← Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep
Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep
The Porch Steps (Encore)
00:33:43
Season 16, Episode 27
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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 always soothing and family friendly and our wishes for you are always deep rest and sweet dreams. We've got a few treasures left in our Wind down collection and we're sending them off with love and a deep discount. Both the weighted pillow and our Wind down box are now 50% off. Think of it as the perfect way to set up your autumn bedtime routine. Go to nothingmuch happens.com now. Falling asleep becomes so much easier when you have a place to rest your mind. And if that place can be comforting and enjoyable, well, good sleep hygiene is easy. So that's what I have for you. A place to put your restless mind where it will be engaged instead of wandering. And you will sleep. I'll tell our bedtime story twice and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake later in the night, turn the story right back on and you'll be asleep again within seconds. Our story tonight is called the Porch Steps and it's a story about tending to a satisfying chore on a cool day. It's also about acorns scattered on the sidewalk, the scent of a wood fire on a cool night, a daydream about the wind, and stepping back to take in a job well done. It's time. Snuggle down, my dears, and put away anything you've been looking at or working on. Get as comfortable as you can. Let it sink in that the day is done. You are in bed, safe and with nothing to do but sleep. I'll be a sort of guardian, watching over and protecting you with my voice. Draw a deep breath in through your nose and sigh from your mouth again, all the way in. Flush it out. Good. The Porch steps. The leaves were turning but had not yet begun to fall. Well, there were a few gathered around the fence posts and scattered over the lawn, but when I looked up I saw thousands upon thousands still waving in the branches above. And there were plenty of trees that were resolutely green, their time having not yet come. I like that when I look out on a line of trees and spot many that haven't begun to turn yet, it means there is still so much autumn beauty ahead. I even have my favorite spots, favorite trees that I go out of my way to visit every October, their colors so spectacular that their locations are marked on the treasure map in my mind. My own street was lovely, bright red maples, ruddy brown oaks, and yellow sycamores and aspens. Across the street was a still green hickory tree with a Virginia creeper climbing its branches. The vine wove around the trunk and up and around the boughs, and its leaves were already deep red. Together they gave the effect of a tree whose hair color needed some touching up. A bushy green mop lined with ruby roots. I admired it from my front porch as I rolled up the sleeves of my flannel shirt. The day was cool, an overcast, but with no rain predicted a perfect day to take care of, a chore I'd been meaning to get to for a while now. My front steps needed a fresh coat of paint, and in the cool autumn air without a hint of humidity, the paint would dry quickly and my pumpkins could be back in place before sundown. I started by sweeping my whole porch. I didn't want random bits of mulch on helicopter seeds blowing into my paint job, so I took my broom and started in the far corner. I swept under the porch swing, stopping to pick up the rug and shaking it out over the railing. I watched as a few twigs and blades of grass caught in the wind. They drifted, making the breeze suddenly visible, and I daydreamed for a moment about what it might look like if every flurry of air and zephyr were a color, each a different color, if we could watch them swirl and blend and blow. I wondered what a blizzard might look like, if the bluster itself were deep blue or sparkling silver. I thought I might pick up my watercolors later and try to bring it to life. I left the rug hanging and went back to sweeping. I worked up a pile, being sure to dig into the cracks between the floorboards and to skim the cobwebs from under the bottom railing. Then I swept the dust and debris down the steps themselves and kept brushing away until the boards were bare and clean. I swept down the front walk, gathering a few leaves as I went, until I could push my little pile into the street. In this neighborhood, big trucks came by every couple of weeks and picked up leaves. My neighbor's young daughter was thrilled by the trucks, and she and her dad would stand out in the yard watching as the leaves were sucked up by a giant hose, the little girl shrieking and clapping. It was convenient and for her quite entertaining, but I had grown up in a farmhouse at the end of a gravel road and missed the smell of burning leaves that had been raked into a ditch with the city pickup. It was better. The leaves would be mulched, and in the spring anyone could go to the lot out by the train depot and take home some of the mulch. Still, I thought I might have a fire in the fireplace tonight with the good seasoned applewood I had in the garage and then come out here and sit on the porch and the cold night air and smell the mix of smoke and autumn spice. Back at the porch I readied my paintbrush, taking it out of its sleeve and fanning the bristles against my fingers. Why does that feel so good? I brushed it over my palm, feeling the flat, even tips of the lined up filaments, then tucked the brush into my back pocket and squatted down to open the paint can. When I was a kid and we were starting a new painting project, I always tagged along to the hardware store. I liked to watch the paint be made up. Now I think it's all done by a computer, but back then there was a system which, while it was likely less exact and the paint didn't always match perfectly, was much more interesting to watch. There were tall metal devices where the person behind the counter would line dials up to get the right amount of each pigment and then press a lever to release it all into the can. On the surface of the paint you just see a dot of blue or red or yellow floating in the thicker white and think that'll never be the color we picked. But after it had gone into the shaker and come out again, some would be spread out onto the sample card and show that, sure enough, the peachy pink was peachy pink. I smiled, remembering those days as I wedged a paint can opener into the seam of the lid and pried it open. The porch was a deep dark blue and the steps would match. The color reminded me of the sky, just a gloaming or a lake on a cloudy day. I found it a homey, welcoming color, and whenever I turned onto my street and spotted my porch framed with birch trees and hydrangeas, I always felt so happy to be home. I decided to paint from top to bottom, thinking I could spend some time tidying up the garage. While waiting for it to dry, I sat myself down on a lower step and dipped my brush in the deep navy paint. It was satisfying work to watch the color soak up into the wood, to spread it cleanly, unevenly into place. Step by step I worked my way down to the front walk, and when I finished, I balanced the brush across the mouth of the can and stepped back to take in my progress. The top step was already a bit lighter, the paint was drying quickly and would need a second coat. Till then, I'd fiddle around in the garage and back gardens. Acorns were falling on the sidewalk, and my neighbor and his daughter were adding to the fairy garden around the roots of the cottonwood in their yard. At the corner, a cat was stretched out on a garden bench, and in downtown orange twinkle lights were being strung around the lampposts across the village. Folks were welcoming the fall, the porch steps. The leaves were turning but had not yet begun to fall. Well, there were a few gathered around the fence posts and scattered over the lawn, but when I looked up, I saw thousands upon thousands still waving in the branches above. And there were plenty of trees that were resolutely green, their time having not yet come. I like that when I look out on a line of trees and spot many that haven't begun to turn yet, it means there is still so much autumn beauty ahead. I even have my favorite spots, favorite trees that I go out of my way to visit every October, their colors so spectacular that their locations are marked on the treasure map in my mind. My own street was lovely, bright red maples, ruddy brown oaks, and yellow sycamores and aspens. Across the street was a still green hickory tree with a Virginia creeper climbing its branches. The vine wove around the trunk and up and around boughs, and its leaves were already deep red. Together they gave the effect of a tree whose hair color needed some touching up. A bushy green mop lined with ruby roots. I admired it from my front porch as I rolled up the sleeves of my flannel shirt. The day was cool and overcast, but with no rain predicted, a perfect day to take care of a chore I'd been meaning to get to for a while. Now my front porch steps needed a fresh coat of paint, and in the cool autumn air without a hint of humidity, the paint would dry quickly and my pumpkins could be back in place before sundown. I started by sweeping my whole porch. I didn't want random bits of mulch and helicopter seeds blowing into my paint job, so I took my broom and started in the far corner. I swept under the porch swing, stopping to pick up the rug and shaking it out over the railing. I watched a few twigs and blades of grass be caught in the wind. They drifted, making the breeze suddenly visible, and I daydreamed for a moment about what it might look like if every flurry of air and zephyr were a color, each a different color, if we could watch them swirl and blend and blow. I wondered at what a blizzard might look like, if the bluster itself were deep blue or sparkling silver. I thought I might pick up my watercolors later and try to bring it to life. I left the rug hanging and went back to sweeping. I worked up a pile, being sure to dig into the cracks between the floorboards and to skim the cobwebs from under the bottom railing. Then I swept the dust and debris down the steps themselves and kept brushing away until the boards were bare clean. I swept down the front walk, gathering a few leaves as I went, until I could push my little pile into the street. In this neighborhood, big trucks came by every couple of weeks and picked up the leaves. My neighbor's daughter was thrilled by the trucks, and she and her dad would stand out in the yard, watching as the leaves were sucked up by a giant hose, the little girl shrieking and clapping. It was convenient and for her quite entertaining. But I had grown up in a farmhouse at the end of a gravel road and missed the smell of burning leaves that had been raked into a ditch with the city pickup. It was better. The leaves would be mulched, and in the spring anyone could go to the lot out by the train depot and take home some of the mulch. Still, I thought I might have a fire in the fireplace tonight with the good seasoned applewood I had in the garage, and then come out here and sit on the porch in the cold night air and smell the mix of smoke and autumn spice. Back at the porch steps I readied my paintbrush, taking it out of its sleeve and fanning the bristles against my fingers. Why does that feel so good? I brushed it over my palm, feeling the flat, even tips of the lined up filaments, then tucked the brush into my back pocket and squatted down to open the paint can. When I was a kid and we were starting a new painting project, I always tagged along to the hardware store. I liked to watch the paint be made up. Now I think it's all done by a computer, but back then there was a system which, while it was likely less exact and the paint didn't always match perfectly, was much more interesting to watch. There were tall metal devices where the person behind the counter would line dials up to get the right amount of each pigment and then press a lever to release it all into the can. On the surface of the paint, you just see a dot of blue or red or yellow floating in the thick white and think that will never be the color we picked. But after it had gone into the shaker and come out again, some would be spread out onto the sample card and show that, sure enough, the peachy pink was peachy pink. I smiled, remembering those days as I wedged a paint can opener into the seam of the lid and pried it open. The porch was a deep, dark blue and the steps would match. The color reminded me of the sky just at gloaming or a lake on a cloudy day. I found it a homey, welcoming color, and whenever I turned onto my street and spotted my porch framed with birch trees and hydrangeas, I always felt so happy to be home. I decided to paint from top to bottom, thinking I could spend some time tidying up the garage. While waiting for it to dry, I sat myself down on a lower step and dipped my brush in the deep navy paint. It was satisfying work to watch the color soak up into the wood to spread it evenly and cleanly into place. Step by step I worked my way down to the front walk, and when I finished, I balanced the brush across the mouth of the can and stepped back to take in my progress. The top step was already a bit lighter, the paint was drying quickly and would need a second coat. Till then. I'd fiddle around in the garage and back garden. Acorns were falling on the sidewalk, and my neighbor and his daughter were adding to the fairy garden around the roots of the cottonwood in their yard. At the corner, a cat was stretched out on a garden bench, and in downtown orange twinkle lights were being strung around the lamp posts across the village. Folks were welcoming the fall. Sweet dreams.