Bob Wittersheim (2:09)

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Kathryn Nikolai (2:11)

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Bob Wittersheim (2:18)

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Kathryn Nikolai (2:31)

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Bob Wittersheim (2:39)

Now. This technique works by giving your mind a place to land a point of focus. In that way it becomes occupied. And when your mind is occupied, your brain shifts into task positive mode where sleep is accessible. Just like toning a muscle. We are conditioning this response, so be patient. If you are new to this, 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 lay awake and debate. Just press play again. You'll drop right back off. Our story tonight is called the Valentine in the Drawer and it's a story about a lost missive waiting to be found. It's also about ICICLES and secondhand furniture, a sunny window alcove and a coffee cup ring on a wooden desktop, hand drawn hearts and flowers and the residual fondness of a long ago love. Did you know that nearly three out.

Kathryn Nikolai (3:58)

Of four US homes have toxic chemicals in their tap water? Even when water looks clear and tastes.

Bob Wittersheim (4:06)

Fine, it can still contain things we.

Kathryn Nikolai (4:09)

Don'T want in our bodies. Things like chlorine, lead and so called forever chemicals. Over time, exposure to contaminants like these has been linked to fatigue, hormone disruption, cognitive issues and more. What surprised me most is that standard fridge and pitcher filters don't remove any of these contaminants. And bottled water isn't the solution either because it often contains microplastics. As someone born and raised in Flint, Michigan, this is very important to me. That's why I have an Aqua Tru system on my counter and have for a year now. I genuinely love it. There's no plumbing or installation and it gives my family clean, great tasting water that we can actually trust and enjoy drinking every day. Aquatru uses a patented four stage reverse osmosis system and it's tested and certified to remove up to 84 contaminants including chlorine, lead, forever chemicals and microplastics. This goes far beyond what ordinary filters can do. Aquatru has been featured in Business Insider and Popular Science and it was named Best Countertop Water filter by Good Housekeeping. 98% of customers say their drinking water is cleaner, safer and healthier. Right now you can go to aquatru.com and get 20% off your purifier with the promo code nothingmuch. Aquatru even comes with a 30 day best tasting water guarantee or your money back. That's aquatru.com A Q U A T R U promo code. Nothing much. Take the guesswork out of truly purified great tasting water.

Bob Wittersheim (6:02)

So lights out friends, devices down. Get the right pillow in the right spot and let everything relax. The day is done. Whatever happened is what happened and now we are here. Take a deep breath in through your nose and sigh from your mouth again. Breathe in and out. Good. The Valentine in the drawer Part 1 in the paper this morning it said that we'd already gained 38 minutes of daylight since the first day of the year. I lifted my teacup to the news and leaned back in my chair at the breakfast table, thinking about those extra moments in the morning and evening. It hadn't been too noticeable to me, coming in tiny increments as it does, but reading it in confident black and white had convinced me that spring wasn't too far off. We still had a blanket of snow on the ground, and I didn't expect that to change for several weeks, but the bitter cold of early January had softened into a more measured chill that could at least be bundled up against for long walks. The icicles hanging from the eave above my kitchen window were long and thin from melting, dripping, and refreezing, and I thought of how satisfying it might be to stand out there with the rake and scrape them off in a long clean line. Well, that might be a good task for later, I thought. First, I had a little chore today that I was looking forward to. At the second hand store downtown. I'd found a sweet little writing desk that had miraculously fit in the hatchback of my car and was now sitting in the alcove on the upstairs landing, a space where I'd never really been able to put anything before, at least not anything that seemed right. It's a pretty spot, an extra pocket of space framed with windows.

Kathryn Nikolai (9:22)

And when.

Bob Wittersheim (9:23)

We'D first moved in, before we'd painted, there had been sun faded spots on the walls beside it where pictures had hung. Often when I walk through the hall, I pause there. It's somewhere I wanted to spend time, but it's been too small for everything I've tried, too big to sit empty, and when I spotted the desk beside a chiffonier topped with an aspidistra in a patinated bronze pot, I quietly but legitimately gasped. It was just the right size, and I could immediately imagine it as a place to set out some pretty books, the fountain pen and inkwell I'd inherited from dad, and the glass blue bird of happiness I'd gotten on the second night of Hanukkah. And now it was up in the alcove, waiting to be dusted and polished and styled and admired. I'd already set out the piano stool, though we had no piano for it to go with. It was the kind you could adjust by winding the seat one way or another and was the perfect size for the desk. So when my breakfast dishes were on the drainboard and my hair up in a clip on the top of my head, I carried my cleaning caddy up the stairs. The windows in the alcove weren't curtained, and pale sunlight was already streaming in over the surface of the desk, I took a moment to notice the nicks and dark spots in the stain, wondering when it had been bumped into and with what and by whom and if they'd sworn under their breath and run their fingers back and forth over the dent as if they could rub it out. I would have. There was a very light coffee cup stain in the top left corner, and I thought that might mean that the person who'd set their slightly damp cup there at least years, but possibly decades ago was left handed. I dusted it thoroughly, then used a wood polish to hydrate the wood and bring back its rich cordovan color. It had a single drawer wide but only a couple of inches deep, right at the center of the writing surface and tucked a little beneath the top. It was probably meant to only hold pens and stationery envelopes and a few stamps, and since it sit a bit behind the top's edge, I hadn't noticed at the shop that it didn't quite close all the way. Only when I was dusting the inside of the drawer and tried to push it back into place did I see that it didn't sit flush with its frame. I pulled it out and pushed it back in a time or two and heard a very faint rustling sound. As I did was something caught in the track. I got down under the desk and looked as closely as I could. In the lesser light the track seemed clean. I ran my cloth over them to clear any dust out of the grooves. Still, the drawer didn't sit flush. I pushed it open and pulled it back in again, and the small corner of an envelope appeared wedged between the back of the drawer and the underside of the desk. My eyes went wide and I had to settle my breath before I reached for it. A hidden letter in a second hand desk. Could I be so lucky? I pinched the paper between my fingertips and carefully wiggled it back and forth, anxious not to tear it.

Kathryn Nikolai (14:53)

But it.

Bob Wittersheim (14:53)

Came away more easily than I expected. It was a thin rectangle of paper that had probably been creamy white when it was calendared but now was yellowed with a smear of ink across its back. I tried to make out the name, but all I could confidently see was a capital L followed by a few squiggly letters. It did have an address and a stamp, but time had faded and smudged them. I crawled out from under the desk and stepped into the light of the windows. My heart was beating with a new force as I turned it over and eased the flap open. It looked like it had been sealed at one point, but the glue had long since dried out and lost its grip. Inside was one folded sheet. I sat down on the piano stool and paused to smell the paper behind the dust and that nostalgic scent of wood pulp slowly degrading. There was just a whiff of roses. I unfolded the letter and saw right away that it was decorated with small hand drawn hearts and cupids around the edges, little imperfect sketches of flowers on a vine and a heart shaped box of chocolates. This wasn't just a letter. This was a valentine. I pressed my lips together and felt my eyes welling slightly, astonished that I got to hold such a treasure in my hands inside. It wasn't addressed to anyone, I felt sure it didn't need to be. The giver and receiver of this message knew very well who they were. Lines of verse in pretty looping cursive crossed the page and I'd need to dab my eyes before I could make them out, but at the bottom, in a curling swash of ink, was a large letter M. Who was L? Who was M? How did this valentine come to be stuck in this desk drawer? I looked out the window, drawing out the moment before reading the poem one had written to the other, knowing that when I was done I wouldn't show it to anyone, but instead tuck it safely back where I had found it and close the drawer on their love. The Valentine in the Drawer Part One in the paper this morning it said that we'd already gained 38 minutes of daylight since the first day of the year. I lifted my teacup to the news and leaned back in my chair at the breakfast table, thinking about those extra moments in the morning and evening. It hadn't been too noticeable to me, coming in tiny increments as it does, but reading it in confident black and white had convinced me that spring wasn't too far off. We still had a blanket of snow on the ground, and I didn't expect that to change for several weeks, but the bitter cold of early January had softened into a more measured chill that could at least be bundled up against for long walks. The icicles hanging from the eve above my kitchen window were long and thin from melting, dripping, and refreezing, and I thought of how satisfying it might be to stand out there with the rake and scrape them off in a long clean line. Well, that might be a good task for later, I thought. First, I had a chore today that I was looking forward to. At the second hand store downtown. I'd found a sweet little writing desk that had miraculously fit in the hatchback of my car and was now sitting in the alcove on the upstairs landing, a space where I'd never really been able to put anything before. At least not anything that seemed right. It's a pretty spot, an extra pocket of space framed with windows, and when we'd first moved in, before we'd painted, there had been sun faded spots on the walls beside it where pictures had hung. Often when I walk through the hall, I pause there. It's somewhere I wanted to spend time, but it's been too small for everything I've tried and too big to sit empty. So when I spotted the desk beside a chiffonier topped with an aspidistra in a patinated bronze pot, I quietly but legitimately gasped. It was just the right size, and I could immediately imagine it as a place to set out some pretty books, the fountain pen, an inkwell I'd inherited from dad, and the glass blue bird of happiness I'd gotten on the second night of Hanukkah. And now it was up in the alcove waiting to be dusted and polished and styled and admired. I'd already set out the piano stool that we had, though we had no piano for it to go with. It was the kind that you could adjust by winding the seat one way or another and was the perfect size for the desk, So when my breakfast dishes were on the drainboard and my hair in a clip on the top of my head, I carried my cleaning caddy up the stairs. The windows in the alcove aren't curtained, and pale sunlight was already streaming in over the surface of the desk. It took a moment to notice the nicks and dark spots in the stain. I wondered when it had been bumped into and with what and by whom, and if they'd sworn under their breath and run their fingers back and forth over the dent as if they could rub it out, I would have. There was a very light coffee cup stain in the top left corner, and I thought it might mean that the person who'd set their slightly damp cup there at least years but possibly decades ago was left handed. I dusted it thoroughly, then used a wood polish to hydrate the wood and bring back its rich cordovan color. It had a single drawer wide but only a couple of inches deep, right at the center of the writing surface and tucked a little beneath the top. It was meant probably to only hold pens and stationery envelopes and a few stamps, and since it sat a bit behind the top's edge, I hadn't noticed at the shop that it didn't quite close all the way. Only when I was dusting the inside of the drawer and tried to push it back into place Did I see that it didn't sit flush with its frame? I pulled it out and pushed it back in a time or two and heard a very faint rustling sound. As I did was something caught in the track. I got down under the desk and looked as closely as I could. In the lesser light the tracks seemed clean and I ran my cloth over them to clear any dust out of the grooves. Still, the drawer didn't sit flush. I pushed it open and pulled it back in again and the small corner of an envelope appeared wedged between the back of the drawer and the underside of the desktop. My eyes went wide and I had to settle my breath before I reached for it. A hidden letter in a second hand desk. Could I be so lucky? I pinched the paper between my fingertips and carefully wiggled it back and forth, anxious not to tear it, but it came away more easily than I expected. It was a thin rectangle of paper that had probably been creamy white when it was calendared, but was now yellowed with a smear of ink across its back. I tried to make out the name, but all I could confidently see was a capital L followed by a few squiggly letters. It did have an address and a stamp, but time had faded and smudged them. I crawled out from under the desk and stepped into the light of the windows. My heart was beating with a new force as I turned it over and eased the flap open. It looked like it had been sealed at one point, but the glue had long since dried out and lost its grip. Inside was one folded sheet. I sat down on the piano stool and paused to smell the paper. Behind the dust and the nostalgic scent of wood pulp, slowly degrading, there was just a whiff of roses. I unfolded the letter and saw right away that it was decorated with small hand drawn hearts and cupids around the edges, little imperfect sketches of flowers on a vine and a heart shaped box of chocolates. This wasn't just a letter. This was a valentine. I pressed my lips together and felt my eyes welling slightly, astonished that I got to hold such a treasure in my hands. It wasn't addressed to anyone, I felt sure it didn't need to be. The giver and receiver of this message knew very well who they were. Lines of verse and pretty looping cursive crossed the page and I'd need to dab my eyes before I could make them out. But at the bottom, in a curling swash of ink, was a large letter M. Who was Elle? Who was M? How did this valentine come to be stuck in this desk drawer. I looked out the window, drawing out the moment before reading the poem one had written to the other, knowing that when I was done I wouldn't show it to anyone, but instead tuck it safely back where I had found it and close the drawer on their love. Sweet dreams.