← Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep
Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep
The Gardener's Arms
00:35:00
Season 17, Episode 46
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- [00:01]
Narrator/Host
Get more Nothing Much Happens with bonus episodes, extra long stories and ad free listening, all while supporting the show you love. Subscribe now.
- [00:14]
Kathryn Nicolai
Hi, I'm Kathryn Nicolai and if you're looking for something gentle to listen to that isn't news or true crime or self improvement, I made this for you. Stories from the Village of Nothing Much is like easy listening, but for fiction. Cozy, warm, calm stories about ordinary moments
- [00:35]
Kathryn Nicolai (Storyteller)
that feel a little magical.
- [00:37]
Kathryn Nicolai
They're grounding soothing and quietly uplifting without being cheesy, relaxing without putting you to sleep, and just dreamy enough to remind you that there's still sweetness in everyday life. Perfect for your commute while you're tidying up or when you want a little escape that feels simple and good. Search for stories from the Village of Nothing Much wherever you listen.
- [01:04]
Narrator/Host
When I started building this show and my shop, it really felt like I had to figure everything out on my own. And there are so many pieces it can get overwhelming fast. That's why having the right tools matter. And for a lot of businesses, that partner is Shopify. Shopify helps you run everything in one place, from your storefront to payments to getting your work out into the world without needing a whole team you. And as you grow, it's there for the bigger pieces too, like inventory, shipping and support when you need it. Start your business today with the industry's best business partner, Shopify. Sign up for your $1 per month trial today at shopify.com nothingmuch go to shopify.com nothingmuch that's shopify.com nothingmuch.
- [02:06]
Kathryn Nicolai (Storyteller)
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.
- [02:35]
Narrator/Host
For years now, we've met each other
- [02:37]
Kathryn Nicolai (Storyteller)
in the Village through stories and now
- [02:40]
Narrator/Host
for the first time, the village is becoming a real place. The Nothing Much Happens community app is
- [02:47]
Kathryn Nicolai (Storyteller)
opening soon with new ways to listen,
- [02:49]
Narrator/Host
wind down practices, community projects, live events, and a cozy gathering place for villagers
- [02:56]
Kathryn Nicolai (Storyteller)
from around the world.
- [02:57]
Narrator/Host
Pre registration is open now. Founding members will receive exclusive launch pricing and the first 50 people to pre register will receive a limited edition weighted pillow. You can join the waitlist@village.nothingmuch.com or or find the link in today's show Notes we can't wait to welcome you into the Village of Nothing Much.
- [03:21]
Kathryn Nicolai (Storyteller)
We give to a different charity each week and this week we are giving
- [03:26]
Narrator/Host
to fauna and flora working to save nature together Learn more about them in
- [03:33]
Kathryn Nicolai (Storyteller)
our show Notes For Ad Free episodes
- [03:37]
Narrator/Host
Subscribe to our premium feed@nothingmuch happens.com you can also find links to our other shows. Did you know there is a daytime version of Nothing Much Happens and a guided 10 minute meditation show with hundreds of episodes? Find it all@nothingmuch happens.com
- [03:59]
Kathryn Nicolai (Storyteller)
just by listening to the sound of my voice and following along with the soft shape of the story, we will train your brain to reliably settle and sleep. I'll tell the story twice and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake in the night, just press play again.
- [04:27]
Narrator/Host
Our story tonight is called the Gardener's
- [04:30]
Kathryn Nicolai (Storyteller)
Arms and it's a story about a developing friendship at the Inn by the Lake. It's also about sunrise and suspenders, peonies and paddling in the shallows and the safe harbor of someone you can count on I've been thinking a lot lately
- [04:54]
Narrator/Host
about aging and how I see it differently than I used to. Getting older is a gift, not one given to everyone. So. So these days I'm less interested in fighting aging and more interested in caring for myself well and supporting my health. That's one reason Oneskin caught my attention. It was founded by scientists and built around longevity research. I've been using their products consistently, especially the moisturizer, and I notice a difference. My skin feels hydrated and calm and I like that. The routine is simple. At the core of their products is their OS1 peptide. Born from over a decade of longevity research, OneSkin's OS1 peptide is proven to target the visible signs of aging, helping you unlock your healthiest skin now and as you age for a limited time, get 15% off with code NOTHINGMOUCH at ONESKIN CO. NOTHINGMUCH. That's 15% off at ONESKIN CO with code NOTHINGMUCH.
- [05:51]
Kathryn Nicolai (Storyteller)
So settle in and slide down into your sheets, getting as comfortable as you can. Maybe this is a moment you've been looking forward to all day. Recognize that it is here. Take a deep breath in through your nose. Let it out your mouth. Nice. One more. Breathe in and out. Good. The Gardener's Arms the sun rose so early these days, it wasn't easy to be the first one up at the inn. And though we hadn't acknowledged it aloud, Chef and I were in a bit of an early riser competition. On the days I snapped my suspenders into place and stepped out into the back gardens before the lights were on in the kitchens, I enjoyed a small harrumph rumbling through my mustache, and when they beat me to the first moments of dawn, I'm sure they likewise tied on their apron with a sniff of satisfaction. Today, if it weren't for Sycamore, I would have beat Chef by several minutes. But just as I was pulling on my rubber boots at the scullery door, I heard a far off tinkle that steadily grew louder. I smiled and shook my head. I was the only person at the inn, except for, I suppose, the innkeeper herself, to have been deemed an appropriate out of doors chaperone for our resident cat, Sycamore. He was still young, just a few years old, and couldn't be trusted not to wander off and get into mischief. His midnight black fur made it easy for him to hide, and since he was known to climb trees he couldn't always get himself out of, he lived his life mostly indoors. No, not even Chef could take him out into the herb gardens, not fetch. Earning Sycamore privileges was another competition between us, but I'm just saying that if it were, I would have won. Chef got distracted watering, weeding, picking when they were in the yard, and Sycamore was well aware of it, so only I could take the cat out with me. And I knew that waiting for him to make his way down the great staircase, down the long hall, and through the butler's pantry to the scullery would mean Chef would beat me to the sunrise. Still, I sighed and patiently waited. Cats paws are meant to be quiet and stealthy, aren't they? Well, no one had told Sycamore this. He thumped clumsily along the floorboards like a teenager who hadn't yet settled into his growing body when he came around the corner. His front end made it through the doorway, but his rear half kept skidding along the polished planks till he bonked off the molding. I shook my head again and propped my fists on my hips. You don't need to rush, Sickie. I'll wait, I called out quietly. He made it on his second try, and I held out my arms in the practice way we'd established. All aboard, mate, I said, and Sycamore pulled his little body back like a slingshot and sprung up into my arms. I shifted him onto my shoulder and he looped his tail around the back of my neck. When I pulled the back door open and stepped out into the gardens, I turned to look into the kitchens and saw Chef's frame backlit by the warming
- [11:45]
Kathryn Nicolai
ovens,
- [11:47]
Kathryn Nicolai (Storyteller)
a coffee cup raised in salute. I couldn't see their face, but I could just bet there was a slightly smug grin spreading across it. That's all right, my boy, I cooed to Sycamore. They might have beat us today, but it just means the coffee cake is that much closer to being on the table. Sycamore wasn't listening. There were robins and finches to watch as they jumped through the brush. Squirrels and chipmunks were out to fetch their morning papers. We had our own chores to attend to, among them deadheading the zinnias, leveling that wonky stepping stone in the path up to the hammocks, cutting daisies and sweet williams for the guest rooms, and reattaching a cleat on the dock whose rusty screws had become stripped. There were also the everyday sort of tasks a gardener must always be on top of weeding and watering, the general watching over to see what was getting too much sun or had outgrown its plot and needed dividing. And the innkeeper hadn't mentioned it. But when I'd come through the hall the day before, I noticed an awful squeaking coming from the dumbwaiter as it moved between floors. Though my title was officially or unofficially, we probably had never made it official that of gardener, I was clever with a wrench and an oil can. I made small repairs throughout the inn. In fact, if I was being honest, I got a bit peeved when the innkeeper called in someone from the village to mend something I could do myself. It was silly, I suppose, just that I felt a bit protective of this place, and that if the pocket door in the dining room was coming off its track, well, I should be the one to fix it. Sycamore and I wandered down to the lake. The sky was growing brighter by the
- [14:58]
Kathryn Nicolai
minute,
- [15:01]
Kathryn Nicolai (Storyteller)
and the sun was just starting to show through the tree trunks on the far shore. Just like Sycamore had missed the note about cats being sure footed, he also hadn't been informed that he was supposed to dislike the water. As I strolled down to the end of the dock, he slipped down into my arms and peered into the lake below. The deck railing was wide enough for him to sit comfortably on, and I helped him settle there before I tightened the tow line on one of the rowboats. Close to the water, I could see the reflection of my own face and remembered squatting in the same spot the first time Sickie had tried his paw at swimming. He'd seen fish moving under the surface and leapt, nearly giving me a heart attack. Though startled by the sudden liquidity of his environment, he'd been a strong swimmer from the start. I'd thrown myself down on the deck, ready to dive in and scoop him up if necessary, but he'd calmly paddled over and reached a paw up to me. I'd seen my own half shocked, half proud face mirrored in the lake, then hoisted him out and held him to my chest, letting his fur soak through the flannel. I'd hustled him into the boathouse where I knew the innkeeper kept a stack of beach towels for guests and wrapped him up in one. We'd sat on an old folding chair in the warm air in there till he was nearly dry and my own heart rate had dropped to something normal. Since then he occasionally waded in from the shore, kitty paddling among the minnows and always with my careful eye on
- [17:56]
Kathryn Nicolai
him,
- [17:59]
Kathryn Nicolai (Storyteller)
but more frequently took his swims in the big washtub in the stable. I'd fill it with the hose on hot mornings and he'd cool off for a bit before drying in the sun. All of this was still running through my memory when I finished retying the line and smelled the unmistakable scent of coffee wafting down from the dining porch. I called to Sycamore, and he climbed back up to my shoulder. Coffee's ready, lad, I said and pulled my short shears from my pocket. If I was going up to ask a cup from the innkeeper, well, my mother had raised me better than to come empty handed. The peonies at the foot of the old tree house were still blooming, and I happened to know they were her favorite. The guests would be up and about soon, and we, the small staff of the inn, would all have our hands full. I smiled as I thought of it. The gardener's arms. The sun rose so early these days it wasn't easy to be the first one up at the inn, and though we hadn't acknowledged it aloud, Chef and I were in a bit of an early riser competition on the days I snapped my suspenders into place and stepped out into the back gardens before the lights were on in the kitchens, I enjoyed a small harrumph rumbling through my mustache, and when they beat me to the first moments of dawn, I'm sure they likewise tied on their apron with a sniff of satisfaction. Today, if it weren't for Sycamore, I would have had Chef beat by several minutes. But just as I was pulling on my rubber boots at the scullery door, I heard a far off tinkle that steadily grew louder. I smiled and shook my head. I was the only person at the inn, except for, I suppose, the innkeeper
- [21:36]
Narrator/Host
herself
- [21:39]
Kathryn Nicolai (Storyteller)
to have been deemed an appropriate out of doors chaperone for our resident cat, Sycamore. He was still young, just a few years old, and couldn't be trusted not to wander off and get into mischief. His midnight black fur made it easy for him to hide, and since he was known to climb trees, he couldn't always get himself out of life. He lived his life mostly indoors. No, not even Chef could take him out into the herb gardens. Not that earning Sycamore privileges was another competition between us, but I'm just saying that if it were, I would have won. Chef got distracted watering, picking, and weeding when they were in the yard, and Sycamore was well aware of it, so only I could take the cat out with me. And I knew that waiting for him to make his way down the great staircase, down the long hall, and through the butler's pantry to the scullery would mean Chef would beat me to the sunrise. Still, I sighed and patiently waited. Cats paws are meant to be quiet and stealthy, aren't they? Well, no one had told Sycamore that. He thumped clumsily along the floorboards like a teenager who hadn't yet settled into a growing body when he came around the corner. His front end made it through the doorway, but his rear half kept skidding along the polished planks till he bonked off the molding. I shook my head again and propped my fists on my hips. You don't need to rush, Sickie. I'll wait, I called out quietly. He made it on his second try, and I held out my arms in the practice way we'd established. All aboard, mate, I said, and Sycamore pulled his little body back like a slingshot and sprung up into my arms. I shifted him onto my shoulder and he looped his tail around the back of my neck when I pulled the back door open and stepped out into the gardens. I turned to look into the kitchens and saw a chef's frame backlit by the warming ovens, a coffee cup raised in salute. I couldn't see their face, but I could just bet there was a slightly smug grin spreading across it. That's all right, my boy, I cooed to Sycamore. They might have beat us today, but it just means the coffee cake is that much closer to being on the table. Sycamore wasn't listening. There were robins and finches to watch as they jumped through the brush. Squirrels and chipmunks were out fetching their morning papers. We had our own chores to attend to. Among them deadheading the zinnias, leveling that wonky stepping stone in the path up to the hammocks, cutting daisies and sweet williams for the guest rooms, and reattaching a cleat on the dock whose rusty screws had become stripped. And there were the everyday sort of tasks. A gardener must always be on top of the weeding, the watering, the general watching over to see what was getting too much sun or had outgrown its plot and needed dividing. And the innkeeper hadn't mentioned it. But when I'd come through the hall the day before, I'd noticed an awful squeaking coming from the dumbwaiter as it moved between floors. Though my title was officially or unofficially, we probably had never made it official that of gardener, I was clever with a wrench, an oil can, I made small repairs throughout the inn. In fact, if I was being honest, I got a bit peeved when the innkeeper called in someone from the village to mend something I could do myself. It was silly, I suppose, just that I felt a bit protective of this place, and that if the pocket door in the dining room was coming off its track, well, I should be the one to fix it. Sycamore and I wandered down to the lake. The sky was growing brighter by the minute and the sun was just starting to show through the tree trunks on the far shore. Just like Sycamore had missed the note about cats being sure footed, he also hadn't been informed that he was supposed to dislike the water. As I strolled down to the end of the dock, he slipped down into my arms and peered into the lake below. The deck railing was wide enough for him to sit on comfortably, and I helped him settle there before I tightened the tow line on one of the rowboats close to the water, I could see the reflection of my own face and remembered squatting in the same spot the first time Sickie had tried his paw at a swimming he'd seen fish moving under the surface and leapt, nearly giving me a heart attack. Though startled by the sudden liquidity of his environment, he'd been a strong swimmer from the start. I'd thrown myself down on the deck, ready to dive in and scoop him up if necessary, but he'd calmly paddled over and reached a paw up to me. I'd seen my own half shocked, half proud face mirrored in the lake, then hoisted him out and held him to my chest, letting his fur soak through the flannel. I'd hustled him into the boathouse where I knew the innkeeper kept a stack of beach towels for guests and wrapped him up in one. We'd sat on an old folding chair in the warm air till he was nearly dry and my own heart rate had dropped to something like normal. Since then he occasionally waded in from the shore, kitty paddling among the minnows, and always with my careful eye on him. But more frequently he took his swims in the big washtub in the stable. I'd fill it with the hose on hot mornings and he'd cool off for a bit before drying in the sun. All of this was still running through my memory when I finished retying the line and smelled the unmistakable scent of coffee wafting down from the dining porch. I called to Sycamore and he climbed back up to my shoulder. Coffee's ready, lad, I said and pulled my short shears from my pocket. If I was going up to ask a cup from the innkeeper, well, my mother had raised me better than to come empty handed. The peonies at the foot of the old tree house were still blooming, and I happened to know they were her favorite. The guests would be up and about soon, and we, the small staff of the inn, would have our hands full. I smiled as I thought of it. Sweet dreams.