Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - The Pumpkin Farmer

Episode Date: October 11, 2021

Our story tonight is called “The Pumpkin Farmer” and it’s a story about a family tradition and the harvest that comes after a season of careful tending. It’s also about a long table set out beside the barn with every chair taken, a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and living in step with the seasons. 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 write and read all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens, with audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. We have some lovely new merch in our store. Stickers and hoodies, long-sleeved shirts and tees. Think of it as a small way to carry the village of Nothing Much with you wherever you go. Take a look, and as always, you can get our bonus and ad-free episodes through NothingMuchHappens.com.

Now, since every story is someone's first, let me say a bit about how to use this podcast. I have a simple story to tell you to help you relax and drift off to sleep. Not much happens in it, and that's sort of the idea. It's a place to rest your mind, and anchor to keep your ship in place till morning. I'll read the story twice, and I'll go a little bit slower the second time through. If you find yourself still awake at the end of the second telling, don't worry. Sometimes that's how it goes. Relax. Walk yourself back through whatever bits of the story you can remember.

Lean into them, and before you know it, you'll be waking up tomorrow, feeling refreshed and calm. This is a kind of brain training. Sleep will come more quickly and with more ease as you practice, so have patience

if you're new to this. Now, it's time to settle in. Turn off your light. Put down all of your devices. You've looked at a screen for the last time today. Stretch deep into your sheets and settle yourself into your favorite sleeping position. I'll be here, guarding over you with my voice while you rest. So you can let go.

It's okay. Take a slow breath in through your nose. And sigh out through your mouth. Nice. Let's do that again. Breathe in and out. Good. Our story tonight is called The Pumpkin Farmer, and it's a story about a family tradition and the harvest that comes after a season of careful tending. It's also about a long table set out beside the barn with every chair taken, a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up,

and living in step with the seasons. The Pumpkin Farmer It could be a hobby, to grow a garden full of vegetables and flowers. It could be a casual pastime, something you tend to when you can spare a few minutes after dinner and a bit of time on a Saturday morning. Maybe the rows aren't straight

and the marigolds get eaten by aphids halfway through the season. And you forget to pick the summer squash when they ripen. And that's fine. The deer will happily eat them. And, as I say, it can be a hobby. But if you are going to grow really excellent, abundant, and in particular, large vegetables, well, it needs to be a passion. And for our family, it had been just that for a few generations

we are known all over the county for our mammoth 100 pound cabbages our footlong colossal carrots and in particular, are beautiful, giant pumpkins. Learning to grow vegetables like that doesn't happen overnight, or even in a single season.

Since my grandparents started tilling the soil, we've been fussily picking out the best seeds to keep and perfecting our compost. As a kid, I'd walk the rows with them, squatting down to press a finger into the soil, learning to feel for the right amount of moisture. Giant vegetables want quite a good bit of water, too little and they'll languish and split.

And as they grow, you must thin the rows to keep only the very best plants. Pumpkins like a bit of extra potassium and phosphorus, so we are careful with what we feed them. And listen, this is my own addition to the recipe. They like to be talked to. They like to be kept company. And the pumpkins might have been feeling a bit lonely lately, as most of the rest of the garden had been pulled down and tilled back into the soil. We had a good harvest of tomatoes,

some as big as lopsided bowling balls, and we'd had success with a variety of cauliflower, from seeds we'd traded with our local growing club that had needed three people and a wheelbarrow to get out of the dirt. One of our onions had gotten to be nearly three feet long, and my father had carried it lovingly around in his arms like a baby for a whole day. I wouldn't be surprised if he'd named it. Leave it to an onion to make a person weepy.

So the pumpkin patch was the last bit of growing veg in the garden for the year. It was a green and orange island in the large black-brown field. We had a week left until the fall fair out by the orchards, when our prize veg would be measured and weighed. So I spent a fair amount of time with the pumpkins these days. We'd had rain the night before, and I pulled on my tall yellow rain boots by the back door. Along with the oversized flannel shirt I wore like a jacket when the air was cool. I rolled the sleeves up to my elbows and headed out to the garden. The rain had brought down some leaves from the chestnut tree by the barn.

We'd rake them up later and layer them into the compost pile. So much of what grew and lived on this stretch of land could be used to help more grow and live. When we worked like that, with the plants and trees and soil. When there were very few things wasted, it felt like we were living hand in hand with the land. Like we were in lockstep with nature, understanding the plan and playing our part in it. The skies held a few high clouds, but the day was still bright,

and the cool air felt good on my neck. I took long strides out past the edge of the barn and turned toward the pumpkin patch. I smiled as I looked down at them. There were six, spread out over three well-spaced rows, like the ones in fairy tales, with long green tendrils curling along the soil, and pumpkins big enough to possibly carry an excited person in new shoes to a ball with a bit of bibbity-bobbity-boo.

I spent some time with each one, patting them in a friendly way, chatting about the rain last night, the leaves fallen in the yard, the carrot-ginger soup I'd smelled simmering in the kitchen on my way out. I inspected their leaves, checked the soil, and ran my hands over their shining, smooth sides to check for splits or soft spots. In the end, we'd only take one or two of these to the fair, and hopefully we'd add one more blue ribbon to the shelf in the living room. People often ask what we do with such enormous vegetables. What we do with the pumpkins. Well, growing this much abundance naturally means you'll be sharing.

We had a large family, and most Saturday afternoons and evenings turned into a feast for twenty or more. We had a long table we carried out of the barn, and we'd lay out a cloth and start plunking down dish after dish. Salads, tomato tarts, ratatouille, zucchini fritters and coleslaw with shredded cabbage and matchsticks of carrot and apple. And family brought friends and their friends brought friends as well and sometimes we'd have to kick folks out of their seats once they'd finished and make space for more. Those were my favorite dinners. out of their seats once they'd finished and make space for more.

Those were my favorite dinners, when we started to run out of plates and chairs. We'd hurry in to wash what we could, but I'd also seen people happily eating tomato salad out of coffee mugs with chopsticks while they sat on the grass. What we couldn't eat, we gave away. We had a makeshift table of sawhorses and found planks of wood by the end of the driveway. We'd set out spare cucumbers and cabbages, there beside a little sign my cousin had painted saying, free, take all you need.

The pumpkins were the only thing we sold. The baker insisted. They would make all her pumpkin pies for Thanksgiving. And years ago, we'd struck up a deal. She'd come to the farm and checked them herself. And since then, we'd spent the few days after the fair together in the farmhouse's kitchen, where, with all hands on deck, we'd process and can the bright orange pumpkin flesh

until every flat surface in the house was holding the newly sealed jars. We'd load them into boxes and together haul them to the bakery's pantry, where they'd be ready for the November rush. I stood up after checking the last pumpkin and brushed the soil from my hands. I'd check them again after lunch and again before bed. I couldn't help it. This wasn't a hobby for us.

This was a passion. The Pumpkin Farmer us. This was a passion. The pumpkin farmer. It could be a casual pastime, something you tend to when you can spare a few minutes after dinner and a bit of time on a Saturday morning. Maybe the rows aren't straight and the marigolds get eaten by aphids halfway through the season and you forget to pick the summer squash when they ripen and that's fine the deer will happily eat them and that's fine. The deer will happily eat them,

and as I say, it can be a hobby. But if you are going to grow really excellent, abundant, and in particular, large vegetables, well, it needs to be a passion. And for our family, it had been just that for a few generations. We are known all over the county for our mammoth 100-pound cabbages, our foot-long, colossal carrots. And in particular, our beautiful, giant pumpkins.

Learning to grow vegetables like that doesn't happen overnight, or even in a single season. Since my grandparents started tilling the soil, we've been fussily picking out the best seeds to keep and perfecting our compost. As a kid, I'd walk the rows with them, squatting down to press a finger into the soil, learning to feel for the right amount of moisture. Giant vegetables want quite a good bit of water.

Too little and they'll languish and split. And as they grow, you must thin the rows to keep only the best plants pumpkins like a bit of extra potassium and phosphorus so we are careful with what we feed them and listen So we are careful with what we feed them. And listen, this is my own addition to the recipe. They like to be talked to.

They like to be kept company. And the pumpkins might have been feeling a bit lonely lately, as most of the rest of the garden had been pulled down and tilled back into the soil. We had a good harvest of tomatoes, some as big as lopsided bowling balls. And we'd had success with a variety of cauliflower, from seeds we'd traded with our local growing club that had needed three people and a wheelbarrow to get out of the dirt. One of our onions had gotten to be nearly three feet long, And my father had carried it lovingly around in his arms, like a baby, for a whole day.

I wouldn't be surprised if he'd named it. Leave it to an onion to make a person weepy. So the pumpkin patch was the last bit of growing veg in the garden for the year. It was a green and orange island in the large black-brown field. We had a week left until the fall fair out by the orchards, when our prize veg would be measured and weighed. So I spent a fair amount of time with the pumpkins these days. We'd had rain the night before, and I pulled on my tall yellow rain boots by the back door,

along with the oversized flannel shirt I wore like a jacket when the air was a bit cool. I rolled the sleeves up to my elbows and headed out to the garden. The rain had brought down some leaves from the chestnut tree by the barn. We'd rake them up later and layer them into the compost pile. So much of what grew and lived on this stretch of land could be used to help more grow and live. When we worked like that, with the plants and trees and soil, when there were very few things wasted, it felt like we were living hand in hand with the land,

like we were in lockstep with nature, understanding the plan and playing our part in it. The skies held a few high clouds, but the day was still bright, and the cool air felt good on my neck. I took long strides out past the edge of the barn and turned toward the pumpkin patch. I smiled as I looked out at them. There were six, spread out over three well-spaced rows, like the ones in fairy tales,

with long, green tendrils curling along the soil, and pumpkins big enough to possibly carry an excited person in new shoes to a ball with a bit of bibbity-bobbity-boo. I spent some time with each one, patting them in a friendly way, chatting about the rain last night,

the leaves fallen in the yard, the carrot-ginger soup I'd smelled simmering in the kitchen on my way out. I inspected their leaves, checked the soil, and ran my hands over their shining, smooth sides to check for splits or soft spots. In the end, we'd only take one or two of these to the fair. And hopefully, we'd add one more blue ribbon to the shelf in the living room. People often ask what we do with such enormous vegetables.

What we do with the pumpkins. well growing this much abundance naturally means you'll be sharing we had a large family and most Saturday afternoons and evenings turned into a feast for twenty or more.

We had a long table we carried out of the barn, and we'd lay out a cloth and start plunking down dish after dish. Salads, tomato tarts, ratatouille, zucchini fritters and coleslaw with shredded cabbage and matchsticks of carrot and apple. And family brought friends

and their friends brought friends as well. And sometimes we'd have to kick folks out of their seats once they'd finished and make space for more. Those were my favorite dinners, when we started to run out of plates and chairs. those were my favorite dinners. When we started to run out of plates and chairs, we'd hurry in to wash what we could, but I'd also seen people happily eating tomato salad out of coffee mugs with chopsticks

while they sat on the grass. And what we couldn't eat, we gave away. We had a makeshift table of sawhorses and found planks of wood by the end of the driveway. We'd set out spare cucumbers and cabbages. There beside, a little sign my cousin had painted, saying, free, take all you need. The pumpkins were the only thing we sold. The baker insisted.

They would make all her pumpkin pies for Thanksgiving. And years ago, we'd struck up a deal. She'd come to the farm and check them herself. And since then, we'd spent the few days after the fair, together, in the farmhouse's kitchen, where, with all hands on deck, we'd process and can the bright orange pumpkin flesh until every flat surface in the house was holding the newly sealed jars. We'd load them into boxes

and together haul them to the bakery's pantry where they'd be ready for the November rush. I stood up after checking the last pumpkin and brushed the soil from my hands. I checked them again after lunch and again before bed. I couldn't help it. This wasn't a hobby for us. This was a passion. Sweet dreams.