Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - The Lilac Grower

Episode Date: May 8, 2023

Our story tonight is called The Lilac Grower and it’s a story about a beloved flower that blooms briefly in the spring. It’s also about a clothesline strung with a new cord, a serendipitous meeting on a dirt road, and a reminder of how to be a good and gentle neighbor. We give to a different charity each week. This week we are giving to worldliteracyfoundation.org. They envision a world in which every one of us can read and write, in which there is free access to education for all.” Some of the ways you support us so that we can support others is to rate and review the podcast, share it with friends, buy my book, or ask your library to order it or subscribe to our premium feeds. Learn more at nothingmuchhappens.com.Purchase Our Book: https://bit.ly/Nothing-Much-HappensSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Everyone, in which nothing much happens. You feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Katherine Nicolai. I create everything you hear, and nothing much happens. With audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. We give to a different charity each week, and this week we are giving to the World Literacy Foundation at worldliteracyfoundation.org. They envision a world in which every one of us can read and write,

in which there is free access to education for all. Some of the ways you support us so that we can support others is simply to rate and review the podcast, to share it with friends, to buy my book, or ask your library to order it, or to subscribe to our premium feeds. Learn more at nothingmuchappens.com.

Now, I have a tried and true method for helping you fall asleep and return to sleep. Quickly, and most importantly, pleasantly. Just a reminder, you deserve to feel good. Just by listening to the sound of my voice and following along with the general shape of the story. You'll shift your brain activity from default mode, which keeps you up, to task positive mode, which allows you to snooze. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake later in the night, listen again, or think your way through any of the bits of the story you can remember.

This is brain training, and it will improve with time. Now, lights out, my friends. Set everything down. It's time to settle in and get as comfortable as you can. You have done enough for today. Truly. And there's nothing to do now but be at ease and sleep. Take a deep breath in through your nose. Let it out with a soft sigh. One more breathe in and out. Good. Our story tonight is called The Lilac Grower. And it's a story about a beloved flower that blooms briefly in the spring. It's also about a clothesline strung with a new cord,

a serendipitous meeting on a dirt road, and a reminder of how to be a good and gentle neighbor. The Lilac Grower One day, you're young, driving through the countryside, surreptitiously swiping stems of lilacs from overgrown shrubs on abandoned farms, without a care in the world. And the next day, you're a bit older. You've bought one of those abandoned farms yourself. And you're growing enough lilacs for the whole county, still without a care in the world.

It's true. It's all true. I have been a lilac devotee since I was a teenager. First swept up in the romance of how beautiful and sweetly scented and short-lived these flowers are. And each spring, I found myself venturing out, discreetly but determinedly, to scavenge enough stems to fill a few vases. Along the way, I'd not only found some very good spots to snip where no one would miss them.

I'd met a few other lilac thieves, and we'd shared our intel and love for the flowers. Then, one May day, I'd been out on a caper at an old farmhouse that had been long ago abandoned. I just returned to my car on the dirt road beside the driveway and was about to tuck a full basket of lilacs and my pruning shears into the trunk, when another car pulled up beside me. The jig was up. I'd been caught, not red-handed, but sort of green-thumbed, I thought.

A woman with silver hair bundled up in a scarf and a sparkle in her eyes stepped out of her car and crossed her arms over her chest, tilting her head to one side in a question. I tucked the basket and the shears childishly behind my back and said, Engine got overheated. We stared at each other for a beat,

then both broke out in laughter. She walked over to admire the flowers and lifted a branch of the lilacs to her face and took a deep breath of the scent. There's nothing like them, is there? I agreed, but there wasn't. And we got to talking. It turned out that she had grown up in this old farmhouse, and she invited me to walk through the yard with her. I apologized for thieving their lilacs, which she waved away saying she was glad someone was getting some enjoyment from them. She hadn't seen the old place in decades and we stopped here and there

as she got caught up in memories and told me stories about her family. She pointed to a window high up on one side. That had been her room. In the backyard, we found remnants of a clothesline, the post still standing, but the cotton cord long ago dissolved by rain and weather, and she told me about hanging sheets out in the sun. Their vegetable garden, while overgrown and no longer fitting within its old borders,

had, in some places, replanted itself. There were tomato plants and a pumpkin vine growing, and we both imagined the deer and squirrels who must feast here each summer. The house had passed to her, but she lived far away now, had only driven back

to see it one more time before arranging for it to be put up for sale. Unless, she said, turning to me, you might know of someone who'd be interested. Her eyes sparkled again, and I found myself dumbstruck by a thought I hadn't entertained before. I'd been coming to this old house for years,

admiring the wide front porch and tall trees. In some ways, I already thought of myself as a caretaker. I seemed to be the only one who ever walked the property. And I'd always harbored a fear that one day it would be sold and torn down. Just then, I didn't know how I would do it, but I was sure I would make this place my home. After that day, there had been many more conversations between the two of us. Some were history lessons, passing on the stories of the house and the people who lived there.

We both cared about such things. And some were negotiations. The house needed a good deal of work. And in the end, we were able to agree on a price. And a few weeks later, it was mine. When the day came, I stood in the front yard, with the keys in my hand, smiling up at the house. I no longer parked on the road, but proudly drove right up the cracked drive.

The lilacs had faded by then. High summer was upon us. And the tall trees made a shady canopy that kept the house cool. I'd walked from room to room, overwhelmed at the feeling of having so much to myself. So much to make into whatever I wanted. The next few years had brought lots of hard work. The roof was repaired.

A new kitchen fitted in. And the rotten boards torn out on the front porch to be replaced with sweet-smelling new ones. I spent one long summer painting everything inside and out. Finding paint in my hair and on every piece of clothing I owned. Till I finally finished. The gardens had been edged and cleared and replanted. The clothesline was rehung, and I added a patio beside it,

where I could sit and watch the hummingbirds in the morning. Along with all of this, I added something I'd envisaged that first day, when I'd been caught with my full basket. And that was more lilacs. After all, they had brought me here, to my home, and I wanted to share them. I planted a long row of lilac trees and bushes, different colors and varieties, all along the road. And within a few years, they had grown to be thick and hardy and to produce a sea of flowers each spring. along the line of lilacs,

a neighbor had helped me build a small stand, like the kind you might buy corn or tomatoes at in the summer. And I stocked it with old baskets and cloth sacks, a few pairs of shears and gardening gloves. Across the front, I'd added a sign that I'd painted by hand, kneeling on an old sheet spread out in the grass, it said, Free lilacs, gentle trespassers, will not be prosecuted.

And on the warm days of spring, when the lilacs were blooming, folks came. The word had gotten out. I'd spot a row of coffee in hand to chat with those who had come to gather some beauty from a place that had once been a secret. The Lilac Grower One day, you're young, driving through the countryside, surreptitiously swiping stems of lilacs from overgrown shrubs on abandoned farms, without a care in the world.

And the next day, you're a bit older. You've bought one of those abandoned farms yourself and you're growing enough lilacs for the whole county still without a care in the world it's true it's all true. I have been a lilac devotee since I was a teenager. first swept up into the romance of how beautiful and sweetly scented and short-lived these

flowers are. I found myself venturing out, discreetly but determinedly, to scavenge enough stems to fill a few vases. Along the way, I'd found not only some very good spots to snip away where no one would miss them. I'd also met other lilac thieves, and we'd shared our intel and love for the flowers. Then, one May day, I'd been out on a caper at an old farmhouse that had long ago been abandoned. I'd just returned to my car on the dirt road beside the driveway and was about to tuck a full basket of lilacs and my pruning shears into the trunk

when another car pulled up beside me. The jig was up. I'd been caught, not red-handed, but sort of green-thumbed, I thought. A woman with silver hair bundled up in a scarf and a sparkle in her eyes stepped out of her car and crossed her arms over her chest, tilting her head to one side in a question. I tucked the basket and shears

childishly behind my back and said, my engine got overheated. childishly behind my back and said, my engine got overheated. We stared at each other for a beat, then both broke out in laughter. She walked over to admire the flowers and lifted a branch of the lilacs to her face and took a deep breath of the scent.

There's nothing like them, is there? I agreed that there wasn't, and we got to talking. It turned out that she had grown up in this old farmhouse, and she invited me to walk through the yard with her. I apologized for thieving their lilacs, which she waved away, saying she was glad someone was getting some enjoyment from them. She hadn't seen the old place in decades, and we stopped here and there as she got caught up in memories

and told me stories about her family. She pointed to a window high up on one side. That had been her room. In the yard, we found the remnants of a clothesline, the post still standing, but the cotton cord long ago dissolved by rain and weather, and she told me about hanging sheets out in the sun. Their vegetable garden, while overgrown

and no longer fitting within its old borders, had in some places replanted itself. There were tomato plants and a pumpkin vine growing, and we both imagined the deer and squirrels who must feast here each summer. The house had passed to her, but she lived far away now, had only driven back to see it one more time before arranging for it to be put up for sale. Unless, she said, turning to me, you might know of someone who'd be interested. Her eyes sparkled again, and I found myself dumbstruck by a thought

I hadn't entertained before. I'd been coming to this old house for years, admiring the wide front porch and tall trees. In some ways, I already thought of myself as its caretaker. I seemed to be the only one who ever walked the property, and I'd always harbored a fear that one day it would be sold

and torn down. Just then, I didn't know how I would do it, but I was sure this would be my home. After that day, there had been many more conversations between the two of us. Some were history lessons, passing on the stories of the house and the people who'd lived there. We both cared about such things. And some were negotiations. The house needed a good deal of work. And in the end, we were able to agree on a price.

And a few weeks later, it was mine. When the day came, I stood in the front yard with the keys in my hand, smiling up at the house. I no longer parked on the road, but proudly drove right up the cracked drive. The lilacs had faded by then. High summer was upon us. The lilacs had faded by then. High summer was upon us, and the tall trees made a shady canopy that kept the house cool. I'd walked from room to room, overwhelmed at the feeling of having so much to myself,

so much to make into whatever I wanted. The next few years had brought lots of hard work. The roof was repaired. A new kitchen fitted in. And the rotten boards torn out from the front porch to be replaced with sweet-smelling new ones. I spent one long summer painting everything, inside and out, finding paint in my hair and on every piece of clothing I owned

till I'd finally finished. The gardens had been edged and cleared and replanted. The clothesline was re-hung, and I added a patio beside it, where I could sit and watch the hummingbirds in the morning. Along with all of this, I added something I'd envisaged that first day, when I'd first been caught with my full basket,

and that was more lilacs. After all, they had brought me here, to my home, and I wanted to share them. I planted a long row of lilac trees and bushes, different colors and varieties, all along the road. And within a few years, they had grown to be thick and hardy, and to produce a sea of flowers each spring. Along the line of lilacs, a neighbor had helped me build a small stand,

like the kind you might buy corn or tomatoes at in the summer. And I stocked it with old baskets and cloth sacks, a few pairs of shears and gardening gloves. Across the front, I'd added a sign that I'd painted by hand, kneeling on an old sheet spread out in the grass. It said, Free lilacs. Gentle trespassers will not be prosecuted.

And on the warm days of spring, when the lilacs were blooming, folks came. The word had gotten out. I'd spot a row of cars parked along the street and might step out with a cup of coffee in hand to chat with those who had come to gather some beauty from a place that had once been a secret. Sweet dreams.