← Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep
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- [00:01]
Kathryn Nicolai
Hi friends, A quick note. You will notice that when you listen to older episodes, anything beyond the most recent eight, you will sometimes hear ads that aren't in my voice right after this message and before the show starts. This wasn't an easy decision. I care a lot about protecting the calm space we've built here, but making this change is necessary to keep Nothing Much Happens happening. If you prefer to listen without ads, premium memberships are available and they're super affordable, about 10 cents a day, and they include the entire catalog ad free. We have a link in the notes of this and every episode to help you subscribe. Thanks for being here. I'm so grateful that we get to do this together. 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'll hear on Nothing Much Happens with audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. We give to a different charity each week, and this week we are giving to Adopt a Pet of Fenton, Michigan. Adopt A Pet's goals are to continue to find loving families from homeless dogs and cats, as well as assist people in the community with their personal animals. You can learn more about them in our show notes. A few years ago, shows the size of this one were getting big contracts pretty easily. It made paying our staff and overhead possible and let us dream about ways to grow. Well. The world of podcasting is changing and those contracts don't look like they used to, if they come up at all. The good news is that we aren't going anywhere, no matter what. You will always have access to these bedtime stories, but to pay our bills, we've had to make some changes. If you'd like to support what we do and skip out on hearing longer intros like this and the ads. If you'd like to get extra long episodes and dozens of bonuses, please consider subscribing to our Premium membership. Just follow the links in our show notes or head straight over to nothingmuch happens.com now I have a story to tell you. Not much happens in it, and that is sort of the point. It's a gentle place to rest your mind, and with regular use it will train you to fall asleep quickly and easily and to return to sleep. If you wake in the night, all you have to do is listen. I'll tell the story twice and I'll go a little slower the second time through. Our story tonight is called the Houseboat and it's a story about a calm morning on the water and the small joys of observation. It's also about a kettle on the stove, orange zest and sweet gum, flowers properly tied knots and a sweet reunion celebrated without words.
- [04:15]
Bob Wittersheim
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- [05:52]
Kathryn Nicolai
Okay, time to snuggle in. Maybe you've been on all day. You can shut off now. Nothing more is needed from you. You're safe and I'll be here to watch over with my voice. Take a slow deep breath in through your nose and sigh from your mouth one more time. Breathe in and let it out. Good. The houseboat water lapped against the bow. The day before had been rainy and gray, but today the sky was clear and when I pushed back the thin cotton curtains from the windows I could see sunlight sparkling on waves. The houseboat rocked gently as I filled the kettle at the sink. I loved this part of the morning. Few were out yet and besides the occasional voices of kayakers, the only sounds were the water and the birds. I set the kettle on the stove and lit it, bustled around getting my French press ready and my cup down from the shell. Then I took the broom from behind the door and went out onto the deck. The scent of fresh on the cusp of summer air filled my lungs and I stood for a few moments, just feeling the warm sun on my face and breathing deeply. Each morning I swept the deck and checked the mooring ropes. Today I also needed to bring out the cushions for my little wicker loveseat and chair. I'd taken them in when the rain started the day before. The trees beside the shore were dropping all sorts of things this time of year. Stringy catkins from the oak tree, Samaras from the maple, and the soft but spiky sweet gum flowers that liked to stick in the bristles of my broom. I was patient, sweeping from the corners out, and just as I finished up, I heard the kettle whistle from inside. The broom went back behind the door and I switched off the burner. As the hot water hit the coffee grounds in my press, the smell of it rushed up toward me. It was nutty and earthy. It smelled a bit caramelized, like burnt sugar, and I smiled as I set the lid in place and went to gather the cushions. Back on the now clean deck, I plumped them up and patted them into place. In fine weather I spent a good bit of time out here, and I like to arrange it for maximum comfort. Each day I had the loveseat where I could stretch out an ottoman to prop my feet on, and a side table for my drink, then a chair that was mostly meant for company with wide arms and a deep seat. There was another side table and a larger low coffee table that I wiped with a rag to make the surface shine. I had an awning that worked on a hand crank. Right now it was drawn in to let the sun shine on the deck, but in the afternoon I often cranked it out to shade the whole area. It was perfect for a nap when the day got hot. As I put the last cushion in place, a breeze blew through the open windows of the boat, and again the scent of coffee hit me. I went in to fix my cup, a little creamer and a scrape of orange zest, a habit I'd gotten into when the winter was in full force and I'd needed something citrusy and bright to pick me up then had kept even after the season turned. I took my cup out onto the deck and watched the steam ripple up in the clear air. I still needed to check the lines, so I left it on a side table and walked the length of the deck. She was secured bow and stern with double braided dock lines looped through the cleats and tied off with a proper cleat hitch. The fenders were still hanging between the hull and the dock, just brushing the edge as the boat rocked. I tugged gently at each line checking for slack or chafe, and gave the spring line a final glance to make sure she wasn't drifting forward on her mooring, all sound, all snug. My morning routine complete, I went to enjoy my coffee and settled onto my love seat. I propped my heels on the ottoman. That first sip of coffee was so good I closed my eyes to taste it. The dark, rich flavor of the roast, the creaminess and floral touch of the orange. I sighed with contentment and held the cup close as I looked out at the water, hoping to see the swans as they started their day. I'd been moored here for about a week and in another day or two would move on. I liked seeing new places, exploring, and changing my view pretty regularly. This little village was a sweet one, though, and I thought I might make it a regular stop on my rotation. When I'd first drifted down the river, I'd spotted a few places I wanted to take a closer look at, and that was how I'd been spending my days. There was a big house that had been preserved as a museum when I'd walked its pea gravel labyrinth and admired the koi fish in its pond. There was a pretty stone bridge I'd sailed under, and when I went to visit it from above, I found it had carved finials at either end. They'd been worn away by weather and wind and lost the sharp lines their mason had given them. I'd stocked up the galley pantry from a corner grocery and bought a vase of lilacs from their farmer's market along the shore. I'd stopped to talk to a mudlarker who had found a glass hemming gray insulator, the kind that used to sit atop power lines. I'd seen them in antique stores before. The object was a ridged glass dome, usually clear or shades of blue or green, but this one was pale purple, and the mudlarker told me excitedly how rare that was. From my houseboat I could hear music at night, soft but clear, coming from a cafe in downtown, and one morning I'd watched a street sweeper work its way through the grid of lanes and avenues. But my favorite part of my stay in this little village were the swans. I'd been sitting on my deck on my first morning here when I'd heard the trumpet call of 1. It sounded urgent and excited, and I'd gotten up to take a closer look at the shore. A small group of people huddled around a crate, and I could hear one reassuring the swan inside that they were about to release her back to the lake she was all healed up, the person said, ready to get back to her life. When the door swung open, she shuffled out and shook her wings cautiously, maybe testing them to see that the healed one worked as it should. It must have, because she waddled happily to the water and pushed off. As she swam out from shore, she trumpeted again and her mate finally heard her. He came half flying, half paddling through the water toward her, and when they met they began to dance as if they were setting out to tango down a long ballroom floor. They pressed cheek to cheek, then switched their bills, pointing the other way, back and forth. They did this for several minutes, clearly a greeting, their own wordless way of saying, thank goodness you're home. I love you now. As I nursed my coffee, I spotted them coasting through the water together, shaking out their wings and bathing in the morning air, and I hoped the next time I sailed through town our paths would cross again. The houseboat water lapped against the bow. The day before had been rainy and gray, but today the sky was clear, and when I pushed back the thin cotton curtains from the windows I could see sunlight sparkling on the waves. The houseboat rocked gently as I filled the kettle at the sink. I loved this part of the morning. Few were out yet, and besides the occasional voices of kayakers, the only sounds were the water and the birds. I set the kettle on the stove and lit it, bustled around getting my French press ready and my cup down from the shelf. Then I took the broom from behind the door and went out onto the deck. The scent of fresh on the cusp of summer air filled my lungs, and I stood for a few moments, just feeling the warm sun on my face and breathing deeply. Each morning I swept the deck and checked the mooring ropes. Today I also needed to bring out the cushions for the little wicker loveseat and chair. I'd taken them in when the rain started the day before. The trees beside the shore were dropping all sorts of things this time of year, stringy catkins from the oak tree, Samoa's from the maple, and the soft but spiky sweet gum flowers that like to stick in the bristles of my broom. I was patient, sweeping from the corners out, and just as I finished up I heard the kettle whistle from inside. The broom went back behind the door and I switched off the burner. As the hot water hit the coffee grounds in my press, the smell of it rushed up toward me. It was nutty and earthy. It smelled a bit caramelized, like nearly burnt sugar and I smiled as I set the lid in place and went to gather the cushions back on the now clean deck. I plumped them up and patted them into place. In fine weather I spend a good bit of time out here and like to arrange it for maximum comfort each day. I had the love seat where I could stretch out an ottoman to prop my feet on and a side table for my drink, then a chair that was mostly meant for company with wide arms and a deep seat. There was another side table and a larger low coffee table that I wiped with a rag to make the surface shine. I had an awning that worked on a hand crank. Right now it was drawn in to let the sun shine on deck, but in the afternoon I often cranked it out to shade the whole area. It was perfect for a nap when the day got hot. As I put the last cushion in place, a breeze blew through the open windows of the boat and again the scent of coffee hit me. I went to fix my cup, a little creamer and a scrape of orange zest. It was a habit I'd gotten into when the winter was in full force and I'd needed something citrusy and bright to pick me up and then had capped even after the season turned. I took my cup out onto the deck and watched the steam ripple up into the clear air. I still needed to check the lines, so I left it on a side table and walked the length of the deck. She was secured bow and stern with double braided dock lines looped through the cleats and tied off with a proper cleat hitch. The fenders were still hanging between the hull and the dock, just brushing the edge as the boat rocked. I tugged gently at each line, checking for slack or chafe, then gave the spring line a final glance to make sure she wasn't drifting forward on her mooring. All sound, all snug. My morning routine complete, I went to enjoy my coffee and settled on to my love seat and propped my heels on the ottoman. That first sip of coffee was so good I closed my eyes to taste it. The dark, rich flavor of the roast, the creaminess and floral touch of the orange. I sighed with contentment and held the cup close as I looked out at the water, hoping to see the swans as they started their day. I'd been moored here for about a week and in another day or two would move on. I liked seeing new places, exploring and changing my view pretty regularly. This little village was a sweet one, though, and I thought I might make it a regular stop on my rotation When I'd first drifted down the river, I'd spotted a few places I wanted to take a closer look at, and that was how I'd been spending my days. There was a big house that had been preserved as a museum, and I'd walked its pea gravel labyrinth and admired the koi fish in its pond. There was a pretty stone bridge I'd sailed under, and when I went to visit it from above I found it had carved finials at either end. They'd been worn away by weather and wind and lost the sharp lines their mason had given them. I'd stocked up the galley pantry from a corner grocery and bought a vase of lilacs from their farmer's market along the shore. I'd stopped to talk to a mudlarker who had found a glass hemming gray insulator, the kind that used to sit atop power lines. I'd seen them in antique stores before. The object was a ridged glass dome, usually clear or shades of blue or green, but this one was a pale purple, and the mudlarker told me excitedly how rare that was. From my houseboat I could hear music at night, soft but clear, coming from a cafe in downtown, and one morning I'd watched a street sweeper work its way through the grid of lanes and avenues. But my favorite part of my stay in this little village where the swans I'd been sitting on my deck on my first morning here when I'd heard the trumpet call of it sounded urgent, unexcited, and I'd gotten up to take a closer look at the shore. A small group of people huddled around a crate, and I could hear one reassuring the swan inside that they were about to release her back to the lake. She was all healed up, the person said. Time to get back to her life. When the door swung open, she shuffled out and shook her wings cautiously, maybe testing them to see that the healed one worked as it should. It must have, because she waddled happily to the water and pushed off. As she swam out from shore, she trumpeted again, and her mate finally heard her. He came half flying, half paddling through the water toward her, and when they met they began to dance, as if they were setting out to tango down a long ballroom floor. They pressed cheek to cheek. Ben switched their bills, pointing the other way, back and forth. They did this for several minutes, clearly a greeting, their own wordless way of saying, thank goodness you're home. I love you now. As I nursed my coffee, I spotted them coasting through the water together, shaking out their wings and bathing in the morning air. And I hoped the next time I sailed through town, our paths would cross again. Sweet dreams.