Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - The Other Innkeeper

Episode Date: October 19, 2020

Our story tonight is called The Other Innkeeper and it’s a story about a memory and the path it lays out. It’s also about a card waiting to fall into the right hands, creaking hallway floors, and the end of something that may actually be a beginning. So get cozy and ready to sleep. 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. Nothing Much Happens, the book, is available in many countries right now and for pre-order in many more.

Get yours from your favorite bookseller or learn more at nothingmuchappens.com. 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. A place to rest your mind. I'll what the story is, a place to rest your mind.

I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a bit slower the second time through. As you listen, pull the details of the story around you like a blanket. Imagine yourself in the story. And before you know it, likely before I finish reading, you'll be deeply and peacefully asleep. If you wake again in the middle of the night, walk yourself back through any details from the story you can remember.

It'll put your mind right back into its nest, and soon you'll be waking up tomorrow feeling relaxed and refreshed. 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. You are about to fall asleep. You will sleep deeply all night. Take a deep breath in through your nose and sigh through the mouth.

Again, breathe in and out. Good. Our story tonight is called The Other Innkeeper. And it's a story about a memory and the path it lays out. It's also about a card waiting to fall into the right hands, creaking hallway floors, and the end of something that may actually be a beginning.

The other innkeeper. I hadn't planned to go out. I'd been sitting in my favorite armchair, with a book open on my lap, looking out through the second-floor window at the treetops across the street. I'd been shifting my attention back and forth between the pages of the book and the afternoon light

as it slid over the bright orange leaves still clinging to their branches. The book was a local history. I'd gotten it the day before, on a walk through the neighborhood. At a corner, I'd noticed one of those small lending cabinets of books. I almost didn't stop. The skies were turning gray, and it seemed like rain was on its way.

But for some reason, I found myself turning back to it, reaching up for the handle and opening it up to see what books lined its shelves. There were spy novels, their paperback spines cracked in a dozen places, a couple of Agatha Christie books, some children's picture books that

looked well-loved, with worn edges and perhaps a few tooth marks from a family dog. I stopped to look up at the house behind this little library and realized that it was one I'd thought long abandoned. I'd never seen a light on in its windows or a car parked on its cobblestone drive. It didn't seem to be falling apart, just empty. And I wondered who had driven this post into the corner of its lot and fastened the little library to it. When I looked back into the shelves, I saw, poking out from behind a tall chemistry text,

likely discarded in frustration, a thin black book with the name of the town across the spine. I'd slipped it out, tucked it under my arm, and made it home just as the rain started to come down. Today was a clear, sunny day, and with the light falling across my lap, I turned the pages, slowly flipping through black and white photos, with captions and dates and footnotes about the people and places they surrounded.

I liked the photos of downtown best. Many of the first buildings constructed in our town were still standing. And though it took a bit of looking, I could usually orient myself by the old photos. A three-story building with a long awning and fancy cornices, whose windows were painted with tall letters declaring, dry goods, was still there, and now held a toy shop on the first floor with apartments above. I'd bought a present for a young friend's birthday there just the week before, and I remembered stopping to squat down to reach for a set of building blocks on a low shelf,

and seeing faint initials burned into the old oak floors. It looked like it had been done with a small branding iron, and I imagined a mischievous child busily marking their initials in behind a shelf while their parent was serving customers on the I'd run my fingertips over the letters J-P-G and wondered where they'd ended up and if they'd thought sometimes about this patch of wood floor and how it had felt to leave their mark on the world. There was a word for this, a very tricky one that I'd learned from a Scrabble champion cousin,

and I said it aloud as I touched the floor. Xylopirography Fire writing on wood I looked back at the photo of the storefront. There were a few young ones playing on the sidewalk. I wondered how much trouble there had been when that bit of graffiti had been discovered. On the last page, I found a picture of the old inn on the lake at the far side of downtown.

It was a place I'd been in love with as a child. Its broad porch with stepping stones down to the water. Its front gardens full of delphinium. Its locally famous coffee cake with the swirl of crunchy cinnamon in the middle. One picture showed a side view with long strands of ivy climbing up the stone walls to the turret that I'd always imagined must house a huge four-poster bed and a matching dressing table, hung with a mirror, speckled and cloudy with age. It had closed years ago, when I was still a child.

But I'd gotten to step inside it a few times, when family came from out of state to visit and booked a room, and then at their annual Halloween parties. I remembered the smell of the wood polish and the big book on the front desk that spun around on a lazy Susan. There had been sepia-toned pictures in thick carved frames on the walls, and the old wood floors in the sitting room creaked in a friendly, satisfying way. Suddenly, I wanted to see it again.

I tucked the book of photos into my bag and was rolling my bicycle out of the garage within a few minutes. I was glad I'd pulled a hat and scarf from the coat rack by the front door on my way out. Even with the sun still shining in the western sky, the air rushing past me as I paddled was crisp. I pulled deep breaths of it in as I circled through downtown. I gave a friendly nod to the toy shop building and the ghost of J.P.G. as I coasted past. Soon I was turning my bike down the drive to the inn. Weeds had grown high through the pavers, and the garden had long ago gone wild, but in the best possible way. The neat paths were overtaken by local grasses and wildflowers and tall stalks of milkweed. And I imagined honeybees and squirrels and butterflies were thriving and happy here.

I propped my bike against a post at the front door, realizing it must have originally been a place to hitch a horse-drawn carriage. I took careful steps up the front porch, just wanting to show the place a bit of respect. I knew no one was there. Hadn't been for decades. But I wasn't here to take advantage of its lack of keeper. I was here to be a keeper myself. Even if just for an afternoon.

I cupped my hands around my eyes and peered in through a front window to the reception room. the desk was still there, with its dozen or so cubbies on the wall, each meant to hold a room key or a piece of mail for the guests. The book was, too, though it had been finally closed, and an inch of dust lay on top of the cracked cover. I walked around the side of the grand old house and looked through a window, where I remembered the sitting room had been.

The tables and chairs were draped with white sheets, and the light bulbs had been unscrewed from their sconces. But there were still books on the case that ran along one wall. What I'd give to have a look through those books, to feel their covers in my hands and turn their aging pages. Around I went, to the very back of the inn, and down the path to the water. There was a bench, right at the edge of the shore, whose seat still had a few flakes of dark green paint protecting the wood. I took the book from my bag and looked again at the

pictures of this old inn, captured in its glory days. Its back porch had been full of tables, visitors raising coffee cups, and staff in clean aprons carrying trays loaded with breakfast plates. As I stood to walk back up to the inn, something fell from the pages of the book and I stooped down to pick it up. It was a card bigger than a playing card

with a pretty pattern on its back. A tarot card. I turned it over. The Six of Cups. I knew almost nothing about tarot. I'd just never been much interested. But it just so happened that I knew this card. I ran my finger over the surface and looked back at the inn. At one of those Halloween parties, me sitting on my mother's lap in front of a woman with kind, gray eyes and a deck of cards. She'd shown this card to the two of us and smilingly told us it was a card for memories, for making them and thinking back to them. She'd said it was a card for kindness and good deeds and simple pleasures.

Mom had squeezed me in her arms and said softly in my ear Let's make a memory right now Let's remember tonight Let's remember to be kind And I had The six of cups was still in my head and heart and I had. The six of cups was still in my head and heart. It had been a gift today to remember this place and that moment with my mother.

I didn't know who had given me this gift, who had tucked this card into this book and left it inside the cupboard on the corner, who had steered my bicycle to this spot today. Gifts have a way of leading us to continue the momentum of generosity. And as I walked back to my bike, I wondered if this old place might still have a few years left in her. Could there be a way to open her doors again? To

dig up the recipe for the coffee cake and pull the sheets off the old armchairs? And maybe by this time next year, host a party and make more memories. All dreams have to start somewhere. The other innkeeper. I hadn't planned to go out. I'd been sitting in a favorite armchair with a book open on my lap, looking out through the second floor window

at the treetops across the street. I'd been shifting my attention back and forth between the pages of the book, and the afternoon light as it slid over the bright orange leaves, still clinging to their branches. The book was a local history. I'd gotten it the day before, on a walk through the neighborhood. At a corner, I'd noticed one of those small lending cabinets of books. I almost didn't stop. The skies were turning gray, and it seemed like rain was on its way. But for some reason,

I found myself turning back to it, reaching up for the handle and opening it up to see what books lined its shelves. There were spy novels. Their paperback spines cracked in a dozen places. A couple of Agatha Christie books. Some children's picture books that looked well-loved, with worn edges. And perhaps a few tooth marks from a family dog. I stopped to look up at the house behind this little library and realized that it was one I'd thought long abandoned.

I'd never seen a light on in its windows or a car parked on its cobblestone drive. It didn't seem to be falling apart, just empty, and I wondered who had driven this post into the corner of its lot and fastened the little library to it. When I looked back into the shelves, I saw, poking out from behind a tall chemistry text, likely discarded in frustration, a thin black book

with the name of the town across the spine. I'd slipped it out, tucked it under my arm, and made it home just as the rain started to come down. Today was a clear, sunny day, and with the light falling across my lap, I turned the pages, slowly flipping through black and white photos with captions and dates

and footnotes about the people and places they surrounded. I liked the photos of downtown best. Many of the first buildings constructed in our town were still standing. And though it took a bit of looking, I could usually orient myself by the old photos.

The three-story building with the long awning and fancy cornices, whose windows were painted with tall letters declaring, dry goods, was still there, and now held a toy shop on the first floor, with apartments above. I'd bought a present for a young friend's birthday there just the week before, and I remembered stopping to squat down to reach for a set of building blocks on a low shelf, and seeing faint initials burned into the old oak floors. It looked like it had been done with a small branding iron, and I imagined a mischievous child, busily marking their initials in behind a shelf, while their parent was serving customers on the other side. over the letters J-P-G, and wondered where they'd ended up, and if they thought sometimes about this patch of wood floor, and how it had felt to leave their mark on the world. There was a word for this, a very tricky one,

that I'd learned from a Scrabble champion cousin. And I said it aloud as I touched the floor. Xylopirography. Fire writing on wood. I looked back at the photo of the storefront. There were a few young ones playing on the sidewalk. And I wondered how much trouble there had been when that bit of graffiti had been discovered. On the last page,

I found a picture of the old inn on the lake on the far side of downtown. It was a place I'd been in love with as a child. Its broad porch with stepping stones down to the water. Its front gardens full of delphinium, its locally famous coffee cake with the swirl of crunchy cinnamon in the middle. One picture showed a side view with long strands of ivy climbing up the stone walls to the turret that I'd always imagined must house a huge four poster bed and a matching dressing table hung with a mirror, speckled and cloudy with age.

It had closed years ago, when I was still a child, but I'd gotten to step inside it a few times, when family from out of state came to visit and booked a room, and then at their annual Halloween parties. I remembered the smell of the wood polish and the big book on the front desk that spun around on a lazy Susan. There had been sepia-toned pictures in thick carved frames on the walls and the old floors in the sitting room creaked in a friendly, satisfying way suddenly I wanted to see it again. I tucked the book of photos into my bag and was rolling my bicycle out of the garage within a few minutes. I was glad I'd pulled a hat and scarf from

the coat rack by the door on my way out. Even with the sun still shining in the western sky, the air rushing past me as I pedaled was crisp. I pulled deep breaths of it in as I circled through downtown. I gave a friendly nod to the toy shop building and the ghost of J.P.G. as I coasted past. Soon I was turning my bike down the drive to the inn. Weeds had grown high through the pavers, and the garden had long ago gone wild,

but in the best possible way. The neat paths were overtaken by local grasses and wildflowers and tall stalks of milkweed, and I imagined honeybees and squirrels and butterflies were thriving and happy here. I propped my bike against a post at the front door, realizing it must have originally been a place to hitch a horse-drawn carriage. I took careful steps up the front porch, just wanting to show the place a bit of respect. I knew no one was there, hadn't been for decades, But I wasn't here to take advantage of its lack of keeper. I was here to be a keeper myself, even if just for an afternoon. I cupped my hands around my eyes

and peered in through a front window to the reception room. The desk was still there, with its dozen or so cubbies on the wall, each meant to hold a room key or a piece of mail for the guests. The book was too, though it had been finally closed, and an inch of dust lay on top of the cracked cover. I walked around the side of the grand old house and looked through a window where I remembered the sitting room had been. The

tables and chairs were draped with white sheets, and the light bulbs had been unscrewed from their sconces. But there were still books on the case that ran along one wall. What I'd give to look through those books, to feel very back of the inn and down the path of the shore, whose seat still had a few flakes of dark green paint protecting the wood. I sat down gingerly and found it still sound and stable. I took the book from my bag and looked again at the pictures of this old inn, captured in its glory days. Its back porch had been full of tables, visitors raising coffee cups, and staff in clean aprons

carrying trays loaded with breakfast plates. As I down to pick it up. It was a card, bigger than a playing card, with a pretty pattern on its back. A tarot card. I turned it over. The six of cups. I knew almost nothing about tarot.

Had just never been much interested. But it just so happened that I knew this card. I ran my finger over the surface and looked back at the inn. At one of those Halloween parties, me sitting on my mother's lap, in front of a woman with kind, gray eyes, and a deck of cards. She'd shown this card

to the two of us and smilingly told us it was a card for memories, for making them and thinking back to them. She'd said and good deeds, and simple pleasures. Mom had squeezed me in her arms and said softly in my ear, let's make a memory right now. Let's remember tonight. Let's remember tonight. Let's remember to be kind.

And I had. The six of cups was still in my head and heart. It had been a gift today to remember this place and that moment with my mother. I didn't know who had given me this gift, who had tucked this card into the book and left it inside the who had steered my bicycle to this spot today. Gifts have a way of leading us to continue the momentum of generosity.

And as I walked back to my bike, I wondered if this old place might still have a few years left in her could there be a way to open her doors again to dig up the recipe for the coffee cake and pull the sheets off the old armchairs.

And maybe, by this time next year, host a party and make more memories. All dreams have to start somewhere. Now, off to your own. Sweet dreams.