furnace was on the fritz,

or when the attic stairs were stuck. He'd stand with hands on hips and just look at the problem for a while, picturing where the trouble was and how to sort it out. Then he'd slip a screwdriver from his shirt pocket and go to work. But for this box, he'd been starting from scratch. Not mending, but creating. He'd sketched out the shape with a flat carpenter's pencil onto the pages of a steno notebook in the garage and gone looking for the right piece of wood. When he found it,

he'd measured and cut and fitted the box together. The edges of the wood dove-tailing like puzzle pieces. Then he'd divided the interior with thin slats and lined it all with green velvet. He'd let me watch as he created slots for Grandma's rings, hooks to secure her necklaces,

and a soft, raised mound to loop her bracelets around. The top tray lifted out to reveal an open space underneath, inlaid with more velvet. The box was meant to be a surprise for her, and he'd asked me if I could keep a secret before he'd let me into the workshop. I'd kept my promise. I'd got to be there on her birthday, as she'd unwrapped it. I remember how quiet the room was as she ran her soft, creased hands over the smooth edges that he'd spent ages carefully sanding and shaping.

She lifted the lid and looked down at the velvet and then up at Grandpa with such a bright, happy smile on her face that we all beamed back at her. She was a laugher, not a crier. And she laughed now, clapping her hands like a little girl

and leaning over to plant a kiss on Grandpa's cheek. The jewelry box had sat on her vanity table for the rest of her life. Next to her tubes of lipstick and tiny precious bottles of perfume. I remember sitting on the edge of her bed, my bare feet swinging, as I watched her make herself up for a Saturday night out with Grandpa. She picked out her favorite necklace

and lifted the tray out to peruse her brooches. I nosily looked over her shoulder as she did and saw a few yellowed envelopes addressed to her and Grandpa's hand. She saw me looking and winked at me in the mirror. She still had their love letters when the box came to me I gratefully found

I could still smell a bit of her perfume whenever I lifted the lid now it held my rings my bracelets and necklaces. In the compartment underneath were my own love letters, the stubs of concert tickets, and one of Grandma's brooches. It was fragile, with a thin pin at its back that had been mended more than once. On its face was a collection of bright red stones circled with gold in the shape of a ladybug. Her wings were dotted with glossy black jewels. I suspected none of them were real gems

They were probably polished glass What they used to call paste But they were precious to me I was careful with what Grandma had passed to me, but I wasn't afraid to wear her brooch. I had her china, too, and used it nearly every day. Once, when we'd been drying dishes in her kitchen and a slippery plate had slid out of my hands

to crash into a million pieces on the black and white tiles of her floor. I turned a teary face up to her and she caught my chin in her hand I turned a teary face up to her, and she caught my chin in her hand and kissed the tip of my nose, saying, Baby, it's a thing, not a person. It had made me feel so unashamed,

and immediately realigned with what actually mattered. To this day, when something breaks, I stop and ask myself, is it a thing or a person? And like her, I can usually laugh instead of cry. I pinned her ladybug onto the lapel of my jacket today as I'd gotten ready

to go out the door. Just feeling the need to have her around me. When I stepped out of my apartment and into the narrow alleys of the oldest part of downtown, I stopped to look up at the way the spring sunlight shone on the tops of the buildings. Autumn sun is brassy in the best possible way, but spring sunlight is bright gold, and I was happy to need my sunglasses as I walked. At the corner shop, I stopped to buy a newspaper and a lemon muffin dotted with poppy seeds

to tuck into my bag for later. The man who ran the shop had been sweeping the front step when I came in, and his grandson stood proudly behind the counter, his chin just clearing the stacks of newspapers. he added up my purchases and with a serious face told me how much it would be his grandfather smiled down at his broom as he swept I handed over the money and waited while the change was counted back.

I thanked the little boy and resisted the urge to wink or make a joke. I remembered how important it was when you were young and trying to seem grown up, that you were taken seriously. We shouldn't forget what being young feels like, even when we are young no longer. On the street again, with Grandma's ladybug on my shoulder and the golden spring light making me squint, I headed for the park. The geese would be back,

honking their news and splashing cold lake water around their long black necks. I would find a bench, take my muffin from my bag, open my paper, and look for things to laugh about. Sweet dreams.