Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - The Last Warm Days

Episode Date: August 27, 2018

Our story tonight is called “The Last Warm Days” and it’s a story about enjoying the heat of summer before Autumn comes to take its place. It’s also about sheets dried in the sun, the smell of tomato plants, and taking time to do as one likes. So get cozy and ready to sleep. See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.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. All stories are written and read by me, Katherine Nicolai, with audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. Thank you for listening and for sharing our stories with anyone you know who likes relaxation and good sleep. You can also follow us on Instagram and Facebook for a bit of extra coziness. Now let me say a bit about how to use this podcast. I have a story to tell you.

It's a simple story, without much action, but full of relaxing detail. I'll tell it twice, and I'll go a bit slower the second time through. The story is like a landing pad for your mind, a soft place for it to rest so that it doesn't wander away and get into trouble. If you find yourself still awake at the end of the first or second telling, don't worry. That's a good rule of thumb in general. When you're trying to fall asleep, don't worry. Relax. Take your mind back to the beginning of the story and walk yourself back through the details that you remember,

especially any bit that felt particularly cozy. You're training your brain and body to wind down, and the more often you do it, the faster you will fall asleep. So have a bit of patience at the beginning, and if you find yourself awake again later in the night, use the story again to go right back to sleep. Now it's time to turn off the light and set aside anything you've been looking at or working on. Settle your body deep into your sheets and take a moment to find the most comfortable position you can. We're sending a signal to your systems now. And the signal says, sleep mode.

Let's take a slow breath in through the nose. And out through the mouth. Good. One more. In. In. And out. Our story tonight is called The Last Warm Days.

And it's a story about enjoying the heat of summer before the autumn comes to take its place. It's also about sheets dried in the sun, the smell of tomato plants, and taking time to do as one likes. The Last Warm Days Everything was in bloom. The grass was thick underfoot. The last warm days. Everything was in bloom. The grass was thick underfoot,

and the gardens were full of long-necked flowers, ripe vegetables, and buzzing, floating bugs. I'd spent the day lazily wandering from a sunny spot at the edge of the water to the quiet of the kitchen, where I'd paged through a stack of cookbooks folding over the corners of recipes I might make one day, and the clean, sweet smell of the laundry line out back, where white sheets and pillowcases were pegged up and slowly shifting in the breeze. Nothing had to be done today, which meant that taking on little chores at my own pace was happy work.

So this morning I'd started in the kitchen, setting it to rights, clearing the counters and wiping them down till everything felt fresh and clean then I lit a candle and slid it into the center of the kitchen table every time I walked back through the room I could smell it, herby and bright like lavender and green tea I stepped back outside and to an old quilt and bright, like lavender and green tea.

I stepped back outside and to an old quilt, spread out under a few tall trees. It was cool and shady, and I flopped down and laid back with my hands tucked behind my head. I stretched my legs out long and crossed one ankle over the other, looking up at the sunlight shifting and flitting through the layers of leaves. A bird caught my eye, and I watched it glide from one branch to another. It hopped and turned and called out, then took off again. I turned over onto my side and propped my head in my hand and noticed a ladybug climbing a blade of grass at the edge of my blanket. I reached out and offered her my hand.

She seemed to think about it a moment, then scuttled on, and I watched her crawl across my thumbnail and over the ridge of a knuckle before spreading her shiny spotted wings and flying away. I hummed to myself a bit, looking out past the back of the house where the corner of the clothesline ran to an old hook that had, a few generations ago, been screwed straight into a tree. I pushed back up to my feet

and clapped my hands together to dust them off. Those sheets were probably dry by now. But on my way back to the laundry line, I got distracted by the garden. I'd been in the plants already a few times today, cutting some echinacea and daisies for the table, and picking raspberries for breakfast, and a few cucumbers for a sandwich at lunch. But I never really got tired of walking through the

rows and checking on everyone. I had rows of lettuce that had been picked and replanted twice already this summer, hearty kale and cabbage that would last into the fall, snow peas and chard, a few promising pumpkins, enough butternut squashes to last me through the winter, carrots, cucumbers, and zucchini, and an absolute wealth of tomato plants. The tomatoes were my favorite. I grew lots of varieties

and had enough for canning and freezing and drying and plenty for summer eating. I ran my hand over the fuzzy green leaf of a plant and smelled that heady, viney tang that is the smell of summer. I pulled the leaf up to my face and breathed it in, then rubbed it across my neck and wrists. It was the best summer perfume.

I stood in the dusty, soft earth and picked tiny, ripe cherry tomatoes from the vines. I let them burst between my teeth, sweet and bright and delicious. I picked a few large slicing tomatoes, perfect with just a little sea salt and black pepper, then some heart-shaped pink tomatoes, good for sauces and salads. Soon I was folding up the edge of my shirt to catch the harvest. I kept an old ceramic bowl at the back steps for such impromptu picking and carefully set down my catch.

I rinsed my hands off at the spigot and let them dry in the air while I walked out to the line. The afternoon sun was slanting through the trees, and in the air I could smell a bit of the lavender soap I'd washed the sheets in. The sheets were dry, and I slowly shook and folded them, and laid them neatly in my wicker basket. They were my last load for the day, so I carried the basket to the back door,

fetching up the bowl of tomatoes on my way in. I set the tomatoes in the sink and carried the basket through to the linen closet. The windows were open in every room of the house, and even on a warm day, the breeze kept the rooms cool and comfortable. I looked down the hall to the open door of my bedroom. I'd done my own bed first that day, so my room was tidy and the bed freshly made up. I slipped down the hall and into

my room and took a deep breath of the afternoon air coming through the windows. The bed was like a magnet, irresistibly pulling me over to rest my cheek against the sun-dried coverlet. I sprawled my limbs and took up as much space as I liked. As my eyes closed, my mind flipped back through the pages of the day, and I thought of my recipe books, of the candy shell wings of the ladybug, the cool water of the backyard spigot on my wrists, the sheets folded in their basket, and the twisted roots of my carrots tucked into the garden soil. The summer was nearly over.

In a few weeks the nights would come sooner and cooler, the leaves would dry and turn. But for now there was still time to linger on a warm day and enjoy. The last warm days. Everything was in bloom. The grass was thick underfoot, and the gardens were full of long-necked flowers, ripe vegetables, and buzzing, floating bugs.

I'd spent the day lazily wandering from a sunny spot at the edge of the water to the quiet of the kitchen, where I'd paged through a stack of cookbooks, folding over the corners of recipes I might make one day, and the clean, sweet smell of the laundry line out back, where white sheets and pillowcases were pegged up and slowly shifting in the breeze. Nothing had to be done today, which meant that taking on little chores at my own pace was happy work.

So this morning, I'd start in the kitchen, setting it to rights, clearing the counters, and wiping them down, till everything felt fresh and clean. Then I lit a candle and slid it into the center of the kitchen table. Every time I walked back through the room, I could smell it, herby and bright, like lavender and green tea. I stepped back outside to an old quilt spread out under a few tall trees. It was cool and shady, and I flopped down and laid back with my hands tucked behind my head. I stretched my legs out long and crossed one ankle over the other, looking up at the sunlight shifting and flitting through the layers of leaves. A bird caught my eye,

and I watched it glide from one branch to another. It hopped and turned and called out, then took off again. I turned over onto my side and propped my head in my hand and noticed a ladybug climbing a blade of grass at the edge of my blanket. I reached out and offered her my hand. She seemed to think about it for a moment, then scuttled on and I watched her crawl across my thumbnail

and over the ridge of a knuckle before spreading her shiny spotted wings and flying away. I hummed to myself a bit, looking out past the back of the house where the corner of the clothesline ran to an old hook that had, a few generations ago, been screwed straight into a tree. I pushed back up to my feet and clapped my hands together to dust them off. Those sheets were probably dry by now but on my way back to the laundry line I got distracted by the garden

I'd been in the plants already a few times today cutting some echinacea and daisies for the table and picking raspberries for breakfast, and a few cucumbers for a sandwich at lunch. But I never really got tired of walking through the rows and checking on everyone. I had rows of lettuce that had been picked and replanted twice already this summer, hearty kale and cabbage that would last into the fall, snow peas and chard, a few promising pumpkins,

enough butternut squashes to last me through the winter, carrots, cucumbers, and zucchini, and an absolute wealth of tomato plants. The tomatoes were my favorite. I grew lots of varieties, and had enough for canning and freezing, and drying and plenty for summer eating. I ran my hand over the fuzzy green leaf of a plant and smelled that heady, viney tang that is the smell of summer.

I pulled the leaf up to my face and breathed it in, then rubbed it across my neck and wrists. It was the best summer perfume. I stood in the dusty, soft earth and picked tiny, ripe cherry tomatoes from the vines. I let them burst between my teeth, sweet and bright and delicious. I picked a few large slicing tomatoes, perfect with just a little sea salt and black pepper, then some heart-shaped pink tomatoes,

good for sauces and salads. Soon I was folding up the edge of my shirt to catch my harvest. I kept an old ceramic bowl at the back steps for such impromptu picking, and carefully sat down my catch. I rinsed my hands off at the spigot, and let them dry in the air while I walked out to the line. The afternoon sun was slanting through the trees, and in the air I could smell a bit of the lavender soap that I'd washed the sheets in. The sheets were dry, and I slowly shook and folded them and laid them neatly in my wicker basket.

They were my last load for the day, so I carried the basket to the back door, fetching up the bowl of tomatoes on my way in. I set the tomatoes in the sink and carried the basket through to the linen closet. The windows were open in every room of the house, and even on a warm day, the breeze kept the rooms comfortable and cool. I looked down the hall to the open door of my bedroom. I'd done my own bed first that day,

so my room was tidy and the bed was freshly made up. I slipped down the hall and into my room and took a deep breath of the afternoon air coming through the windows. The bed was like a magnet, irresistibly pulling me over to rest my cheek against the sun-dried coverlet. I sprawled my limbs and took up as much space as I liked. As my eyes closed, my mind flipped back through the pages of the day, and I thought of my recipe books.

Of the candy shell wings of the ladybug. The cool water from the backyard spigot on my wrists. The sheets folded in their basket, and the twisted roots of my carrots tucked into the garden soil. The summer was nearly over. In a few weeks, the nights would come sooner and cooler. The leaves would dry and turn. But for now, there was still time to linger on a warm day and enjoy.

Sweet dreams.