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 Catherine Nikolay.
Speaker 1: I create everything you hear on Nothing Much Happens with
Speaker 1: audio engineering by Bob Witttersheim. We give to a different
Speaker 1: charity each week, and this week we are giving to
Speaker 1: first Readers, strengthening communities by providing quality books and literacy
Speaker 1: resources for children and their families to use at home
Speaker 1: during the earliest stages of development. Find a link to
Speaker 1: them in our show notes. People often tell me that
Speaker 1: they wish they could live in the village of Nothing Much,
Speaker 1: And while I can't give you exact coordinates, I can
Speaker 1: offer you a few more places where you might be
Speaker 1: able to find your way into the streets and shops
Speaker 1: and gardens. My book, also called Nothing Much Happens, has
Speaker 1: beautiful illustrations windows into this world, as well as stories
Speaker 1: you'll never hear on the podcast. It's available all over
Speaker 1: the world. Check your favorite bookseller or ask at your
Speaker 1: local library. You can also now subscribe to our ad
Speaker 1: free premium feed right through the Apple podcast app. There's
Speaker 1: more info at Nothing Much Happens dot com. Let me
Speaker 1: say a little about how to use this podcast. Your
Speaker 1: brain needs a job to do, and without one, it
Speaker 1: will wander off and get into trouble. But the job
Speaker 1: is easy and such a pleasure. I'll tell you a story.
Speaker 1: I'll actually tell it twice, and I'll go a little
Speaker 1: slower the second time through, and your job is just
Speaker 1: to listen and pull the details of it around you
Speaker 1: like a blanket. If you wake in the middle of
Speaker 1: the night, you could listen again, or just walk yourself
Speaker 1: back through any part of the story that you can remember.
Speaker 1: This trains the brain over time to shift out of
Speaker 1: its wandering default mode and into the RESTful response of
Speaker 1: the task positive mode. Now it's time to turn off
Speaker 1: the light and put away anything you've been playing with
Speaker 1: or looking at. Take some time to cozy your body
Speaker 1: down into your preferred sleeping position, get the right pillow
Speaker 1: and the right spot, and let everything relax. If you
Speaker 1: tend to clench your jaw when you sleep, place the
Speaker 1: tip of your tongue at the spot where your top
Speaker 1: teeth meet the gums on the inside. This will keep
Speaker 1: your jaw relaxed. But first, let's take a deep breath
Speaker 1: in through the nose and sigh from your mouth. Nice,
Speaker 1: Do that one more time. Breathe in and out good.
Speaker 1: Our story tonight is called the boat House, and it's
Speaker 1: a story about an escape down to the end of
Speaker 1: the dock on a hot day. It's also about a
Speaker 1: drawer full of old maps with dotted lines to mark
Speaker 1: journeys taken, the scent of lavender on your skin, and
Speaker 1: enjoying the pockets of ordinary magic wherever they can be found.
Speaker 1: The boat House Midsummer was here with her heat and
Speaker 1: humidity and bright, blinding sunlight, and the boat House was
Speaker 1: shady and cool and quiet. I went often in the afternoon,
Speaker 1: a little escape, and that was an idea that had
Speaker 1: appealed to me ever since I was little, to disappear
Speaker 1: every now and then, to be swallowed up in my
Speaker 1: own space and step out of time for just a
Speaker 1: little while. In the back of the closet in my
Speaker 1: childhood bedroom there had been a tiny door I didn't
Speaker 1: lead anywhere. It was a leftover access point for some
Speaker 1: plumbing or something similar, and by the time I found it,
Speaker 1: when I was five or six, it had been nailed
Speaker 1: shut and out of use for decades. But that didn't
Speaker 1: matter to me. I loved to crawl to the back
Speaker 1: of the closet and to pretend to open it up
Speaker 1: and slip through into another world. That feeling of possibility,
Speaker 1: an adventure that had led me to discover a world
Speaker 1: of imagination, still featured pretty prominently in my mind. On
Speaker 1: walks through the woods or neighborhoods, deep in the stack
Speaker 1: to the library, or stargazing on a warm night, I
Speaker 1: never stopped seeing the potential of a bit of magic
Speaker 1: to weave its way into the moment. And the boat
Speaker 1: house was full of magic. Today, when I was in
Speaker 1: need of my escape, I strolled out along the gravel
Speaker 1: path that cut through the sea, grass and lavender. I
Speaker 1: stopped to reach for a handful of lavender blossoms, rubbing
Speaker 1: the herb between my palms and then cupping them over
Speaker 1: my and taking a deep breath in and out. I
Speaker 1: tried to parse apart the sense that made up lavender, sweetness, honey,
Speaker 1: bright like lemons, a tiny bit of the pungency of
Speaker 1: pine and rosemary, earthy and floral and soapy. I took
Speaker 1: another breath, closing my eyes and feeling my shoulders relaxing
Speaker 1: onto my back. I rubbed my scented hands over my
Speaker 1: hair and down my arms, hoping to carry it all
Speaker 1: with me for a while. Further down the path I
Speaker 1: came to the steel break wall that edged the lake.
Speaker 1: I thought of the feeling of the warm steel under
Speaker 1: my bare feet when I was little about to jump
Speaker 1: into the water. How I'd climb out a few seconds
Speaker 1: later and do it all over again. When the wet
Speaker 1: footprints that would dry in the sun within a minute
Speaker 1: or so to day, I had a feeling I'd rather
Speaker 1: not step my bare foot upon it. The heat was
Speaker 1: layered in the air around me, seemed to vibrate in
Speaker 1: the plants and bounce off the surface of the lake.
Speaker 1: I brought my hand up to my brow, shielding my
Speaker 1: eyes against the sun. I stepped out on to the
Speaker 1: dock and hurried down its length toward the boat house.
Speaker 1: The dock reached a good way out into the water,
Speaker 1: and that was part of the magic of it. Like
Speaker 1: its own tiny island on the lake, I knew every
Speaker 1: knot in the boards, an old bit of rope wrapped
Speaker 1: around the pilings. The boat house was painted a light
Speaker 1: blue summer sky blue with white trim, though the paint
Speaker 1: was pealing and chipped in places. The door stuck a bit,
Speaker 1: and I braced my shoulder against it as I pushed
Speaker 1: it open. I stood for a moment before I shut
Speaker 1: the door behind me, just to feel the rush of
Speaker 1: the cooler air and to breathe in the smell of
Speaker 1: the old wood and the water. I felt myself relax
Speaker 1: in an instant. There are layers to that, aren't there.
Speaker 1: You soften, and then you realize you are still holding
Speaker 1: or tensing, and that you can let go even more.
Speaker 1: My face, my eyes, my shoulders all eased, and I
Speaker 1: was glad to be here in this moment. I shut
Speaker 1: the door behind me and stepped into the dim space.
Speaker 1: The floor boards creaked in a friendly, welcoming way that
Speaker 1: I had heard them do for ages. The boat house
Speaker 1: had many things in it, but a boat wasn't one
Speaker 1: of them. There had been a few over the years,
Speaker 1: but just now it was bare, and I liked the
Speaker 1: space that afforded. Along the walls, a whole collection of
Speaker 1: oars hung, and beside them on a dusty shelf, a
Speaker 1: trophy for second place in a rowing competition that had
Speaker 1: been raced long before I was born. There was a
Speaker 1: bench built into the back wall where I'd taken many
Speaker 1: mid day naps. There were old tools in a cabinet
Speaker 1: that must have been used on the boats that had
Speaker 1: been moored here, life jackets, coils of rope, a few
Speaker 1: kerosene lanterns, and a drawer full of old maps of waterways.
Speaker 1: When I didn't have a book with me, I could
Speaker 1: spend ages looking through those maps. Some of them had
Speaker 1: notations written on them and faded pencil dates and wind
Speaker 1: speed and temperature, how long a trip had taken. I'd
Speaker 1: imagine myself on a sailboat or old wooden criss craft,
Speaker 1: adventuring through the rivers and lakes and canals, taking in
Speaker 1: sunsets and spotting cranes in the high grass. At the
Speaker 1: water's edge. I'd run my finger tip along the dotted
Speaker 1: lines drawn around shallow spots and sand bars, and thought
Speaker 1: where I might toss an anchor overboard to stop for
Speaker 1: a swim. Light reflected through the water and rippled on
Speaker 1: the walls around me. From the open boat well, there
Speaker 1: was a steady sound of waves slapping at the wooden
Speaker 1: stilts and mooring. I smiled, thinking of this place as
Speaker 1: my wishing well. I didn't toss a coin in the lake,
Speaker 1: preferred not to be treated that way, But I could
Speaker 1: dream here, and isn't that the same as wishing. I
Speaker 1: took my spot on the bench, leaning back against the
Speaker 1: seat and propping my feet up on an old crate.
Speaker 1: I didn't mean to stay much longer. There were cucumbers
Speaker 1: in the garden ready to be picked, and sheets on
Speaker 1: the line that must be dry by now. But still
Speaker 1: I let my eyes fall shut and my body relax
Speaker 1: just a bit more. When we find these magical spaces,
Speaker 1: the door at the back of the closet, the gate
Speaker 1: to the hidden garden, the floating house in the middle
Speaker 1: of the lake, well we mustn't miss the chance to
Speaker 1: soften and imagine and be carried away by daydreams. The
Speaker 1: boat house midsummer was here with her heat and humidity
Speaker 1: and bright, blinding sunlight, and the boat house was shady
Speaker 1: and cool and quiet. I went often in the afternoon,
Speaker 1: a little escape. That was an idea that had appealed
Speaker 1: to me ever since I was little, to disappear every
Speaker 1: now and then, to be swallowed up in my own
Speaker 1: space and step out of time for just a little while.
Speaker 1: In the back of the closet in my childhood bedroom,
Speaker 1: there had been a tiny door I didn't lead anywhere.
Speaker 1: It was a leftover access point for some plumbing or
Speaker 1: something similar, and by the time I found it, when
Speaker 1: I was five or six, it had been nailed shut
Speaker 1: and out of use for decades. But that didn't matter
Speaker 1: to me. I loved to crawl to the back of
Speaker 1: the closet and pretend to open it and slip through
Speaker 1: into another world. That feeling of possibility, an adventure that
Speaker 1: had led me to discover a world of imagination, still
Speaker 1: featured pretty prominently in my mind. On walks through the
Speaker 1: woods or neighborhoods, deep in the stacks at the library,
Speaker 1: or stargazing on a warm night. I never stopped seeing
Speaker 1: the potential of a bit of magic to weave its
Speaker 1: way into the moment. And the boat house was full
Speaker 1: of magic. Today, when I was in need of my escape,
Speaker 1: I strolled out along the gravel path that cut through
Speaker 1: the sea grass and lavender. I stopped to reach for
Speaker 1: a handful of the lavender blossoms, rubbing the herb between
Speaker 1: my palms and then cupping them over my face, yes
Speaker 1: and taking a deep breath in and out. I tried
Speaker 1: to parse apart the scents that made up lavender, sweet honey,
Speaker 1: bright like lemons, a tiny bit of the pungency of
Speaker 1: pine and rosemary, and earthy and floral and soapy. I
Speaker 1: took another breath, closing my eyes and feeling my shoulders
Speaker 1: relaxing onto my back. I rubbed my scented hands over
Speaker 1: my hair and down my arms, hoping to carry it
Speaker 1: all with me for a while. Further down the path
Speaker 1: I came to the steel break wall that edged the lake.
Speaker 1: I thought of the feeling of the warm steel under
Speaker 1: my bare feet when I was little and about to
Speaker 1: jump into the water, how I'd climb out a few
Speaker 1: seconds later and do it all over again, and the
Speaker 1: wet footprints that would dry in the sun within a
Speaker 1: minute or so. To day, I had a feeling I'd
Speaker 1: rather not step my barefoot upon it. The heat was layered,
Speaker 1: and the air around me seemed to vibrate in the
Speaker 1: plants and bounce off the surface of the water. I
Speaker 1: brought my hand up to my brow, shielding my eyes
Speaker 1: against the sun. I stepped out on to the dock
Speaker 1: and hurried down its length toward the boat house. The
Speaker 1: dock reached a good way out into the water, and
Speaker 1: that was part of the magic of it. Like a
Speaker 1: tiny island on the lake. I knew every knot in
Speaker 1: the boards, an old bit of rope wrapped around the pilings.
Speaker 1: The boat house was painted a light blue, summer sky blue,
Speaker 1: with white trim, though the paint was peeling and chipped
Speaker 1: in places. The door stuck a bit, and I braced
Speaker 1: my shoulder against it as I pushed it open. I
Speaker 1: stood for a moment before before I shut the door
Speaker 1: behind me, just to feel the rush of the cooler
Speaker 1: air and to breathe in the smell of the old
Speaker 1: wood and water. I felt myself relax in an instant.
Speaker 1: There are layers to that, aren't there. You soften, and
Speaker 1: then you realize you're still holding or tensing, and that
Speaker 1: you can actually let go even more. My face, my eyes,
Speaker 1: my shoulders all eased, and I was glad to be
Speaker 1: here in this moment. I shut the door behind me
Speaker 1: and stepped into the dim space. The floorboards creaked in
Speaker 1: a friendly, welcoming way that I had heard them do
Speaker 1: for ages. The boat house had many things in it,
Speaker 1: but a boat wasn't one of them. There had been
Speaker 1: a few over the years, but just now it was bare,
Speaker 1: and I liked the space that afforded along the walls,
Speaker 1: a whole collection of oars hung and beside them on
Speaker 1: a dusty shelf, a trophy for second place, and a
Speaker 1: rowing competition that had been raced long before I was born.
Speaker 1: There was a bench built into the back wall where
Speaker 1: I had taken many mid day naps. There were old
Speaker 1: tools and a cabinet that must have been used on
Speaker 1: the boats that had been moored here, life jackets, coils
Speaker 1: of rope, a few kerosene lanterns, and a drawer full
Speaker 1: of old maps of waterways. When I didn't have a
Speaker 1: book with me, I could spend ages looking through those maps.
Speaker 1: Some of them had notations written on them in faded pencil,
Speaker 1: dates and wind speed and temperature, how long a trip
Speaker 1: had taken. I'd imagine myself on a sailboat or old
Speaker 1: wooden crisscraft, adventuring through the rivers and lakes and canals,
Speaker 1: taking in sunsets and spotting cranes in the high grass
Speaker 1: at the water's edge. I'd run my fingertip along the
Speaker 1: dotted lines drawn around shallow spots and sandbars, and thought
Speaker 1: where I might toss an anchor overboard to stop for
Speaker 1: a swim. Light reflected through the water and rippled on
Speaker 1: the walls around me. From the open boat well, there
Speaker 1: was a steady sound of waves slapping at the wooden
Speaker 1: stilts and mooring. I smiled, thinking of this place as
Speaker 1: my wishing well. I didn't toss a coin in the lake,
Speaker 1: preferred not to be treated that way. But I could
Speaker 1: dream here, and isn't that the same as wishing I
Speaker 1: took my spot on the bench, leaning back against the
Speaker 1: seat and propping my feet up on an old crate.
Speaker 1: I didn't mean to stay much longer. There were cucumbers
Speaker 1: in the garden ready to be picked, the sheets on
Speaker 1: the line that must be dry by now. But still
Speaker 1: I let my eyes fall shut and my body relax
Speaker 1: just a bit more. When we find the magical spaces,
Speaker 1: the door at the back of the closet, the gate
Speaker 1: to the hidden garden, the floating house in the middle
Speaker 1: of the lake, Well, we mustn't miss the chance to
Speaker 1: soften and imagine and be carried away by day dreams.
Speaker 1: Sweet dreams. Yeah,