Speaker 1: Welcome to bedtime stories for everyone, in which nothing much happens,
Speaker 1: you feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Katherine Nikolai.
Speaker 1: I read and write all the stories you hear on
Speaker 1: Nothing Much Happens with audio engineering by Bob Witttersheim. We
Speaker 1: give to a different charity each week, and this week
Speaker 1: we are giving to Guiding Eyes. They provide guide dogs
Speaker 1: to people with vision loss. You'll find a link to
Speaker 1: them in our show notes. If you're interested in subscribing
Speaker 1: to our ad free and bonus feeds, visit us at
Speaker 1: Nothing Much Happens dot com. Subscribing really helps to keep
Speaker 1: what we do possible, and so rating and reviewing the show,
Speaker 1: or just telling a friend about us, thank you for
Speaker 1: being here. Now, since every story is someone's first, I
Speaker 1: like to say a little about how this works. A
Speaker 1: busy brain will keep you up. I'm sure you know
Speaker 1: the feeling, but not having anything for your brain to
Speaker 1: focus on can actually make it spiral faster. So I
Speaker 1: have a story that is simple and full of good
Speaker 1: feeling and cozy details. You rest your mind on it
Speaker 1: just by listening, and before you know it, you'll be
Speaker 1: out like a light. I'll tell the story twice, and
Speaker 1: I'll go a lit a little slower the second time through.
Speaker 1: If you weak later in the night, you can just
Speaker 1: start the story over again, or think back through any
Speaker 1: part of it that you can remember. This is brain
Speaker 1: training and the effects will improve with use. Now get
Speaker 1: as comfortable as you can, snuggle deep into your sheets
Speaker 1: and let your whole body relax. Whatever you got done today,
Speaker 1: it was enough. Now nothing remains but rest. Breathe in
Speaker 1: through your nose and sigh through your mouth when more,
Speaker 1: all the way in and out good. Our story tonight
Speaker 1: is called Heirloom, and it's a story about a garden
Speaker 1: in the middle of the summer. It's also about things
Speaker 1: handed down through generations, making and keeping friends of all ages,
Speaker 1: and a stack of farmers almanacs in the quiet corner
Speaker 1: of a shed. Heirloom. This was our fourth summer at
Speaker 1: the allotment in our little patch, at the community garden,
Speaker 1: where we had learned to make things grow. In fact,
Speaker 1: we now had twice the space we'd started with. The
Speaker 1: family that gardened in the plot next ours had gotten
Speaker 1: too busy as their sons grew to keep up with
Speaker 1: growing plants as well, and we'd taken over their beds.
Speaker 1: A couple of times each summer, though, they'd all come
Speaker 1: by and lend a hand with planting or weeding or harvesting,
Speaker 1: and we'd have a picnic together under the trees like
Speaker 1: old times. The boys would sit with us and catch
Speaker 1: us up on life in their world middle school and
Speaker 1: piano lessons and soccer camp, something I have come to
Speaker 1: value as I've gotten older. I was having more people
Speaker 1: in my life who are younger than me and who
Speaker 1: are older than me, hearing their stories, telling them mine,
Speaker 1: watching them move through landmark years. Well, I need it,
Speaker 1: not just for the context it gave me in my
Speaker 1: own experience, but because I suspect we all need that
Speaker 1: sort of fullness of family, the different tech mixtures in
Speaker 1: our fellows, to appreciate and wonder at and attempt to love.
Speaker 1: Now that I thought of it, the allotment was a
Speaker 1: sort of extended family, children and adults and older folks,
Speaker 1: a common goal, shared wisdom, an effort, and some rain
Speaker 1: and some sun. This year there had been more sun
Speaker 1: than rain. And that might seem like a good thing
Speaker 1: if you are, say, planning a trip to the beach,
Speaker 1: But when you are trying to grow potatoes, which we
Speaker 1: still were after several somewhat unsuccessful seasons. It can make
Speaker 1: each dry day worrisome. I'd complained to another farmer about
Speaker 1: our spuds, thirsty and finicky in the arid dirt. She'd
Speaker 1: patted me kindly on the back and sympathy, and reminded
Speaker 1: me that the domestication of the potato had taken around
Speaker 1: eight thousand years, so if it took me more than
Speaker 1: a few summers to sort them out, well that tract.
Speaker 1: We did water as much as we could. The allotment
Speaker 1: had a rain collection system, and each play got a
Speaker 1: bit of what was left for as long as it lasted.
Speaker 1: When we mulched and planted lots of local plants to
Speaker 1: shade the soil, but mostly we crossed our fingers and
Speaker 1: hoped for rain. The forecast for to day was promising,
Speaker 1: and when I woke and stepped outside, I could smell
Speaker 1: it off in the distance. The sky had been cloudy
Speaker 1: and slightly gray all day, and while the heat hadn't
Speaker 1: broken yet, I could just tell that it wanted to.
Speaker 1: I'd said as much to another gardener when I'd gotten
Speaker 1: to the plot, and added that it might just be
Speaker 1: wishful thinking. He'd said wishful thinking was a key ingredient
Speaker 1: for gardening, that none of us would be here without it.
Speaker 1: So I took my optimism and tromped over to our garden.
Speaker 1: I started with my usual survey, walking through the rose
Speaker 1: and pulling weeds, noting what was ripening, what was close
Speaker 1: to going to seed. This year I had planted a
Speaker 1: few heirloom varieties of our favorite vegetable. Look Sometimes there
Speaker 1: are good reasons as to why plants are different now
Speaker 1: from how they were for our distant relatives. Those potatoes,
Speaker 1: for example, had been bitter and nearly inedible for most
Speaker 1: of those thousands of years. In fact, every time I
Speaker 1: had a plate of French fries or a big baked
Speaker 1: potato for dinner, I paused to think those cultivators of
Speaker 1: yore for their persistence. After so many generations of work
Speaker 1: on the plant, they must have at least considered growing
Speaker 1: in the top, when I was glad they hadn't. Other times, though,
Speaker 1: plants were bred for how they looked rather than how
Speaker 1: they tasted, and the flavors that had been savored and
Speaker 1: loved by our ancestors were lost in the modern iterations.
Speaker 1: And the idea that I could taste, something that had
Speaker 1: been missing for generations, drove me to plant as many
Speaker 1: heirlooms as I could this summer. Another reason to plant
Speaker 1: heirloom vegetables is that, without exception, they have fantastic names.
Speaker 1: And I said them aloud as I walked through the garden.
Speaker 1: Black Valentine beans still thriving on the bush. The green
Speaker 1: tops of the scarlet nance carrots were still a bit sparse,
Speaker 1: and I hop'd we'd be able to pick some in
Speaker 1: a few more weeks. I'd gone a little overboard with
Speaker 1: the lettuces, which we'd planted in two week shifts to
Speaker 1: be able to harvest continually. We had May Queen and
Speaker 1: little gem and Paris white coves, and black seeded simpson
Speaker 1: to choose from green arrow peas, bull nosed peppers, Easter
Speaker 1: basket radishes, vera fley spinach, and three different vines of
Speaker 1: watermelon called Moon and Stars, Blacktail, Mountain, and Cream of Saskatchewan.
Speaker 1: I checked their leaves, plucking away any dead bits and
Speaker 1: patting them firmly on their rinds. I figured they liked
Speaker 1: to know someone was there watching over them. I'd heard
Speaker 1: that fiddle figs that live indoors sometimes grow trunks too
Speaker 1: skinny and insubstantial because they aren't out in the wind,
Speaker 1: which stimulates them to grow. You should give your fig
Speaker 1: a good shake now, And then I hoped that padding
Speaker 1: watermelon rines would work the same way. Just as I
Speaker 1: was beginning to fret about the dry, cracked soil under
Speaker 1: my feet, I felt a sudden, cooler breeze cutting through
Speaker 1: the garden. We'd been lost in thought and hadn't noticed
Speaker 1: the dark clouds rolling in. I realized that rain was
Speaker 1: just moments away. We had a shared shed at the
Speaker 1: edge of the lots, with chairs under an awning and
Speaker 1: a coffee pot and old copies of the Farmer's Almanac
Speaker 1: going back for decades, and I knew it would be
Speaker 1: the perfect spot to watch the rain soak into our plants.
Speaker 1: But before I took off for it in my garden clogs,
Speaker 1: I just breathed in the smell of the water in
Speaker 1: the air and let the first few drops fall on
Speaker 1: my bare arms and face. I thought of how green
Speaker 1: and healthy everything would be tomorrow, how the vegetables would
Speaker 1: look like they'd all finally gotten a good night's sleep.
Speaker 1: And I sighed, as I imagine gardeners have for millennia
Speaker 1: as the rain came down heirloom. This was our fourth
Speaker 1: summer at the allotment in our little patch at the
Speaker 1: community garden, where we had learned how to make things grow.
Speaker 1: In fact, we now had twice the space we'd started with.
Speaker 1: The family that gardened in the plot next to ours
Speaker 1: had gotten too busy as their sons grew to keep
Speaker 1: up with growing plants as well, and we'd taken over
Speaker 1: their beds a couple of times each summer. Though. They'd
Speaker 1: all come by and lend a hand with planting or
Speaker 1: weeding or harvesting, and we'd have a picnic together under
Speaker 1: the trees like old times. The boys would sit with
Speaker 1: us and catch us up on life in their world
Speaker 1: middle school and piano lessons and soccer camp. Something I
Speaker 1: have come to value as I've gotten older, as having
Speaker 1: more people in my life who are younger than me,
Speaker 1: and more who are older than me, hearing their stories,
Speaker 1: telling them mine, watching them move through landmark years well
Speaker 1: I needed not just for the context it gave me
Speaker 1: in my own experience, but because I suspect we all
Speaker 1: need that sort of fullness of family, different textures in
Speaker 1: our fellows to appreciate and wonder at, and attempt to love.
Speaker 1: Now that I thought of it, the allotment was a
Speaker 1: sort of extended family, children and adults and older folks,
Speaker 1: a common goal, shared wisdom, an effort, some rain and
Speaker 1: some sun. This year there had been more sun than rain.
Speaker 1: And that might seem like a good thing if you are, say,
Speaker 1: planning a trip to the beach. But when you are
Speaker 1: trying to grow potatoes, which we still were after several
Speaker 1: somewhat unsuccessful seasons, I can make each dry day worrisome.
Speaker 1: I'd complained to another farmer about our spuds, thirsty and
Speaker 1: finicky in the arid dirt. She'd patted me kindly on
Speaker 1: the back and sympathy, and reminded me that the domestication
Speaker 1: of the potato had taken around eight thousand years, so
Speaker 1: if it took me more than a few summers to
Speaker 1: sort them out, well that tract. We did water as
Speaker 1: much as we could. The allotment had a rain collection system,
Speaker 1: and each plot got a bit of what was left
Speaker 1: for as long as it lasted, and we mulched and
Speaker 1: planted lots of local plants to shade the soil, But
Speaker 1: mostly we crossed our fingers and hoped for rain. The
Speaker 1: forecast for today was promising, and when I woke and
Speaker 1: stepped outside, I could smell it off in the distance.
Speaker 1: The sky had been cloudy with slightly gray all day,
Speaker 1: and while the heat hadn't broken yet, I could just
Speaker 1: tell that it wanted to. I'd said as much to
Speaker 1: another gardener when I'd gotten to the plot, and added
Speaker 1: that it might just be wishful thinking. He'd said wishful
Speaker 1: thinking was a key ingredient for gardening, that none of
Speaker 1: us would be here without it. So I took my
Speaker 1: optimism and tramped over to our plot. I started with
Speaker 1: my usual survey, walking through the rose and pulling weeds,
Speaker 1: noting what was ripening, what was close to going to seed.
Speaker 1: This year, I had planted a few heirloom varieties of
Speaker 1: our favorite vegetable. Sometimes there are good reasons as to
Speaker 1: why plants today are different from how they were for
Speaker 1: our distant relatives. Those potatoes, for example, had been bitter
Speaker 1: and nearly inedible for most of those thousands of years.
Speaker 1: In fact, every time I had a plate of French
Speaker 1: fries or a big baked potato for dinner, I paused
Speaker 1: to thank those cultivators of yore for their persistence. After
Speaker 1: so many generations of work on the plant, they must
Speaker 1: have at least considered throwing in the towel, and I
Speaker 1: was grateful that they hadn't. Other times, though, plants had
Speaker 1: been bread for how they looked rather than how they tasted,
Speaker 1: and the flavors that had been savored and loved by
Speaker 1: our ancestors were lost in the modern iterations, and the
Speaker 1: idea that I could taste something that had been missing
Speaker 1: for generations. It drove me to plant as many heirlooms
Speaker 1: as I could this summer. Another reason to plant heirloom
Speaker 1: vegetables is that, without exception, they have fantastic names, and
Speaker 1: I said them allowed as I walked through the garden.
Speaker 1: Black Valentine beans still thriving on the bush. The green
Speaker 1: tops of the scarlet nance carrots were still a bit sparse,
Speaker 1: and I hoped we'd be able to pick some in
Speaker 1: a few more weeks. I'd gone a little overboard with
Speaker 1: the lettuces, which we planted in two week shifts to
Speaker 1: be able to harvest continually. We had may Queen and
Speaker 1: a little gem and Paris white coves and black seeded
Speaker 1: simpson to choose from green arrow peas, bullnosed peppers, easter
Speaker 1: basket radishes, Vero fleay spinach, and three different vines of
Speaker 1: watermelon called Moon and Stars, black Tail, Mountain, and Cream
Speaker 1: of Saskatchewan. I checked their leaves, plucking away any dead
Speaker 1: bits and patting them firmly on their rines. I figured
Speaker 1: they liked to know someone was there watching over them.
Speaker 1: I'd heard that fiddle figs that live indoors sometimes grow
Speaker 1: trunks that are too skinny and insubstantial because they aren't
Speaker 1: out in the wind, which stimulates them to grow. So
Speaker 1: you should give your fig a good shake now, and
Speaker 1: then I hoped that patting my watermelon rines would work
Speaker 1: the same. Just as I was beginning to fret about
Speaker 1: the dry, cracked soil under my feet, I felt a sudden,
Speaker 1: cooler breeze cutting through the garden. I'd been lost in
Speaker 1: thought and hadn't noticed the dark clouds rolling in. I
Speaker 1: realized that rain was moments away. We had a shared
Speaker 1: shed at the edge of the lots, with chairs under
Speaker 1: an awning and a coffee pot and old copies of
Speaker 1: the Farmer's Almanac going back for decades, and I knew
Speaker 1: it would be the perfect spot to watch the rain
Speaker 1: soak into our plants. But before I took off for
Speaker 1: it and my garden clogs, I just breathed in the
Speaker 1: smell of the water in the air and let drops
Speaker 1: fall on my bare arms and face. I thought of
Speaker 1: how green and healthy everything would be tomorrow, how the
Speaker 1: vegetables would look like they'd all finally gotten a good
Speaker 1: night's sleep, and as I imagine gardeners have for millennia.
Speaker 1: As the rain came down, sweet dreams.