← Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep
Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep
The Turnaround (Encore)
00:27:46
Season 18, Episode 9
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Get more Nothing Much Happens with bonus episodes, extra long stories and ad free listening, all while supporting the show you love. Subscribe Now. 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 are always soothing and family friendly and our wishes for you are always Deep Rest and sweet dreams. I have a story to tell you and the story is a soft landing place for your mind. Whatever today has been like, it can end in soothing rest just by following along with the sound of my voice and the simple shape of our tale. I'll tell it twice and I'll go a little slower on the second telling. Let the details you hear pull you into the world of the story, as if you were seeing and hearing and tasting what it has to offer. If you wake again in the middle of the night, turn your mind right right back to those details and before you know it, you'll be waking up tomorrow feeling refreshed. This is simple but effective brain training, and as the habit builds, you'll notice that you drop off sooner and stay asleep longer. Our story tonight is called the Turnaround and it's a story about a trip down a gravel road on a summer day. It's also about bulrushes and bonfires, family stories and coming back to a place you know well. Now it's time to turn off the light and to put away anything you've been playing with or looking at. Take some time to cozy your body down into your preferred sleeping position. Get the right pillow in the right spot and let everything relax. Take a deep breath in through your nose, let it out your mouth. Nice. One more breathe in and out. Good. The Turnaround to find this place, put the river on your left and just keep driving. You might lose sight of the water now and then when you go through the high cattails and the thick milkweed that by mid summer has grown up higher than your head. But even when you can't see the river, you can feel it. Can't. I can always feel it. Even blindfolded and spun around six times in the yard behind the cottage, I regain my balance and turn my head this way and that and confidently point my hand like it's the needle of a compass straight toward the flowing water. When you come through the cattails and the road has shrunk to just one rutted lane, you're almost there. This is the moment, if you haven't done it yet, to roll down the windows and let the sound of the cicadas override the music on the radio. This is when I stick an arm out into the thick summer air and with palm down and fingers forward, surf over the rushing current with hand and forearm and elbow. The water that was only on your left before is now also on your right. The river is joining up with its sister and the road is now a causeway carefully picking its way out into a lake. Where it all stops is just a cul de sac of gravel and wildflowers, sloping sandy earth that inevitably is called by everyone around here the turnaround. I can never just turn around here, though I always pull my car onto the weedy shoulder and get out. How could you not, if you've made it this far? There is time to look out across all of this water, to squint at the horizon where the line of the waves meets the air in the distance. And that's where I am today, with my back leaned against the sun warmed panels of my car and the breeze cooling my skin. There are tire marks in the grass where other recent motorists have stopped to take in the view. In the center of the turnaround there's a circle of squat logs around the ashy remnants of last night's bonfire, a heart drawn in the sandy dust near it. I've sat many nights on those logs, listening to stories and making up a few of my own to contribute to the collective memory of a summer. On the far side of the drive, on the rocky slope of the embankment, is the place where I sat with my cousins when we were just old enough to drive and had somehow managed to be given the car keys. Our folks understanding, I supposed, that we could only take so much time with the grown ups around the dinner table. We played our favorite songs for each other and compared the war stories of high school and predicted where we'd all be 20 years from that night. I'd come and gone from this place many times, but though those predictions had fallen far from the mark, as the imaginings of our previous selves often do, I'd know then that a summer would never go by without me. At some point, standing right here, I walked down a path between rocks and bulrushes to the edge of the water I squatted down to trail my fingers through was still cold and would be until the end of August, when enough sunny days had finally and only slightly warmed it. I remembered the way the first dip of the day could take your breath away as children at the cottage where we spun in circles in the backyard. The river was framed by a break wall and we'd stand on the edge of it, feeling the warmth built up in the steel under our feet and already shivering with the anticipation of that first cold plunge. But after we'd finally gotten up the courage to jump, we'd be in and out a hundred times before the day was over. Watch this, we'd call out to the chattering grown ups under the umbrellas, who would nod at us as we played. I'm going to jump like Superman. I'm going to make a cannonball. Aunts and uncles would use the ladder, easing themselves down and taking breaks as the cold water rose over their ankles and knees and their breath came in faster and faster puffs, telling us to hold the inner tube steady for them to drop into and inevitably flipping out of it as soon as their weight landed just an inch to one side of center. They'd sputter and laugh when they popped back up. They'd call out to the others on the land about how cold it was, but after a minute or two they'd forget about the cold and just swim. I stood up from my squat by the water and looked out far across the vast spread of blue to spot the two shapes in the distance, one a bit closer and the other a bit further away that were, I suppose, not landmarks but watermarks of this place, two lighthouses showing the line of safe passage out in the channel. I wondered about what it had been like to build them over 150 years ago, to lay the foundations for them in the moving water, to construct the houses with their winding stairs and top floors of windows. Were the keepers lonely, or the sort of quiet people who enjoy the solitude of water spreading out in every direction around them? My father told a story about himself and a friend and a rowboat when they were still kids and how they had rode all the way out to the nearer one as they had made it back to their own dinner tables before the food had gone cold. They'd never been found out, but looking out across all this water it seemed like an impossibility, and I reminded myself that no one likes a good story as much as a dad does. I climbed back up the path into the heat of my front seat. When I was Here there were certain places I had to link up with, like a baseball player tagging up to a base. These were the touchstones that I oriented myself by. I put the river on my left, the lighthouses in front of me, and the stories of my family firmly at my center. The turnaround. To find this place, put the river on your left and just keep driving. You might lose sight of the water now and then when you go through the high cattails and the thick milkweed that by mid summer has grown up higher than your head. But even when you can't see the river, you can feel it, can't you? I can always feel it. Even blindfolded and spun around six times in the yard behind the cottage, I regain my balance and turn my head this way and that and confidently point my hand like it's the needle of a compass straight toward the flowing water. When you come through the cattails and the road has shrunk to just one rutted lane, you're almost there. This is the moment, if you haven't done it yet, to roll down the windows and let the sound of cicadas override the music on the radio. This is when I stick an arm out into the thick summer air and with palm down and fingers forward, surf over the rushing current with hand and forearm and elbow. The water that was only on your left before is now also on your right. The river is joining up with its sister and the road is now a causeway carefully picking its way out into a lake. Where it all stops is just a cul de sac of gravel and wildflowers and slopey sandy earth that inevitably is called by everyone around here the turnaround. I can never just turn around here, though. I always pull my car onto the weedy shoulder and get out. How could you not, if you've made it this far? There is time to look out, cross all of this water to squint at the horizon where the line of the waves meets the air in the distance. And that's where I am today, with my back leaned against the sun warmed panels of my car and the breeze cooling my skin. There are tire marks in the grass where other recent motorists have stopped to take in the view. In the center of the turnaround there is a circle of squat logs around the ashy remnants of last night's bonfire, a heart drawn in the sandy dust near it. I've sat many nights on those logs, listening to stories and making up a few of my own to contribute to the collective memory of a summer on the far side of the drive on the rocky slope of the embankment is the place where I sat with my cousins when we were just old enough to drive and had somehow managed to be given the car keys, our folks understanding, I supposed, that we could only take so much time with the grown ups around the dinner table. We'd played our favorite songs for each other and compared the war stories of high school. And predicted where we'd all be 20 years from that night. I'd come and gone from this place many times, but though those predictions had fallen far from the mark, as the imaginings of our previous selves often do, I'd known then that a summer would never go by without me. At some point, standing right here, I walked down a path between rocks and bulrushes to the edge of the water. I squatted down to trail my fingers through. Was still cold and would be until the end of August, when enough sunny days had finally and only slightly warmed. I remembered the way the first dip of the day could take your breath away. As children at the cottage where we spun in circles in the backyard. The river was framed by a break wall, and we'd stand on the edge of it, feeling the warmth built up in the steel under our feet and already shivering with the anticipation of that first cold plunge. But after we'd finally gotten up the courage to jump, we'd be in and out a hundred times before the day was over. Watch this, we'd call to the chatting grown ups under the umbrellas, who would nod at us as we played. I'm going to jump like super. I'm going to make a cannonball. Aunts and uncles would use the ladder, easing themselves down and taking breaks as the cold water rose over their ankles and knees and their breath came in faster and faster puffs, telling us to hold the inner tube steady for them to drop into and inevitably flipping out of it as soon as their weight landed just an inch to one side of center, they'd sputter and laugh. When they popped back up, they'd call out to the others on the land about how cold it was, But after a minute or two they'd forget about the cold and just swim. I stood up from my squat by the water and looked out far across the vast spread of blue to spot the two shapes in the distance, One a bit closer and the other a bit farther away that were, I suppose, not landmarks but watermarks of this place, Two lighthouses showing the line of safe passage out in the channel. I wondered about what it had been like to build them over a hundred and fifty years ago, To lay the foundations for them out in the moving water, To construct the houses with their winding stairs and top floors of windows. Were the keepers lonely, or the sort of people who enjoy the solitude of water spreading out in every direction around them? My father told a story about himself and a friend and a rowboat when they were still kids, and how they'd rode all the way out to the nearer one. As they had made it back to their own dinner tables before the food had gone cold. They'd never been found out, But looking out across all this water it seemed like an impossibility, and I reminded myself that no one likes a good story as much as a dad does. I climbed back up to the path and into the heat of my front seat. When I was here, there were certain places I had to link up with, like a baseball player tagging up to a base. These were the touchstones that I oriented myself by. I put the river on my left, the lighthouses in front of me, and the stories of my family firmly at my center. Sweet dreams,