Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - The Winter Quilt

Episode Date: January 15, 2024

Our story tonight is called The Winter Quilt, and it’s a story about a lovingly made piece of art that warms a heart and a bed. It’s also about snowflakes lit up in the headlights of a car, sparrows and bicycles, and the artifacts that we hold to tell us stories from the past. Our charity this week is Children International, https://www.children.org. They work to connect people around the world in the fight to end poverty. Subscribe for ad-free, bonus, and extra-long episodes now, as well as ad-free and early episodes of Stories from the Village of Nothing Much! Search for the NMH Premium channel on Apple podcasts or follow the link below: https://www.nothingmuchhappens.com/premium-subscription Listen to our new show, Stories from the Village of Nothing Much, on your favorite podcast app. 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 on Nothing Much Happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. Now, listen, my friends, before we get any further, I need to tell you about a small change you'll be hearing on our stories. Nothing Much Happens is a huge show, and I'm not bragging, although I am a firm believer in blowing your own horn. I just need to explain that each month the show is played many millions of times, and the online hosting costs for that alone are substantial.

And you might think, well, if the show is so big, why does it matter that the overhead It must be able to pay for itself. Well, it's me. Hi. I'm the problem. It's me. I'm very protective of you. And for six years now, I have fought against doing certain things that would make the show a lot more profitable, but which I just didn't think were right for NMH. Let me tell you, the deals that I have turned down would blow your sleep socks off. Anyway, we are in a moment in which if we want to continue to provide this service to you, and I do, it's all I really want, to keep helping you relax and sleep. We need to nudge our ads a few minutes into the show. I know, I know, but listen, here's how it will work. I'll open the show as usual. I'll tell you about our charity this week. It's Children's

International. They work to connect people around the world in the fight to end poverty. We have a link to them in our notes. And I'll explain a bit about how the show works and how to use it. And then I'll give the show summary. You know, the bit where I say, Our story tonight. And then we'll take a short ad break. All the ads will still be read by me in my sleepy voice. So if you're already asleep, I won't wake you up.

Then when we come back, I'll walk you through settling in and taking your two deep breaths. And we'll step into the village together. It's a small change, really, but it will allow us to keep going. So, thank you for understanding. The team over here at NMH is always working to give you the best experience that we possibly can. And we hope you can feel how genuinely committed to that we are. Of course, you can bypass all of this ads nonsense by subscribing to our premium feeds, and there's a link in our show notes, or you can just search NMH Premium on Apple Podcasts. Now, I have a story to tell you. Busy minds need a place to rest. And after nearly six years and hundreds of stories, yeah, I've kind of cracked the code. I have a soft place to rest your mind. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through.

All you have to do is listen. Before you know it, you'll be waking up tomorrow, feeling rested and renewed. If you wake in the night, don't hesitate to turn the story right back on. The more time you give your brain to rev back up, the longer it can take to return to sleep. So just press play and snooze. This is sleep training, and like all types of training, it takes a little practice, so have patience, friends. Our story tonight is called The Winter Quilt, and it's a story about a lovingly made piece of art that warms a heart and a bed. It's also about snowflakes lit up in the headlights of a car, sparrows and bicycles, and the artifacts that we hold

to tell us stories from the past. Now get as comfortable as you can. Turn off the light. Set down your device. You have looked at a screen for the last time today. And if you tend to clench your jaw when you sleep, place the tip of your tongue at the spot where your top teeth meet the gums on the

inside. This will give your jaw some space and make clenching a lot harder to do. But first, let's draw a full breath in through the nose and sigh through the mouth. Do it one more time. Inhale, inhale, and out with sound. Good. The Winter Quilt. I have a lovely comforter, so soft and fluffy, and it is truly comforting.

Diving into bed at the end of a long day, pulling it around me and tucking in the edges, It's so soothing and snuggly. But in January, when the bitter cold begins to creep in through the old wood floors, when the biting winds rattle the window panes, and frost spreads over their surface. That fluffy comforter just won't do. That's when I go to the linen closet and take down the heavy winter quilt that has been warming my bed for most of my life. It was stitched by a neighbor who babysat for me when I was a child. I remember her living room, full of old pictures and old frames.

Figurines that I was afraid I would knock to the ground, even when I was trying very hard not to touch them, and a candy dish that, while full, never held the kind of candy I was interested in. Thinking back, I probably drove her up the wall a bit. I was noisy and easily got the zoomies. I wanted sandwiches cut the way my dad made them, and I never wanted to take a nap.

But still, she made me this beautiful quilt. It must have taken many hours. It easily spread over a king-sized bed and was full of designs and artistry. Pulling it down from the closet, I let out an oof when it dropped down into my arms. It is heavy, a weighted blanket before anyone was hip to the idea. I stored it in a zippered bag to keep dust and moths away, and I set

it on my bed to open it up. This quilt is like a long, epic book. Every time you read it, you notice a detail, a line, a scrap of story that you had never heard before. As I shook out the quilt and began to spread it over the bed, my eyes landed on shapes and colors that I swear hadn't been there the winter before. The background was a creamy white,

and many of the patches were sewn in with a deep blue thread. There was a general color scheme of chestnut brown and emerald green that made me think of the trees in the park across the street from the house I'd grown up in. But that brown shade, it also matched my hair, which, when I had been a child, babysat by this kind woman, was long and wild, usually starting off in a braid or pigtails,

but quickly coming down in my play till it hung in my eyes. In another square of the quilt, I recognized some shapes that hinted at a bicycle, and I remembered riding in front of her house, my mom's hand on the seat as I wobbled and ran onto the grass. It was a neighborhood with small homes and old trees, and her house sat on a corner. Every kid on a bike cut that corner,

which, for a while, she'd tried to protect with a bit of fencing and flowers, but eventually gave up. And when all the grass had been worn away by a hundred bike tires. She pushed pretty stones into the dirt. And I remembered squatting down and running my fingers over them, marveling at the shimmer and colors.

I used all my strength to pick up the quilt and toss it over the length of the bed and as I smoothed it and straightened it into place I spotted a little bird sewn into the design it was small only as big around as a soup spoon and I thought it might be a sparrow.

It was one of those small details that I somehow had never seen before, and I noticed at its feet were tiny specks of brown thread, birdseed, to sustain it. She had had a birdbath in her backyard, one that we watched from the kitchen window. It was an old cast-iron piece, probably weighed a hundred pounds, and I wondered if it was still there. Perhaps it had been too difficult to move, and was just passed from owner to owner each time the house sold. I think she may have called me Sparrow. It rang a bell. I thought it might have been her pet name for me, because of how I flitted around, flew from game to game. And here she had sewn me into my quilt.

I rested my hand on the little stitched bird and felt a swell of affection for the maker. I realized I didn't even know her first name. She had always been a Mrs. to me and still I thought of her first name. She had always been a missus to me, and still I thought of her that way. The whole time I'd been bringing out the quilt and laying it on the bed, the cold had been making its way up through my sock-covered feet. And while I wanted to keep admiring the handiwork and the memories that came with, there was a pervasive chill in my body now,

and I couldn't wait to get into bed. I shivered over to the windows and looked out as I lowered the blinds. On the street, snow was coming down as it had been all day, and the wind was blowing. A car in the distance was moving very slowly. Masses of snowflakes lit up in its headlights, and I sent a little wish for them to make it to their own warm bed, safely and soon. Then I pulled back the quilt and sheet and slid into bed.

Oh, those sheets were cold. And I lay very still for a while, letting my body heat warm them. I reached for the quilt and pulled it up to my chin and tucked my arms back underneath it. The weight of it made me drowsy immediately, and I reached one arm back into the cold air to pull the chain on my bedside lamp. In the dark, I felt my breath slowing down. I watched the flickers of light through my blinds as cars passed, and knew I was moments from sleep. The quilt was pressing me into the mattress, and I made one little shift to be a tad more comfortable, feeling that this night's sleep would be one in which I barely moved all night.

Then all my muscles relaxed, and though the tip of my nose was chilled, the rest of me was warm under the thick covers. As I drifted, I thought about my neighbor once more. She had known me only as a child, and I had only met her in the last years of her life. My dreamy mind wondered if we could somehow meet each other in the middle. Me older, her younger.

Could we sit down and have a cup of coffee and tell each other about our lives? Would we recognize each other? Could she show me more of the hidden stories sewn into the quilt? In a dream, perhaps. The Winter Quilt. I have a lovely comforter. So soft and fluffy, it is truly comforting. Diving into bed at the end of a long day, pulling it around me and tucking in the edges so soothing and snugly.

But in January, when the bitter cold begins to creep in through the old wood floors when the biting winds rattle the window panes and frost spreads over their surface that fluffy comforter

just won't do. That's when I go to the linen closet and take down the heavy winter quilt that has been warming my bed for most of my life. It was stitched by a neighbor who babysat for me when I was a child. I remember her living room, full of old pictures and old frames, figurines that I was afraid I would knock to the ground,

even when I was trying very hard not to touch them. And a candy dish that, while full, never held the kind of candy I was interested in. Thinking back, I probably drove her up the wall a bit. I was noisy and easily got the zoomies. I wanted sandwiches cut the way my dad made them, and I never wanted to take a nap. But still, she made me this beautiful quilt. It must have taken many hours. It easily spread over a king-sized bed and was full of designs and artistry. Pulling it down from the closet, I let out an oof when it dropped down into my arms. It is heavy, a weighted blanket before anyone was hip to the idea. I store it in a zippered bag to keep dust and moths away, and I set it on my bed to open it up.

This quilt is like a long, epic book. Every time you read it, you notice a detail, a line, a scrap of story that you never had before. As I shook out the quilt and began to spread it over my bed, my eyes landed on shapes and colors that I swear hadn't been there the winter before. The background was a creamy white, and many of the patches were sewn in with a deep blue thread. There was a general color scheme of chestnut brown and emerald green that made me think of the trees in the park across the street from the house I'd grown up in. It also matched my hair, which, when I had been a child, babysat by this kind woman, was long and wild. usually starting off in a braid or pigtails, but quickly coming down in my play

till it hung in my eyes. In another square of the quilt, I recognized some shapes that hinted at a bicycle, and I remembered riding in front of her house, my mom's hand on the seat as I wobbled, and ran onto the grass. It was a neighborhood with small homes and old trees, and her house sat on a corner. Every kid on a bike cut that corner, which, for a while, she'd tried to protect with a bit of fencing and flowers, but eventually gave up, and when all the grass had been worn away by a hundred bike tires. She pushed pretty stones into the dirt, and I remembered squatting down,

running my fingers over them, marveling at the shimmer and colors. Now I used all my strength to pick up the quilt and toss it over the length of the bed. And as I smoothed it and straightened it into place, I spotted a little bird sewn into the design. It was small, only as big around as a soup spoon, and I thought it might be a sparrow. It was one of those small details that I somehow had never seen before, and I noticed at its feet were tiny specks of brown thread, birdseed, to sustain it.

She had had a birdbath in her backyard, one that we watched from the kitchen window. It was an old cast iron piece, probably weighed a hundred pounds, and I wondered if it was still there. Perhaps it had been too difficult to move and was just passed from owner to owner each time the house sold. I think she may have called me Sparrow.

It rung a bell and I thought it might have been her pet name for me because of how I flitted around, flew from game to game, and here she had sewn me into my quilt. I rested my hand on the little stitched bird and felt a swell of affection for the maker. I realized I didn't even know her first name. She had always been a missus to me, and still I thought of her that way. The whole time I'd been bringing out the quilt

and laying it on the bed. The cold had been making its way up through my sock-covered feet. And while I wanted to keep admiring the handiwork and the memories that came with, there was a pervasive chill in my body now, and I couldn't wait to get into bed. I shivered over to the windows and looked out as I lowered the blinds. On the street, snow was coming down,

as it had been all day, and the wind was blowing. A car in the distance was moving very slowly. Masses of snowflakes lit up in its headlights. And I sent a little wish for them to make it to their own bed, safely and soon. Then I pulled back the quilt and sheet and slid into bed. Oh, those sheets were cold. And I lay very still for a while, letting my body heat warm them. I reached for the quilt

and pulled it up to my chin then tucked my arms back underneath it. The weight of it made me drowsy immediately, and I reached one arm back into the cold air to pull the chain of my bedside lamp. In the dark, I felt my breath slowing down. I watched the flickers of light through my blinds as cars passed by and knew I was moments from sleep. The quilt was pressing me into the mattress, and I made one little shift to be a tad more comfortable,

feeling that this night's sleep would be one in which I barely moved all night. Then all my muscles relaxed, and though the tip of my nose was chilled, the rest of me was warm under the thick covers. As I drifted, I thought about my neighbor once more. She had only known me as a child, and I had only met her in the last years of her life. My dreamy mind wondered if we could somehow meet each other in the middle, me older, her younger. Could we sit down and have a cup of coffee and tell each other about our lives?

Would we recognize each other? Could she show me more of the hidden stories sewn into the quilt? In a dream perhaps sweet dreams