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

Episode Date: May 6, 2019

Our story tonight is called The Lilac Thief and it’s a story about finding the forgotten places where one can, in secret acquire some spring blooms. It’s also about the curiosity we feel when we look into the windows of an old house, a cup of iced coffee drunk at a sidewalk cafe, and the secret code of thieves. 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. Nothing Much Happens is a proud member of the CuriousCast podcast network. 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 and Twitter for a bit of extra coziness. Just like your body needs a bed to rest in, your mind needs a quiet nest to settle into,

so that it doesn't wander around, keeping you up all night. That's what this story provides. It's a simple, sweet place to rest your thoughts. Now I'll tell our story twice, and I'll go a bit slower the second time through. If you find that you're still awake at the end of the first or second telling, don't worry. Take your mind back to the beginning of the story and walk yourself back through whatever you remember, especially any bit that felt cozy or enjoyable. This is a kind of training for your brain.

You're training it to focus and rest. And the more often you do it, the faster you will fall asleep. So have a bit of patience at the beginning. Now, turn off your light. Put down your devices and get as comfortable as you can. You've looked at a screen for the last time today. Get the right pillow in the right spot and let everything relax. Now let's take a deep breath in through the nose and a soft sigh through the mouth. Do that one more time. Breathe in.

And out. Our story tonight is called The Lilac Thief. And it's a story about finding the forgotten places where one can, in secret, acquire some spring blooms. It's also about the curiosity we feel when we look into the windows of an old house, a cup of iced coffee drunk at a sidewalk café, and the secret code of thieves.

The Lilac Thief There are only a few days of the spring when you can step out of the door and smell them on every passing breeze, so bright and sweet that there's nothing to do but plant your feet and take slow, deep breaths to try to store their scent deep inside you for another year. The Lilacs I remember as a child, pressing my face into their soft blooms, dew coming away on my cheeks,

and wondering how something could smell like that, and look like that, and grow so abundantly, and be allowed. It seemed too good, too perfectly aligned with what was pleasing, to just occur naturally. But I guess there is a catch with lilacs. They only bloom once a year, and they don't last long. In fact, they're best enjoyed on the tree. When you cut them and bring them inside,

they soon wilt and dry up, and their sweet smell fades. Still, I couldn't help myself. I would try to be surrounded by them for as long as possible each spring. And that meant taking matters into my own hands, and possibly some very gentle trespassing. You see, I am a lilac thief. I don't strike at random. My crimes aren't ham-fisted or even much noticed. I'm a subtle thief. I plan when and where and make my getaway before anyone is the wiser. When I walk my neighborhood,

I might casually reach up for a stray blossom creeping through the slats of a fence, and just as casually tuck it into the flag of a mailbox for someone to find later. But I knew better than to pull a real heist so close to home. For that, I packed a kit into my car. Wicker basket, garden gloves, twine, and a small set of pruning shears. I dressed inconspicuously and drove out into the countryside. There was an old farmhouse, long abandoned on a dirt road that I knew well.

I'd cased the joint years ago and found the house reliably empty and the yard reliably full of lilac trees. I parked my car on the edge of the road to give myself a bit of plausible deniability. After all, perhaps I'd just had a spot of car trouble and was letting an overheated engine cool down and had stopped to smell the roses, as it were. I chuckled to myself as I took my kit from the back seat, master criminal that I was,

and made my way down the long and dusty drive that led to the old house. I stood with the sun on my face for a few moments and let my imagination spin a story about who might have lived here. I thought of kids running through the vegetable patch, a pack of family dogs racing with them, sparklers on the Fourth of July, a kitchen with rows of freshly canned pickles laid out on cotton towels,

a tree planted to mark a special day a hundred years ago that grew to the one I looked at now. It had a large wraparound porch, and though the stairs had a few missing boards and the paint was chipped and faded, I could tell it had been a beloved place in its time. I followed my nose to the large row of lilacs and put on my gloves and opened my shears. The blossoms were so full and heavy that their stems struggled to stay upright.

And I set my basket down and started to relieve them of their burden. I took time to notice each small bloom, drank deep the smell, and patiently waited for bees to shift from one flower to another. I filled my basket till it nearly overflowed, and still the bushes seemed as full as they had when I started. I kicked my way back down the drive,

and with a surreptitious look up and down the road, I smuggled my goods back into the car and made my getaway. All that stealing had made me thirsty, and I was craving a cold brew coffee from a little cafe near my house. I decided to bring my basket with me, and found a seat at a tiny table outside. I ordered my iced coffee with a bit of coconut milk, and sat my basket on the seat beside me.

I picked through the stems, making small bouquets and tying them up with twine. Some were for me and some I'd leave on the doorsteps of friends. Did you steal those lilacs? asked a voice from behind me. I turned to see an older man with grey hair and bright eyes

looking at me over his cup of coffee. What lilacs? I asked, innocently. He winked at me and touched his finger to the side of his nose. Takes one to know one, he said. I laughed out loud and passed him over a bundle of flowers. He pressed them to his face and took a deep breath in and let it out in a contented sigh. We chatted for a few minutes about some of our favorite spots. He told me about a place by the highway, and I told him about a tree behind the library. He lifted the bouquet to thank me, and I carried my basket out to divvy up the rest of my plunder among friends and strangers on my way back home.

The Lilac Thief There are only a few days of the spring when you can step out of the door and smell them on every passing breeze. So bright and sweet that there's nothing to do but plant your feet and take slow, deep breaths to try to store their scent deep inside for another year. The lilacs.

I remember, as a child, pressing my face into their soft blooms, dew coming away on my cheeks, and wondering how something could smell like that, and look like that, and grow so abundantly, and be allowed. It seemed too good, too perfectly aligned with what was pleasing to just occur naturally. But I guess there is a catch with lilacs.

They only bloom once a year, and they don't last long. In fact, they're best enjoyed on the tree. When you cut them down and bring them inside, they soon wilt and dry up, and their sweet smell fades. Still, I couldn't help myself. I would try to be surrounded by them for as long as possible each spring, and that meant taking matters into my own hands, and possibly some very gentle trespassing. You see, I am a lilac thief. I don't strike at random. My crimes aren't ham-fisted or even much noticed.

I'm a subtle thief. I plan when and where, and make my getaway before anyone is the wiser. When I walk my neighborhood, I might casually reach up for a stray blossom, creeping through the slats of a fence, and just as casually tuck it into the flag of a mailbox for someone to find later. But I know better than to pull a real heist so close to home.

For that, I packed a kit into my car. Wicker basket, garden gloves, twine, and a small set of pruning shears. I dressed inconspicuously and drove out into the countryside. There was an old farmhouse, long abandoned, on a dirt road that I knew well. I'd cased the joint years ago and found the house reliably empty and the yard reliably full of lilac trees.

I parked my car on the edge of the road to give myself a bit of plausible deniability. After all, perhaps I just had a spot of car trouble and was letting an overheated engine cool down and had stopped to smell the roses, as it were. I chuckled to myself as I took my kit from the back seat, master criminal that I was, and made my way down the long and dusty drive that led to the house.

I stood with the sun on my face for a few moments and let my imagination spin a story about who might have lived here. I thought of kids running through the vegetable patch, a pack of family dogs racing with them, sparklers on the Fourth of July, a kitchen with rows of freshly canned pickles laid out on cotton towels, a tree planted to mark a special day, a hundred years ago, that grew to the one I looked at now. The house had a large wraparound porch, and although the stairs had a few missing boards and the paint was chipped and faded,

I could tell it had been a beloved place in its time. I followed my nose to the large row of lilacs, and put my gloves on and opened my shears. The blossoms were so full and heavy that their stems struggled to stay upright. I set my basket down and started to relieve them of their burden. I took time to notice each small bloom, drank deep the smell, and patiently waited for bees to shift from one flower to another. I filled my basket till it nearly overflowed,

and still the bushes seemed as full as they had when I started. I kicked my way back down the drive, and with a surreptitious look up and down the road, I smuggled my goods back into the car and made my getaway. All that stealing had made me thirsty, and I was craving a cold brew coffee from a little cafe near my house. I decided to bring my basket with me, and found a seat at a tiny table outside.

I ordered my iced coffee with a bit of coconut milk and set my basket on the seat beside me. I picked through the stems, making small bouquets and tying them up with the twine. Some were for me, and some I'd leave on the doorsteps of friends. Did you steal those lilacs? asked a voice from behind me. I turned to see an older man with grey hair and bright eyes looking at me over his cup of coffee. What lilacs? I asked innocently.

"'He winked at me and touched his finger to the side of his nose. "'Takes one to know one,' he said. "'I laughed out loud, passed him over a bundle of flowers. "'He pressed them to his face and took a deep breath in and let it out in a contented sigh. We chatted for a few minutes about some of our favorite spots. He told me about a place by the highway. I told him about the tree behind the library. He lifted the bouquet to thank me. And I carried my basket out to divvy up the rest of my plunder

among friends and strangers on my way back home. Sweet dreams.