Speaker 1: Welcome to bedtime stories for grown ups in which nothing
Speaker 1: much happens, you feel good, and then you fall asleep.
Speaker 1: I'm Catherine Nikolay. I read and write all the stories
Speaker 1: you hear on Nothing Much Happens Audio Engineering is by
Speaker 1: Bob Wittersheine. If you love these stories, there is a
Speaker 1: whole world waiting for you in my book, also called
Speaker 1: Nothing Much Happens. It's available and hard back and as
Speaker 1: an audio book, which I read myself. There are sixteen
Speaker 1: new stories in it, and the only place to hear
Speaker 1: them in my dulcet tones is in the audio book,
Speaker 1: which I of course recorded with Bob's help. There are
Speaker 1: also several old guided meditations you can turn on and
Speaker 1: just follow along with. Learn more at Nothing Much Happens
Speaker 1: dot com. Now let me say a little about how
Speaker 1: to use this podcast. I have a story to tell you,
Speaker 1: and it exists really simply as a soft place to
Speaker 1: rest your mind. I'll read it twice, and I'll go
Speaker 1: a little slower the second time through. Just follow along
Speaker 1: with my voice and the simple shape of the story,
Speaker 1: and before you know it, you'll be deeply asleep. If
Speaker 1: you wake in the middle of the night, you could
Speaker 1: listen again, or just think back through any details from
Speaker 1: the story that you can remember. Doing so shifts your
Speaker 1: brain out of default mode, and when that happens, you'll
Speaker 1: fall right back to sleep. This is brain training and
Speaker 1: it does take a bit of practice, so have some
Speaker 1: patience if you are new to this. Now turn off
Speaker 1: your light, put away anything you've been looking at or
Speaker 1: playing with. Get as comfortable as you can. You have
Speaker 1: done enough for the day. It is enough, and now
Speaker 1: you are safe, and all that is left is for
Speaker 1: you to rest. Take a slow, deep breath, in through
Speaker 1: your nose and out through your mouth. Nice, one more
Speaker 1: in and out. Good. Our story tonight is called Keepsake,
Speaker 1: and it's a story about stepping back through time to
Speaker 1: remember a particular rainy day. It's also about sunflowers, the
Speaker 1: things our younger selves can teach us, and a scrap
Speaker 1: of something saved for years in a box. Keepsake. It
Speaker 1: had started as a hunt for a particular pair of socks.
Speaker 1: They were thick and warm, and I felt pretty sure
Speaker 1: that they were dark gray with snowflakes on them, but
Speaker 1: I hadn't seen them in a while. They went all
Speaker 1: the way up to my knees and when I just
Speaker 1: couldn't get my feet warm in the cold days of winter.
Speaker 1: They always did the trick, but they didn't seem to
Speaker 1: be anywhere. I went through my dresser drawers, then searched
Speaker 1: the basket of lone socks on the shelf in the
Speaker 1: laundry room, hoping that maybe they had been separated in
Speaker 1: the wash and were happily reunited, just waiting to be
Speaker 1: rolled into a ball to spend some quality time together.
Speaker 1: But they weren't there either. That led me to the
Speaker 1: hall closet, which didn't seem like a likely place for
Speaker 1: them to end up, but it was worth a try,
Speaker 1: and as soon as I opened the door, I fell
Speaker 1: under the spell of curiosity and nostalgia. Has this happened
Speaker 1: to you? You go up to the attic to get
Speaker 1: the extra leaf for the table, are down into the
Speaker 1: basement to bring up the giant soup pot that you
Speaker 1: only use a couple of times a year, and somewhere
Speaker 1: along the way a box catches your eye, and before
Speaker 1: you know it, you're sitting on the floor with old
Speaker 1: school papers in your hands and a fan of grainy
Speaker 1: photographs spread out around you. Sometimes you get caught. Someone
Speaker 1: comes looking for you, and all you can do is
Speaker 1: shrug your shoulders and hold up the program to a
Speaker 1: play you'd seen twenty years before, and say, do you
Speaker 1: remember this? Well, that's what happened to me. Standing in
Speaker 1: the doorway of the hall closet, my chilly feet forgotten
Speaker 1: as I reached up on tiptoe to slide a shoe
Speaker 1: box off the top shelf. It wasn't labeled. I don't
Speaker 1: know why I reached for it, except that part of
Speaker 1: me must have remembered it. The lid looked like it
Speaker 1: came from a different box and didn't fit on properly.
Speaker 1: Letters and pictures or pushing their way out lifting it off,
Speaker 1: My face broke open in a sudden smile. Small treasures,
Speaker 1: scraps of paper, a key chain from a roadside store
Speaker 1: a thousand miles from here. It's strange how you can
Speaker 1: go years without looking at things like this, mementos and
Speaker 1: scribbled notes, but then when you see them again, you
Speaker 1: remember everything about them. An envelope with a phone number
Speaker 1: scrawled across it, the smudged printing on a flier for
Speaker 1: a concert. Movie stubs curling at the edges from the
Speaker 1: weeks they'd spent in a pocket before they went into
Speaker 1: a box. I could remember who that number belonged to
Speaker 1: the telephone pole. I tugged the flier down from and
Speaker 1: the shoes I'd worn to the movie. Behind that first
Speaker 1: box was another, and another. I pulled them all down
Speaker 1: and carried them to my bedroom, where I could curl
Speaker 1: up with my blankets. As I reminisced. I found a
Speaker 1: friendship bracelet from summer camp, and I remembered how we
Speaker 1: would not the strings on to safety pins, and then
Speaker 1: us in the pins onto our jeans or shorts so
Speaker 1: we could pull the strings taut while we braided. It
Speaker 1: had taken five minutes to learn, and then we'd become
Speaker 1: bracelet making machines, swapping for favorite colors and pulling out
Speaker 1: our projects as soon as dinner was eaten, braiding and
Speaker 1: nodding until we couldn't see what we were doing in
Speaker 1: the twilight, and then we'd probably forgotten all about it
Speaker 1: a week or two later, when we learned how to
Speaker 1: make pinch pots in the ceramics shed, or to fletch
Speaker 1: arrows or build rock cairns on our afternoon hikes. Young brains,
Speaker 1: I thought jealously as I tied the bracelet, awkwardly around
Speaker 1: my wrist. They're like magnets sweeping through a field of
Speaker 1: precious metals, collecting skills and ideas with ease. Not that
Speaker 1: my older brain wasn't capable of picking up new things.
Speaker 1: After all, who had just learned to ice skate backwards
Speaker 1: fairly reliably? Me? Was the answer. Maybe I was a
Speaker 1: faster learner when I was younger, but now I was
Speaker 1: a better understander. I could see from angles, I just
Speaker 1: didn't know about them. In one of the boxes, I
Speaker 1: found photos of myself as a child, blowing out five
Speaker 1: candles on a cake, standing in Grandpa's garden beside his
Speaker 1: sunflowers to show how they'd grown twice as tall as me,
Speaker 1: riding my bike without training wheels. I carried the sunflower
Speaker 1: picture into the bathroom and fitted it into the corner
Speaker 1: of the mirror, thinking that remembering my young sweet self
Speaker 1: each morning when I brushed my teeth might lead me
Speaker 1: to stay kind to her all day. Back on the bed,
Speaker 1: I flipped through pictures of my middle school years, playing
Speaker 1: in the school band. My best friend and I dressed
Speaker 1: identically as some joke. A shot of me looking out
Speaker 1: of the window of the car on our way to
Speaker 1: a summer vacation, with a book forgotten in my hand.
Speaker 1: At the bottom of the stack was a small bound journal,
Speaker 1: the kind that comes with built in pockets in the cover,
Speaker 1: which I remembered carrying with me nearly every day in
Speaker 1: high school. There were pages of poetry. I didn't read them,
Speaker 1: thinking it was probably best just to remember that I
Speaker 1: had liked to write it, that at the time it
Speaker 1: had seemed terribly important and gripping and probably revolutionary, a
Speaker 1: thing the world had never heard before, and that that feeling,
Speaker 1: rather than the actual poems, was who I was then.
Speaker 1: In the margins or lyrics from favorite songs written out
Speaker 1: in sticky blue ink, there were lines from movies, quotes
Speaker 1: that had spun my young head around, a list of
Speaker 1: places I would travel to, places I was sure I
Speaker 1: would live, and all the books I had read one summer.
Speaker 1: I flipped all the way to the pocket in the
Speaker 1: back cover of the journal. It looked empty, but when
Speaker 1: I pried it open there were a few small, transparent bits,
Speaker 1: like ovals of wax paper. It took me a moment
Speaker 1: to recognize them, and then another to remember why I'd
Speaker 1: saved them. They were seed pods, about the size of quarters,
Speaker 1: silvery too, and with tiny round seeds still in each one.
Speaker 1: They grew on a plant called lunaria, or sometimes called
Speaker 1: a money tree, and the pods grew beside purple flowers
Speaker 1: in the summertime and could be cut and d side
Speaker 1: by hanging them upside down somewhere. I tipped them onto
Speaker 1: my hand and felt my breath go deep with the
Speaker 1: memory of this moment. They had been drying in a
Speaker 1: small potting shed on the far corner of our property,
Speaker 1: where the land dropped down toward the creek. We'd been
Speaker 1: out walking on a cool October day as far as
Speaker 1: we could along one side of the creek, and then
Speaker 1: where a fallen tree lay across the stream, had crossed
Speaker 1: it to walk on the other side. We weren't trying
Speaker 1: to get anywhere, just spending time in the way of
Speaker 1: teenagers who can't get enough of it, and it had
Speaker 1: felt like no time at all. And then a sudden
Speaker 1: gust of wind and rain came hammering through the leaves,
Speaker 1: and we jumped from one muddy bank to another and
Speaker 1: climbed the hill back toward the house. We'd come up
Speaker 1: right behind the shed, and the rain was so heavy
Speaker 1: that we just pulled open the door and took shelter inside.
Speaker 1: It had smelled like drying eucalyptus, an unvarnished wood, and
Speaker 1: the rain was wonderfully loud on the tiny roof. We
Speaker 1: could see our breath in the air. When that had
Speaker 1: been my first kiss in wet clothes, with muddy boots
Speaker 1: under a clutch of lunaria stems. I'd come back later
Speaker 1: to clip a few of the seed pods, and they'd
Speaker 1: stayed in the pocket, in this journal, in this box,
Speaker 1: tucked into the closet, just waiting for me to find
Speaker 1: them again. A little message for my younger self, to
Speaker 1: me to day about how exciting life can be, about
Speaker 1: how moments can stick and warm you through years later, keepsake.
Speaker 1: It had started as a hunt for a particular pair
Speaker 1: of socks. They were thick and warm, and I felt
Speaker 1: pretty sure they were dark gray with snowflakes on them,
Speaker 1: but I hadn't seen them in a while. They went
Speaker 1: all the way up to my knees, and when I
Speaker 1: just couldn't get my feet warm in the cold days
Speaker 1: of winter, they always did the trick, but they didn't
Speaker 1: seem to be anywhere I went through my dresser drawers,
Speaker 1: then searched the basket of lone socks on the shelf
Speaker 1: in the laundry room, hoping that maybe they had been
Speaker 1: separated in the wash and were happily reunited, just waiting
Speaker 1: to be rolled into a ball to spend some quality
Speaker 1: time together. But they weren't there either. That led me
Speaker 1: to the hall closet, which didn't seem like a likely
Speaker 1: place for them to end up, but was worth a try,
Speaker 1: And as soon as I opened the door, I fell
Speaker 1: under the spell of curiosity and nostalgia. Has this happened
Speaker 1: to you? You go up to the attic to get
Speaker 1: the extra leaf for the table, or down into the
Speaker 1: basement to bring up the giant soup pot that you
Speaker 1: only use a couple of times a year, and somewhere
Speaker 1: along the way a box catches your eye, and before
Speaker 1: you know it, you're sitting on the floor with old
Speaker 1: school papers in your hands and a fan of grainy
Speaker 1: photographs spread out around you. Sometimes you get caught. Some
Speaker 1: one comes looking for you, and all you can do
Speaker 1: is shrug your shoulders and hold up the program to
Speaker 1: a play you'd seen twenty years before and say, do
Speaker 1: you remember this well? That's what happened to me. Standing
Speaker 1: in the doorway of the hall closet, my chilly feet
Speaker 1: forgotten as I reached up on tiptoe to slide a
Speaker 1: shoe box off the top shelf. It wasn't labeled. I
Speaker 1: don't know why I reached for it, except that part
Speaker 1: of me must have remembered it. The lid looked like
Speaker 1: it came from a different box and didn't fit on properly.
Speaker 1: Letters and pictures were pushing their way out lifting it off.
Speaker 1: My face broke open in a sudden smile. Small treasures,
Speaker 1: scraps of paper, a key chain from a roadside store
Speaker 1: a thousand miles from here. It's strange how you can
Speaker 1: go years without looking at things like this, mementos and
Speaker 1: scribbled notes, but then when you see them again, you
Speaker 1: remember everything about them. An envelope with a phone number
Speaker 1: scrawled across it, the smudged printing on a flier for
Speaker 1: a concert. Movie stubs curling at the edges from the
Speaker 1: weeks they spent in a pocket before they went into
Speaker 1: a box. I could remember who that number belonged to.
Speaker 1: The telephone pole. I tugged the flier down from and
Speaker 1: the shoes i'd worn to the movie. Behind that first
Speaker 1: box was another, and another. I pulled them all down
Speaker 1: and carried them to my bedroom, where I could curl
Speaker 1: up with my blankets. As I reminisce, I found a
Speaker 1: friendship bracelet from summer camp, and I remembered how we
Speaker 1: would not the strings onto safety pins and then fastened
Speaker 1: the pins onto our jeans or shorts so we could
Speaker 1: pull the strings taut while we braided. It had taken
Speaker 1: five minutes to learn, and then we'd become bracelet making machines,
Speaker 1: swapping for favorite colors and pulling out our projects as
Speaker 1: soon as dinner was eaten, braiding and nodding until we
Speaker 1: couldn't see what we were doing in the twilight, and
Speaker 1: then we'd probably forgotten all about it a week or
Speaker 1: two later, when we learned how to make pinch pots
Speaker 1: in the ceramics shed, or to fletch arrows or build
Speaker 1: rock cairns on our afternoon hikes. Young brains, I thought
Speaker 1: jealously as I tied the bracelet awkwardly around my wrist.
Speaker 1: They're like magnets sweeping through a field of precious metals,
Speaker 1: collecting skills and ideas with ease. Not that my older
Speaker 1: brain wasn't capable of picking up new things. After all,
Speaker 1: who had just learned to ice skate backwards fairly reliably? Me?
Speaker 1: Was the answer. Maybe I was a faster learner when
Speaker 1: I was younger, but now I was a better understander.
Speaker 1: I could see from angles I just didn't know about them.
Speaker 1: In one of the boxes, I found photos of myself
Speaker 1: as a child, blowing out five candles on a cake,
Speaker 1: standing in Grandpa's garden beside his sunflowers to show how
Speaker 1: they'd grown twice as tall as me, riding my bike
Speaker 1: without training wheels. I carried the sunflower picture into the
Speaker 1: bathroom and fitted it into the corner of the mirror,
Speaker 1: thinking that remembering my young sweet self each morning when
Speaker 1: I brushed my teeth might lead me to stay kind
Speaker 1: to her all day. Back on the bed, I flipped
Speaker 1: through pictures of my middle school years, playing in the
Speaker 1: school band, my best friend and I dressed identically as
Speaker 1: some joke. A shot of me looking out of the
Speaker 1: window of the car on our way to a summer
Speaker 1: vacation with a book forgotten in my hand. At the
Speaker 1: bottom of the stack was a small bound journal, the
Speaker 1: kind that comes with built in pockets in the cover,
Speaker 1: which I remembered carrying with me nearly every day in
Speaker 1: high school. There were pages of poetry. I didn't read them,
Speaker 1: thinking it was probably best just to remember that I
Speaker 1: liked to write it, that at the time it had
Speaker 1: seemed terribly important and gripping and probably revolutionary, a thing
Speaker 1: the world had never heard before, and that that feeling,
Speaker 1: rather than the actual poems, was who I was then.
Speaker 1: In the margins were lyrics from favorite songs written out
Speaker 1: in sticky blue ink. There were lines from movies and
Speaker 1: quotes that had spun my young head around, a list
Speaker 1: of places I would travel to, places I was sure
Speaker 1: I would live, and all the books I had read
Speaker 1: one summer. I flipped all the way to the pocket
Speaker 1: in the back cover of the journal. It looked empty,
Speaker 1: but when I pried it open, there were a few small,
Speaker 1: transparent bits, like ovals of wax paper. It took me
Speaker 1: a moment to recognize them, and then another to remember
Speaker 1: why I'd saved them. They were seed pods about the
Speaker 1: size of quarters, silvery too and with tiny round seeds
Speaker 1: stalion each one. They grew on a plant called lunaria,
Speaker 1: or sometimes called a money tree, and The pods grew
Speaker 1: beside purple flowers in the summer time and could be
Speaker 1: cut and dried by hanging them upside down somewhere. I
Speaker 1: tipped them on to my hand and felt my breath
Speaker 1: go deep with the memory of this moment. They had
Speaker 1: been drying in a small potting shed on the far
Speaker 1: corner of our property, where the land dropped down toward
Speaker 1: the creek. We'd been out walking on a cool October
Speaker 1: day as far as we could along one side of
Speaker 1: the creek, and then where a fallen tree lay across
Speaker 1: the stream, had crossed it to walk on the other side.
Speaker 1: We weren't trying to get anywhere, just spending time in
Speaker 1: the way of teenagers who can't get enough of it,
Speaker 1: and it had felt like no time at all. And
Speaker 1: then a sudden gust of cold wind and rain came
Speaker 1: hammering through the leaves, and we jumped from one muddy
Speaker 1: bank to another and climbed the hill back toward the house.
Speaker 1: We'd come up right behind the shed, and the rain
Speaker 1: was so heavy that we'd just pulled opened the door
Speaker 1: and taken shelter inside. It had smelled like drying eucalyptus
Speaker 1: and unvarnished wood, and the rain was wonderfully loud on
Speaker 1: the tiny roof. We could see our breath in the air.
Speaker 1: And that had been my first kiss, in wet clothes,
Speaker 1: with muddy boots, under a clutch of lunaria stems. I'd
Speaker 1: come back later to clip a few of the seed pots,
Speaker 1: and they'd stayed in the pocket of this journal, in
Speaker 1: this box, tucked into the closet, just waiting for me
Speaker 1: to find them again. My little message from my younger
Speaker 1: self to me to day about how exciting life can be,
Speaker 1: about how moments can stick and warm you through years later.
Speaker 1: Sweet dreams