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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. I want to tell you about another.

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Bedtime podcast that I really love and whose creator I happen to know personally. The show is called Sleepy and my podcast buddy Otis Gray is the host behind the scenes. He and I have cheered each other on through the years and I'm always so impressed by what he creates. Sleepy is simple, but so effective. Otis reads old books in a slow, rhythmic voice designed to help you drift off to sleep. You'll hear classics like Peter Pan, Pride and Prejudice, Winnie the Pooh and Sherlock Holmes, but lately he's been doing something I think is especially wonderful. He's been highlighting historic women writers from an era dominated by men. Authors like Kate Douglas Wiggin, Edith Nesbit, Kathryn Mansfield, and Mary Eleanor Wilkins, who all wrote extraordinary stories that deserve to be remembered and enjoyed. Otis reads them softly and steadily and it's such a gift to fall asleep to those voices from the past. So whether you struggle with sleep or you just enjoy a good bedtime story, I can't recommend Sleepy Enough. Fluff up the cool side of your pillow and press play. You can listen to Sleepy on Spotify or wherever you get your podcasts New.

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Bedtime stories every week welcome to Bedtime Stories for Everyone in which nothing much Happens, you feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Kathryn Nicolai. I create everything you 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 one that is close to my heart and my doorstep. Oxbow Oxbow is an artist built community dedicated to the preservation of time and space for arts education, research, practice and community building for artists at all stages of their journey. You can learn more about them in our show Notes to listen to our full catalog over 300 episodes. We all completely ad free as well as monthly bonus episodes and our nine hour long season specials. All for about a dime a day. Please consider becoming a premium subscriber. You'll get all of that on your listening app of choice. Plus you'll literally be making our show possible. We can't survive without you. Click subscribe in Spotify or on Apple or go to nothingmuchhappens.com Now I have a story to tell you. Not much happens in it. And that is the idea. Just by listening to the sound of my voice. Following along with the soft shape of the tail will rock your mind to sleep. This is a type of brain training. The more regularly you use it, the more you listen, the more easily you'll fall and return to sleep. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake again in the night, don't hesitate to turn an episode right back on. Our story tonight is called the Swim Platform, and it's a story about one of the last swims of the season. It's also about remembered cues from long ago diving lessons. The sound of water lapping against boards, swans and sidestrokes, the smell of varnish and the feel of sun on chilled skin. And an unhurried, perfect moment savored before the fall. It's time. Get as comfortable as you can. Relax your jaw, soften your shoulders. Even feet and hands go limp. Now you have done enough for the day. It is enough. Take a deep breath in through your nose and sigh from your mouth. Again. Breathe in. Let it go. Good. The swim platform on the far side of the lake, there was a single oak tree turning bright yellow. Just the one. I stared out at it from the platform. It shifted under my feet as slow waves struck the sides. I'd spent the morning diving in, swimming, climbing out and laying in the sun till I was warm enough to dive again and I was warm and ready. Now my suit was nearly dry on the wood planks of the platform pleasantly stung the soles of my feet. I like to stand tall, hands on hips, and hook my toes over the very edge of the boards. I'd done it since I was a kid out here, though the platform had been rebuilt once or twice since then. The oldest version I could remember was cobbled together from spare lumber, all cut at different lengths and painted with a varnish that smelled like resin and was a bit sticky on hot days. That one had a wooden ladder that got slick with algae toward the end of the season, and the whole thing only lasted a year or two. We must have decided to make something less ad hoc and more user friendly, because the next one was larger, built with properly sealed planks and an aluminum ladder like you'd find in a swimming pool. That platform had lasted for years, though it did have a bit of a slope to it, and if you fell asleep close to the low end, you might roll right off into the lake, something we thoroughly enjoyed pretending to do in front of the watchful grownups, moms and dads, grandparents and the neighbor kids, folks. Then, toward the end of one summer, in a September like this one, in fact, a storm blew over the lake. Rain and lightning and very strong winds. We woke to find a neighbor's rowboat leaning against our shed, another's beach umbrella tangled in our washing line, and the platform half sunk in the middle of the lake. I remember that there had been a cold snap shortly after, and the recovery mission that followed had been a chilly one. We'd had to hype ourselves up to motor out in the pontoon and dive for the anchors that held the platform in place. Once we'd hauled them up onto the boat, we could tow the whole thing to shore, where a bonfire was waiting to warm us, and we could recount our tale of bravery and goosebumps. I shivered now, thinking of it, my toes still hooked around the edge of this version of the Swim Platform, version 3.0, I supposed, which we'd built the following spring. We'd gotten a bit fancy with it. I mean, it was still just a platform buoyed by barrels anchored in the water with a ladder bolted to one side, but we'd added two slanting seat backs so that you could plop down onto the platform and comfortably lean back like you were in an Adirondack chair. We'd also painted aqua blue waves along the sides and used a wood burning kit to sear in the date it was launched. It was right by the ladder, and I had a habit of tracing my fingers over it whenever I climbed aboard. I smiled, thinking of the small touchstone moments. My toes hooked over the edge on the way into my dive, touching the date on the way out. Little rituals we build into places we love to feel, literally connected to them. I lifted my arms up over my head, just like I'd been taught to do when I was little, elbows squeezing my ears, fingers pointed, look where I wanted to go and a slight bend in my knees. I took a deep breath and dove. I sliced through the water, feeling it wrap around my body like I'd just been tipped, fingers first into an envelope and sealed up inside it. That every part under the water at once feeling never fails to clear my head. I paused, savoring the touch of the lake all around me, then kicked a few feet to the surface and pushed my hair from my eyes. They found that same yellow oak on the far side, and I smiled across the water at felt like a reminder to enjoy this swimming. There wouldn't be many more left this year. I tried out a sidestroke, a lazy kick and pull maneuver that let me take in the view as I circled the platform. I could already see that there were more empty boat slips than full. Lots of Folks had pulled their crafts out for the summer, and at the end of one of the docks was an optimistic pile of pumpkins. I chuckled as I tipped onto my back, thinking of how the squirrels must be looking down at them from the trees, planning their lunch. I swam to the ladder and gripped it with both hands, finding the bottom rung with my feet. The water slapped at the barrels below the platform and the sound echoed hollowly in a familiar way. I pulled myself up, touched the date with my right forefinger, and sprawled out on the surface, watching the sunlight scatter through my eyelids. I was chilled from the water and sat up, pulled my knees to my chest, and wrapped my arms around them, letting the sun shine on my back. I listened to my own breath, sniffed the water away, and pressed a towel to my face, then stretched it out over the seat back and reclined onto it. A deep sigh rolled out from my lips and I had a pleasant feeling of heaviness that was easy to give into. The sky was deep blue and there was a breeze touching the cool water beaded on my skin. I had all day to do as I liked. This is perfect, I whispered, needing to say it out loud. From across the water I heard flapping wings and shielded my eyes to look out. A swan descended toward the surface, his wings beating in a slow rhythm as he reached with his webbed feet and tilted back like a stone skipped across the water. His plump body skittered, making ripples that spread out behind him till he was floating, shuffling his wings onto his back and dipping his head in to cool off. A paddle boarder. A hundred yards on the other side of him was stopped, her paddle slack in her hands, watching as well. I smiled at her, and though I couldn't see her face, I bet she was smiling too. The days were ticking down, but we were here now, and it was good. The swim platform on the far side of the lake there was a single oak tree turning bright yellow. Just the one. I stared out at it from the platform. It shifted under my feet. A slow wave struck the sides. I'd spent the morning diving in, swimming, climbing out and laying in the sun till I was warm enough to dive again and I was warm and ready now. My suit was nearly dry, and the wood planks of the platform pleasantly stung the soles of my feet. I liked to stand tall, hands on hips, and hook my toes around the very edge of the boards. I'd done it since I was a kid out here, though the platform had been rebuilt once or twice since then, the oldest version I could remember, was cobbled together from spare lumber cut in different lengths and painted with a varnish that smelled like resin and was a bit sticky on hot days. That one had had a wooden ladder that got slick with algae toward the end of the season, and the whole thing had only lasted a year or two. We must have then decided to make something less ad hoc and more user friendly, because the next one was larger, built with properly sealed planks and an aluminum ladder like you'd find in a swimming pool. That platform had lasted for years, though it did have a bit of a slope to it, and if you fell asleep close to the low end, you might roll off into the lake, something we thoroughly enjoyed pretending to do in front of the watchful grownups. Moms and dads, grandparents, the neighbor kids, folks. Then, toward the end of one summer, in a September like this one, in fact, a storm blew over the lake. Rain and lightning and very strong winds. We woke to find a neighbor's rowboat leaning against our shed, another's beach umbrella tangled in the washing line on the platform, half sunk in the middle of the lake. I remember that there'd been a cold snap shortly after, and the recovery mission that followed had been a chilly one. We'd had to hype ourselves up to motor out in the pontoon and dive for the anchors that had held the platform in place. Once we'd hauled them up onto the boat, we towed the whole thing to shore, where a bonfire was waiting to warm us and we could recount our tale of bravery and goosebumps. I shivered now, thinking of it with my toes still hooked around the edge of this version of the platform. Version 3.0, I supposed, which we'd built the following spring. We'd gotten a bit fancy with it. I mean, it was still just a platform buoyed by barrels anchored in the water with a ladder bolted to one side. But we'd added two slanting seat backs so that you could plop down onto the platform and comfortably lean back like you were in an Adirondack chair. We'd also painted aqua blue waves along the sides and used a wood burning kit to sear in the date it was launched. It was right by the ladder, and I had a habit of tracing my fingers over it whenever I climbed aboard. I smiled, thinking of the small touchstone moments my toes wrapped over the edge on the way into my dive, touching the date on the way out. Little rituals we build into places we love to feel, literally connected to them. I lifted my arms up over my head, just like I'd been taught to do when I was little, elbows squeezing my ears, fingers pointed, look where I wanted to go, and a slight bend in my knees. I took a deep breath and dove. I sliced through the water, feeling it wrap around my body like I'd just been tipped fingers first into an envelope and sealed up inside that, every part under the water at once. Feeling never fails to clear my head. I paused, savoring the touch of the lake all around me, then kicked a few feet to the surface and pushed my hair from my eyes. They landed on that same yellow oak on the far side, and I smiled across the water at felt like a reminder to enjoy this swim. There wouldn't be many more left this year. I tried out a sidestroke, a lazy kick and pull maneuver that let me take in the view as I circled the platform. I could already see that there were more empty boat slips than full. Lots of folks had pulled their crafts out for the summer, and at the end of one of the docks was an optimistic pile of pumpkins. I chuckled as I tipped onto my back, thinking of how the squirrels must be looking down at them from the trees, planning their lunch. I swam to the ladder and gripped it with both hands, finding the bottom rung with my feet. The water slapped at the barrels below the platform and the sound echoed hollowly in a familiar way. I pulled myself up, touched the date with my right forefinger, and sprawled out on the surface, watching the sunlight scatter through my eyelids. I was chilled from the water and sat up, pulled my knees into my chest, wrapped my arms around them, and let the sun shine on my back. I listened to my own breath, sniffed the water away, and pressed a towel to my face, then stretched it out over the seat back and reclined into it. A deep sigh rolled out from my lips and I had a pleasant feeling of heaviness that was easy to give into. The sky was deep blue and there was a breeze touching the cool water beaded on my skin. I had all day to do as I liked. This is perfect, I whispered, needing to say it aloud. From across the water I heard flapping wings and shielded my eyes to look out. A swan descended toward the surface, his wings beating in a slow rhythm as he reached with his webbed feet and tilted back like a stone skipped across the water. His plump body skittered, making ripples that spread out behind him till he was floating, shuffling his wings onto his back and dipping his head to cool off. A paddle boarder a hundred yards on the other side of him was stopped her paddle slack in her hands, watching as well. I smiled at her, and though I couldn't see her face, I bet that she was smiling too. The days were ticking down, but we were here now, and it was good. Sweet dreams.