Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Everyone in which Nothing Much Happens. You feel good and then you fall asleep. I'm Kathryn Nicolai. I write and read all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. We are bringing you an encore episode tonight, meaning that this story originally aired at some point in the past. It could have been recorded with different equipment in a different location. And since I'm a person and not a computer, I sometimes sound just slightly different. But the stories are always soothing and family friendly and our wishes for you are always deep rest and sweet dreams. Now I have a tried and true method for helping you sleep better tonight and also build consistently better sleep over time. We need to engage your brain just enough. We want it to stay in one place to quit its wandering ways for a bit, and the story is the way to do that. Just by listening will shift your brain into its task positive mode and that will make falling asleep easier, probably instant. Be patient if you are new to this. It is a form of brain training and will improve with regular use. I'll tell the story twice and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake later in the night, turn a story on and you'll drop right back off. Our story tonight is called Autumn sun and it's a story about a day at Weathervane Farm treating the animals to autumnal enrichment. It's also about light shifting through orange and red leaves, the pillowy soil of a well tilled garden, the last pumpkins picked from their vines, and the simple joy of watching kids play. Now slide down into your sheets, switch off your light and take a moment to feel your whole body relaxing into the bed. The day is done. Whatever you did with was enough. Truly, you did enough today. All is well. Take a slow deep breath in through your no and sigh from your mouth again. Breathe in and release good autumn sun. The autumn was lovely and lasting this year. So many trees were still full of bright leaves and many others had only begun to turn. I hoped it would mean we would have a month or more yet to enjoy it when the skies were so blue it felt like Mother Nature was clearing away the clouds to let the sun shine brightly on the leaves, reminding us to look and to marvel. I certainly did the way the sun filtered through the branches. It reminded me of the sparkle of light on a lake on a clear day. It dazzled me, and I looked to be dazzled at least once a day with all this sunlight. Even the days that started off chilly warmed in the afternoon, and when I was working out in the barn or in the meadow, I was often down to my T shirt and overalls after lunch. The animals were enjoying this fall as much, if not more, than I was. The ducks and geese splashed and floated in the pond all day or slept in rows on the grassy banks. Did you know ducks can snore? I sure knew it. The cows we had a small herd of rescues now sunbathed and chewed the golden days away, watching the goats in the next paddock over as they jumped off the donated kids playground equipment and occasionally got their heads stuck in bales of hay or fence posts. The goats were voted most likely to cause trouble when no one is looking, though they still caused plenty when we were we also had a few pigs, a stable full of the sweetest donkeys you've ever met, and a few odds and ends, a lone llama, two emus who gave the goats a run for their money, sometimes literally a miniature horse barn cats, three turkeys, and slightly more dogs than strictly made sense. But everyone got food and fresh water, saw the doctor regularly, had clean stalls or beds to settle in at night, and got a lot of love and affection. We'd not set out to be an animal sanctuary. It had sort of crept up on us, but we wouldn't have it any other way. We had a small army of volunteers who helped us care for the critter crew every day, and they were as much our family now as the animals were. In fact, some came here for Thanksgiving. We would add all the leaves to the dining room table and have a big potluck and share some special treats with the animals. Today I was preparing some of those treats, in fact, or picking them rather. I'd grown a giant pumpkin patch on the far side of the barn behind the farmhouse, and we still had a few dozen sitting on their vines. I took my trusty wheelbarrow and rolled it through the dry grass. Gosh, it smelled so good out today. That sweet hay scent of the grass at the end of its life, the leaves baking in the sun. I filled my lungs with it as I turned toward the patch and parked my barrow by the edge of the garden. It is a specific sense memory that I have that kicks in each time I step onto the well tilled soil of walking through my grandfather's garden as a child. His garden soil was almost pillowy, and each step held a moment of sinking and a moment of bounce as my foot lifted for the next. I smiled, proud to have inherited his green thumb and soil aeration skills. I took some snippers from the roomy chest pocket on my overalls and began to snip away pumpkins from their prickly stems. I balanced them as best as I could in the wagon, the biggest on the bottom and the smaller ones on the top, till it was about as full as I thought I could manage on the uneven ground. As I wheeled it back across the barnyard toward the goats play area, I noticed the shadow the weather vane made on the bare earth. There was almost no wind today, so it was still, and the shape of the crane and arrows that sat up on the roof ridge was repeated in a slight blur at my feet. One of our dogs was stretched out in the shadow. He was a husky, and I could tell he was eager for the first snow to come, for colder days to set in. Frigo was his name, and he was the kind of dog that would lay on the last patch of ice in the yard as spring came on. By now he'd had enough of the warm weather, was taking refuge in this one shady spot in the open yard. I stopped to give him a pat and promise him that the winter weather would come soon. Like most huskies, he liked to talk, and even more to talk back, so he had a few things to say about that. Oh, Frigo, I said with sympathy as I reached for the handles of the barrow and started off again. His whiny howls were setting off George the Donkey, who brayed back from his yard. Oh please, I chuckled invitingly. Let's all express ourselves. Where's the rooster, Sunny? I spotted him packing around the side of the coop. He was an older gentleman who I think could barely see, but he knew his name and let out a squeaky crow. Need some oil on those gears, my friend? I mumbled as I maneuvered my load of pumpkins around to the gate of the goat's yard. I needed to get in without all of them getting out, so I picked up one of the smaller pumpkins and held it up to get their attention. They watched me, several of them still chewing on hay or grass, and I called out to them about the many virtues of pumpkins, how delicious they were, how fun they were to step on and headbutt. I did a couple fake out throws, pretending to toss it into one corner or another, and they did not react like the dogs who would have been running back and forth trying to find the disappearing pumpkins. The goats just watched me, and I started to lose confidence that my plan was going to work. Here goes nothing, I mumbled as I tossed the gourd for real now, as far out to the back of their yard as I could manage, it somehow landed on top of one of their play structures. They watched it wobble at the top edge of a slide, turning their heads as if looking first with one eye, then with the other. Finally it toppled, slid squeakily down the slant, and as it hit the ground below, lovely and overripe as it was, it broke open. The goats lost their minds at this. They ran over some of the younger ones ran through the seeds and pumpkin flesh. Others climbed up to slide down over was my cue to open their gate and rush in with the rest. Quickly closing it behind me, I started tossing the pumpkins in all different directions. Some cracked as they came down and others bounced, and I knew the kids would be playing all afternoon with these new toys. I backed out as I'd come in, careful not to step on a passing cat or trip over the llama. Asleep in the Sun My life was a little silly here on Weathervane Farm, but I loved it, and I think they all did too. Autumn sun the autumn was lovely and lasting this year. So many trees were still full of bright leaves, and many others had only begun to turn. I hoped it would mean we would have a month or more yet to enjoy it when the skies were so blue it felt like Mother Nature was clearing away the clouds to let the sun shine brightly on the leaves, reminding us to look and to marvel. I certainly did. The way the sun filtered through the branches reminded me of the sparkle of light on a lake on a clear day. It dazzled me, and I looked to be dazzled at least once a day with all this sunlight. Even the days that started off chilly warmed in the afternoon, and when I was working out in the barn or in the meadow, I was often down to my T shirt and overalls after lunch. The animals were enjoying this fall as much, if not more, than I was. The ducks and geese splashed and floated in the pond all day or slept in rows on the grassy banks. Did you know ducks can snore? Phew. I sure knew it. The cows. We had a small herd of rescues now sunbathed and chewed the golden days away, watching the goats in the next paddock over as they jumped off the donated kids playground equipment and occasionally got their heads stuck in bales of hay or fence post. They were voted most likely to cause trouble when no one is looking, though they also caused plenty when we were we also had a few pigs, a stable full of the sweetest donkeys you've ever met, and a few odds and ends, a lone llama, two emus who gave the goats a run for their money, sometimes literally a miniature horse barn, cats, three turkeys, and slightly more dogs than strictly made sense. But everyone got food and fresh water, saw the doctor regularly had clean stalls or beds to settle in at night, and a lot of love and affection. We'd not set out to be an animal sanctuary. It had sort of crept up on us, but we wouldn't have it any other. We had a small army of volunteers who helped us care for the critter crew every day, and they were as much our family now as the animals were. In fact, some came here for Thanksgiving. We would add all the leaves to the dining room table and have a big potluck and share some special treats with the animals. Today I was preparing some of those treats, in fact, or picking them rather. I'd grown a giant pumpkin patch on the far side of the barn behind the farmhouse, and we still had a few dozen sitting on their vines. I took my trusty wheelbarrow and rolled it through the dry grass. Gosh, it smelled so good out today. The sweet hay scent of the grass at the end of its life, the leaves baking in the sun. I filled my lungs with it as I turned toward the patch, parked my barrow by the edge of the garden. It is a specific sense memory I have that still kicks in each time I step onto the well tilled soil of walking through my grandfather's garden. As a child. His garden soil was almost pillowy, and each step held a moment of sinking and a moment of bounce as my foot lifted for the next. I smiled, proud to have inherited his green thumb and soil aeration skills. I took some snippers from the roomy chest pocket on my overalls and began to snip away pumpkins from their prickly stems. I balanced them as best I could in the wagon, the biggest on the.
