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: All stories are written and read by me, Catherine Nikolay,
Speaker 1: with audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. Thank you so much
Speaker 1: for listening and for sharing our stories with anyone you
Speaker 1: know who likes relaxation and good sleep. You can also
Speaker 1: follow us on Instagram and Facebook for an extra bit
Speaker 1: of coziness. Let me tell you a little about how
Speaker 1: to use this podcast. I have a simple story to
Speaker 1: tell you to help your relax and drift off to sleep.
Speaker 1: Not much happens in it, and that's kind of the idea.
Speaker 1: It's just a cozy place to rest your mind. I'll
Speaker 1: read the story twice, and I'll go a little bit
Speaker 1: slower the second time through. If you find yourself still
Speaker 1: awake at the end of the second telling, don't worry.
Speaker 1: That's sometimes how it goes. Relax and walk yourself back
Speaker 1: through whatever bits of the story you can remember, lean
Speaker 1: into them, and before you know it, you'll be waking
Speaker 1: up tomorrow feeling refreshed and calm. This is a kind
Speaker 1: of brain training, or training your brain to follow along
Speaker 1: with the shape of the story. Like an upturned leaf
Speaker 1: floats along on the surface of a river. Each time
Speaker 1: you use a story to settle your mind, it will
Speaker 1: happen more quickly and with more ease. So have some
Speaker 1: patience if you're new to this. Now it's time to
Speaker 1: settle in. Turn off your light, put down all of
Speaker 1: your devices. You've looked at a screen for the last
Speaker 1: time to day. Stretch deep into your sheets, and settle
Speaker 1: yourself into your favorite sleeping position. Send a signal to
Speaker 1: your mind and body that it's time to turn everything off.
Speaker 1: Take a slow breath in through your nose and sigh
Speaker 1: it out of your mouth. Nice. Let's do that again,
Speaker 1: Breathe in and out. Our story to night is called
Speaker 1: at the Mill with Pumpkins and Cider, and it's a
Speaker 1: story about an afternoon in the cool autumn air doing
Speaker 1: some favorite things. It's also about taking the time to
Speaker 1: let a moment unfold, a childhood memory and a shared
Speaker 1: cup of cider. At the Mill with Pumpkins and cider.
Speaker 1: Through the heat of the summer, I'd been waiting, and
Speaker 1: now it was here. The cool, crisp autumn had arrived,
Speaker 1: and with it that feeling of energy and refreshment that
Speaker 1: replaces the drowsy languor of the summer. The afternoon light
Speaker 1: was golden in the way that only ever happens in
Speaker 1: the fall. The air smelt sweet and spicy, and the
Speaker 1: leaves were turning, making a new landscape for each passing day.
Speaker 1: Years ago, I'd said to a friend of mine that
Speaker 1: my eyes were so hungry for the colors of the
Speaker 1: leaves that I felt like I couldn't look hard enough.
Speaker 1: She'd smiled and said, soften your focus. It was good advice.
Speaker 1: The moments I so looked forward to were best enjoyed
Speaker 1: with patience and calm attention. So, looking out at the
Speaker 1: changing colors and feeling the cool air on my face,
Speaker 1: I stood still for a bit and softened my focus.
Speaker 1: I even closed my eyes and just listened to the
Speaker 1: sound of wind moving through drying leaves, which sounds differently
Speaker 1: from the breeze in the summer when the leaves are
Speaker 1: fresh and still green. The difference could easily be missed
Speaker 1: if I hadn't stood so still or listened so long.
Speaker 1: I'd spent the morning raking leaves and putting away pots
Speaker 1: and coiling up poses. Into the dark corner of the garage,
Speaker 1: there were mums purple and rust red on the porch,
Speaker 1: but as we stood hands on hips to admire them,
Speaker 1: we agreed something was missing. I guess we need some pumpkins,
Speaker 1: I said, I guess so a smile, bright eyes, and
Speaker 1: some cider. Obviously. We pulled on the sweaters that we'd
Speaker 1: shrugged off in the heat of yardwork and jumped in
Speaker 1: the car. We headed out main roads to side roads,
Speaker 1: to dirt roads. An old song on the radio that
Speaker 1: I knew half the words too, and our fingers interlaced
Speaker 1: on the arm rest, and rows and rows of knobby
Speaker 1: squat apple trees, low and heavy with fruit or sliding
Speaker 1: past the windows, and we pulled the car into a grassy,
Speaker 1: rutted lot in front of the mill, in tall wooden bins.
Speaker 1: Along the front of the barn and shop were apples,
Speaker 1: so many apples, the ones you wait all year for
Speaker 1: and taste and smell so differently from the ones at
Speaker 1: the store. There are also piles of pumpkins, rows of pumpkins,
Speaker 1: fields of pumpkins, and folks walking through, carefully deliberating and
Speaker 1: claiming this one's mine. Inside were shelves of preserves, cold
Speaker 1: cases full of cider, and of course trays of hot doughnuts.
Speaker 1: Some were bare, just crisp and plane, others rolled in
Speaker 1: sugar or dipped in icing. Through wall of the little
Speaker 1: shop was an old arched doorway into the pressing room,
Speaker 1: where you could watch the cider be made. We stopped
Speaker 1: a moment there and watched a little boy watched the
Speaker 1: press come down. Why is it so fascinating to watch
Speaker 1: how things are made? I thought back to the grainy
Speaker 1: videos watched on rainy half days in elementary school, and
Speaker 1: remembered being mesmerized by a short of how crayons were made,
Speaker 1: hundreds of naked blue crayons skimming down a conveyor belt,
Speaker 1: headed for their wrapping, then tucked neatly into boxes, the
Speaker 1: boxes into crates, the crates onto trucks. The memory made
Speaker 1: me smile at the boy who stood mesmerized with a
Speaker 1: finger pressed in concentration to his chin, while his father
Speaker 1: squatted down behind him, pointed out the mechanism that was
Speaker 1: making his cup of cider. He has so many autumns
Speaker 1: ahead of him. Back outside, we headed to the fields,
Speaker 1: kicking through fallen leaves and looking out past the edge
Speaker 1: of the orchard to the rolling land that was in
Speaker 1: some places smooth after the harvest, and anothers crowded with
Speaker 1: groves of trees and edged by a quick moving creek.
Speaker 1: Drying cornstalks were tied in bunches and stood together framing
Speaker 1: the open gate. Into the pumpkin patch, we found a
Speaker 1: batch of tall pumpkins with flatish bottoms and green, gnarled
Speaker 1: stems that looked like they came from a fairy tale.
Speaker 1: We scooped them up, along with some tiny round pumpkins,
Speaker 1: bright orange and just asking to have a face carved
Speaker 1: onto them, and carried the whole lot back in to
Speaker 1: have them weighed on an old rusty scale by the
Speaker 1: register forty cents a pound, along with a brown paper
Speaker 1: bag of apples and a quart of cold cider to
Speaker 1: share on the way home. Back at home, we set
Speaker 1: out our pumpkins on the stoop and sat down beside
Speaker 1: them to enjoy the last of the cider and the
Speaker 1: last of the evening light. Soon we would put away
Speaker 1: the rakes and tidy away the last pots and yard bags. Soon,
Speaker 1: in just another minute or so, we would head in
Speaker 1: and light some candles and start to fix dinner. But
Speaker 1: just now, just for a few more minutes, we sat
Speaker 1: and let the cool air chill our necks and noses.
Speaker 1: Just now, we listened for the evening sounds of birds
Speaker 1: and chipmunks settling into bed, and looked out at the
Speaker 1: changing colors of the night sky. Just now we softened
Speaker 1: our focus and forgot to busy at the mill with
Speaker 1: pumpkins and cider. Through the heat of the summer, I'd
Speaker 1: been waiting, and now it was here. The cool, crisp
Speaker 1: autumn had arrived, and with it that feeling of energy
Speaker 1: and refreshment that replaces the drowsy linger of the summer.
Speaker 1: The afternoon light was golden in the way that only
Speaker 1: ever happens in the fall. The air smelled sweet and spicy,
Speaker 1: and the leaves were turning, making a new landscape for
Speaker 1: each passing day. Years ago, I had said to a
Speaker 1: friend of mine that my eyes were so hungry for
Speaker 1: the colors of the leaves that I felt like I
Speaker 1: couldn't look hard enough. She'd smiled and said, soften your focus.
Speaker 1: It was good advice. The moments I so looked forward too,
Speaker 1: were best enjoyed with patience and calm attention. So looking
Speaker 1: out at the changing colors and feeling the cool air
Speaker 1: on my face. I stood still for a bit and
Speaker 1: softened my focus. I even closed my eyes and just
Speaker 1: listened to the sound of the wind moving through dry leaves,
Speaker 1: which sounds differently from the breeze in the summer when
Speaker 1: the leaves are fresh and still green. The difference could
Speaker 1: easily be missed if if I hadn't stood so still
Speaker 1: or listened so long. We'd spent the morning raking leaves
Speaker 1: and putting away pots and coiling up hoses into the
Speaker 1: dark corner of the garage. There were mums purple and
Speaker 1: rust red on the porch, but as we stood hands
Speaker 1: on hips to admire them, we agreed something was missing.
Speaker 1: I guess we need some pumpkins, I said, I guess
Speaker 1: so a smile, bright eyes, and some cider. Obviously. We
Speaker 1: pulled on the sweaters that we'd shrugged off in the
Speaker 1: heat of yardwork and jumped in the car. We headed
Speaker 1: out main roads to sigh roads, to dirt roads. An
Speaker 1: old song on the radio that I knew half the
Speaker 1: words do, and our fingers interlaced on the armrest. Then
Speaker 1: rows and rows of knobby squat apple trees low and
Speaker 1: heavy with fruit, or sliding past the windows, and we
Speaker 1: pulled the car into a grassy, rutted lot in front
Speaker 1: of the mill. In tall wooden bins. Along the front
Speaker 1: of the barn and shop were apples, so many apples,
Speaker 1: the ones you wait all year for and taste and
Speaker 1: smell so differently from the ones of the store. There
Speaker 1: were also piles of pumpkins, rows of pumpkins, fields of pumpkins,
Speaker 1: and folks walking through, carefully deliberating and claiming this one's mine.
Speaker 1: Inside were shelves of preserves, cold cases full of fresh cider,
Speaker 1: and of course, trays of hot doughnuts. Some were bare,
Speaker 1: just crisp and plain, others rolled in sugar or dipped
Speaker 1: in icing. Through one wall of the little shop was
Speaker 1: an old arched doorway into the pressing room, where you
Speaker 1: could watch the cider be made. We stopped a moment
Speaker 1: there and watched a little boy watch the press come down.
Speaker 1: Why is it so fascinating to watch how things are made?
Speaker 1: I thought back to the grainy videos watched on rainy
Speaker 1: half days in elementary school and remembered being mesmerized by
Speaker 1: a short of how crayons were made. Hundreds of naked
Speaker 1: blue crayons skimming down a conveyor belt headed for their wrapping,
Speaker 1: and then tucked neatly into boxes, the boxes into crates,
Speaker 1: the crates onto trucks. The memory made me smile at
Speaker 1: the boy who stood mesmerized with the finger pressed in
Speaker 1: concentration to his chin, while his father squatted down behind
Speaker 1: him and pointed out the mechanism that was making his
Speaker 1: cup of cider. He has so many autumns ahead of him.
Speaker 1: Back outside, we headed to the fields, kicking through fallen
Speaker 1: leaves and looking out past the edge of the orchard
Speaker 1: to the rolling land that was in some places smoothed
Speaker 1: after the harvest, and another crowded with groves of trees
Speaker 1: and edged by a quick moving creek. Drying corn stalks
Speaker 1: were tied in bunches and stood together other framing the
Speaker 1: open gate. Into the pumpkin patch, we found a batch
Speaker 1: of tall pumpkins with flatish bottoms and green, gnarled stems
Speaker 1: that looked like they came from a fairy tale. We
Speaker 1: scooped them up, along with some tiny round pumpkins bright
Speaker 1: orange and just asking to have a face carved onto them,
Speaker 1: and carried the whole lot back in to have them
Speaker 1: weighed on an old, rusty scale by the register forty
Speaker 1: cents a pound, along with a brown paper bag of
Speaker 1: apples and a cold quart of cider to share on
Speaker 1: the way home. Back at home, we set out our
Speaker 1: pumpkins on the stoop and sat down beside them to
Speaker 1: enjoy the last of the cider and the last of
Speaker 1: the evening light. Soon we would put away the rakes
Speaker 1: and tidy away the last pots and yard bags. Soon,
Speaker 1: in just another minute or so, we would head in
Speaker 1: and light some candles and start to fix dinner. But
Speaker 1: just now, just for a few more minutes, we sat
Speaker 1: and let the cool air chill our necks and noses.
Speaker 1: Just now, we listened for the evening sounds of birds
Speaker 1: and chipmunks settling into bed, and looked out at the
Speaker 1: changing colors of the night sky. Just now, we softened
Speaker 1: our focus and forgot to be busy. Sweet dreams,