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, Katherine Nikolay,
Speaker 1: with audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. Nothing Much Happens is
Speaker 1: a proud member of the Curious Cast podcast network. Thank
Speaker 1: you for listening and for sharing our stories with anyone
Speaker 1: you know who likes relaxation and good sleep. You can
Speaker 1: also follow us on Instagram and Facebook and Twitter for
Speaker 1: a bit of extra coziness. Just like your body needs
Speaker 1: a bed to rest in, your mind needs a quiet
Speaker 1: nest to settle into so that it doesn't wander around
Speaker 1: keeping you up all night. That's what this story provides.
Speaker 1: It's a simple, sweet place to rest your thoughts. Now,
Speaker 1: I'll tell our story twice, and I'll go a bit
Speaker 1: slower the second time through. If you find that you're
Speaker 1: still awake at the end of the first or second telling,
Speaker 1: don't worry. Take your mind back to the beginning of
Speaker 1: the story and walk yourself back through whatever you remember,
Speaker 1: especially any bit that felt cozy or enjoyable. This is
Speaker 1: a kind of training for your brain. You're training it
Speaker 1: to focus and rest and the more often you do it,
Speaker 1: the faster you will fall asleep. So have a bit
Speaker 1: of patience at the beginning. Now turn off your light,
Speaker 1: put down your devices, and get as comfortable as you can.
Speaker 1: You've looked at a screen for the last time to day.
Speaker 1: Get the right pillow in the right spot, and let
Speaker 1: everything relax. Now, let's take a deep breath in through
Speaker 1: the nose and a soft sigh through the mouth. Do
Speaker 1: that one more time, Breathe in and out. Our story
Speaker 1: to night is called the Lilac Thief, and it's a
Speaker 1: story about finding the forgotten places where one can, in
Speaker 1: secret acquire some spring blooms. It's also about the curiosity
Speaker 1: we feel when we look into the windows of an
Speaker 1: old house, a cup of iced coffee drunk at a
Speaker 1: sidewalk cafe, and the secret code of thieves. The Lilac Thief.
Speaker 1: There are only a few days of the spring when
Speaker 1: you can step out of the door and smell them
Speaker 1: on every passing breeze, so bright and sweet that there's
Speaker 1: nothing to do but plant your feet and take slow,
Speaker 1: deep breaths to try to store their scent deep inside
Speaker 1: you for another year. The lilacs I remember as a
Speaker 1: child pressing my face into their soft blooms, do coming
Speaker 1: away on my cheeks and wondering how something could smell
Speaker 1: like that and look like that, and grow so abundantly
Speaker 1: and be allowed. It seemed too good, too perfectly aligned
Speaker 1: with what was pleasing to just occur naturally. But I
Speaker 1: guess there is a catch with lilacs. They only bloom
Speaker 1: once a year, when they don't last long. In fact,
Speaker 1: they're best enjoyed on the tree. When you cut them
Speaker 1: and bring them inside, they soon wilt and dry up,
Speaker 1: and their sweet smell fades still. I couldn't out myself.
Speaker 1: I would try to be surrounded by them for as
Speaker 1: long as possible each spring, and that meant taking matters
Speaker 1: into my own hands, and possibly some very gentle trespassing.
Speaker 1: You see, I am a lilac thief. I don't strike
Speaker 1: at random. My crimes aren't ham fisted or even much noticed.
Speaker 1: I'm a settle thief. I plan when and where, and
Speaker 1: make my get away before anyone is the wiser. When
Speaker 1: I walk my neighborhood, I might casually reach up for
Speaker 1: a stray blossom creeping through the slats of a fence,
Speaker 1: and just as casually tuck it into the flag of
Speaker 1: a mail box for some one to find later. But
Speaker 1: I knew better than to pull a real heist so
Speaker 1: close to home. For that, I packed a kit into
Speaker 1: my car, wicker basket, garden gloves, twine, and a small
Speaker 1: set of pruning shears. I dressed inconspicuously and drove out
Speaker 1: into the countryside. There was an old farmhouse, long abandoned
Speaker 1: on a dirt road that I knew well. I'd case
Speaker 1: the joint years ago and found the house reliably empty
Speaker 1: and the yard reliably full of lilac trees. I parked
Speaker 1: my car on the edge of the road to give
Speaker 1: myself a bit of plausible deniability. After all, perhaps I
Speaker 1: had just had a spot of car trouble and was
Speaker 1: letting an overheated engine cooled down, and had stopped to
Speaker 1: smell the roses as it were. I chuckled to myself
Speaker 1: as I took my kit from the back seat, master
Speaker 1: criminal that I was, and made my way down the
Speaker 1: long and dusty drive that led to the old house.
Speaker 1: I stood with the sun on my face for a
Speaker 1: few moments and let my imagination spin a story about
Speaker 1: who might have lived here. I thought of kids running
Speaker 1: through the vegetable patch a pack of family dogs racing
Speaker 1: with them sparklers. On the fourth of July. A kitchen
Speaker 1: with rows of freshly canned pickles laid out on cotton towels.
Speaker 1: A tree planted to mark a special day a hundred
Speaker 1: years ago that grew to the one I looked at now.
Speaker 1: It had a large wrap around porch, and though the
Speaker 1: stairs had a few missing boards and the paint was
Speaker 1: chipped and faded, I could tell it had been a
Speaker 1: beloved place in its time. I followed my nose to
Speaker 1: the large row of lilacs and put on my gloves
Speaker 1: and opened my shears. The blossoms were so full and
Speaker 1: heavy that their stems struggled to stay upright, and I
Speaker 1: set my basket down and started to relieve them of
Speaker 1: their burden. I took time to notice each small bloom,
Speaker 1: drank deep the smell, and patiently waited for bees to
Speaker 1: shift from one flower to another. I filled my basket
Speaker 1: till it nearly overflowed, and still the bushes seemed as
Speaker 1: full as they had when I started. And I kicked
Speaker 1: my way back down the drive, and with a surreptitious
Speaker 1: look up and down the road, I smuggled my goods
Speaker 1: back into the car and made my get away. All
Speaker 1: that stealing had made me thirsty, and I was craving
Speaker 1: a cold brew coffee from a little cafe near my house.
Speaker 1: I decided to bring my basket with me and found
Speaker 1: a seat at a tiny table outside. I ordered my
Speaker 1: iced coffee with a bit of cocoanut milk, and sat
Speaker 1: my basket on the seat beside me. I picked through
Speaker 1: the stems, making small bouquets and tying them up with twine.
Speaker 1: Some were for me and some might leave on the
Speaker 1: doorsteps of friends. Did you steal those lilacs? Asked a
Speaker 1: voice from behind me. I turned to see an older
Speaker 1: man with gray hair and bright eyes looking at me
Speaker 1: over his cup of coffee. What lilacs? I asked innocently.
Speaker 1: He winked at me and touched his finger to the
Speaker 1: side of his nose. Takes one to no one, he said.
Speaker 1: I laughed out loud and passed him over a bundle
Speaker 1: of flowers. He pressed them to his face and took
Speaker 1: a deep breath in and let it out in a
Speaker 1: contented sigh. We chatted for a few minutes about some
Speaker 1: of our favorite spots. He told me about a place
Speaker 1: by the highway. When I told him about a tree
Speaker 1: behind the library. He lifted the bouquet to thank me
Speaker 1: when I carried my basket out to divvy up the
Speaker 1: rest of my plunder among friends and strangers on my
Speaker 1: way back home. The lilac thief. There are only a
Speaker 1: few days of the spring when you can step out
Speaker 1: of the door and smell them on every passing breeze,
Speaker 1: so bright and sweet that there's nothing to do but
Speaker 1: plant your feet and take slow, deep breaths to try
Speaker 1: to store their scent deep inside for another year. The
Speaker 1: lilacs I remember as a child, pressing my face into
Speaker 1: their soft blooms, do coming away on my cheeks, and
Speaker 1: wondering how something could smell like that, and look like that,
Speaker 1: and grow so abundantly and be allowed. It seemed too good,
Speaker 1: too perfectly aligned with what was pleasing to just occur naturally.
Speaker 1: But I guess there is a catch with lilacs. They
Speaker 1: only bloom one it's a year, and they don't last long.
Speaker 1: In fact, they're best enjoyed on the tree. When you
Speaker 1: cut them down and bring them inside, they soon wilt
Speaker 1: and dry up, and their sweet smell fades. Still. I
Speaker 1: couldn't help myself. I would try to be surrounded by
Speaker 1: them for as long as possible each spring, and that
Speaker 1: meant taking matters into my own hands and possibly some
Speaker 1: very gentle trespassing. You see, I am a lilac thief.
Speaker 1: I don't strike at random. My crimes aren't ham fisted
Speaker 1: or even much noticed. I'm a subtle thief. I plan
Speaker 1: when and where, and make my get away before any
Speaker 1: one is the wiser. When I walk my neighborhood, I
Speaker 1: might casually reach up for a stray blossom creeping through
Speaker 1: the slats of a fence, and just as casually tuck
Speaker 1: it into the flag of a mail box for some
Speaker 1: one to find later. But I know better than to
Speaker 1: pull a real heist so close to home. For that,
Speaker 1: I packed a kit into my car, wicker basket, garden gloves, twine,
Speaker 1: and a small set of pruning shears. I dressed inconspicuously
Speaker 1: and drove out into the countryside. There was an old farmhouse,
Speaker 1: long abandoned on a dirt road that I knew well.
Speaker 1: I'd cased the joint years ago and found the house
Speaker 1: reliably empty and the yard reliably full of lilac trees.
Speaker 1: I parked my car on the edge of the road
Speaker 1: to give myself a bit of plausible deniability. After all,
Speaker 1: perhaps I just had a spot of car trouble and
Speaker 1: was letting an overheated engine cool down, and had stopped
Speaker 1: to smell the roses as it were. I chuckled to
Speaker 1: myself as I took my kit from the back seat,
Speaker 1: master criminal that I was, and made my way down
Speaker 1: the long and dusty drive that led to the house.
Speaker 1: I stood with the sun on my face for a
Speaker 1: few moments and let my imagination spin a story about
Speaker 1: who might have lived here. I thought of kids running
Speaker 1: through the vegetable patch, a pack of family dogs racing
Speaker 1: with them sparklers on the fourth of July, a kitchen
Speaker 1: with rows of freshly canned pickles laid out on cotton towels,
Speaker 1: A tree planted to mark a special day a hundred
Speaker 1: years ago that grew to the one I looked at now.
Speaker 1: The house had a large wrap around porch, and although
Speaker 1: the stairs had a few missing boards and the paint
Speaker 1: was chipped and faded, I could tell it had been
Speaker 1: a beloved place in its time. I followed my nose
Speaker 1: to the large row of lilacs and put my gloves
Speaker 1: on and opened my shears. The blossoms were so full
Speaker 1: and heavy that their stems struggled to stay upright. I
Speaker 1: set my basket down and started to relieve them of
Speaker 1: their burden, and I took time to notice each small
Speaker 1: bloom drank deep the smell. Unpatiently waited for bees to
Speaker 1: shift from one flower to another. I filled my basket
Speaker 1: till it nearly overflowed, and still the bushes seemed as
Speaker 1: full as they had when I started. I kicked my
Speaker 1: way back down the drive, and with a surreptitious look
Speaker 1: up and down the road, I smuggled my goods back
Speaker 1: into the car and made my getaway. All that stealing
Speaker 1: had made me thirsty. When I was craving a cold
Speaker 1: brew coffee from a little cafe near my house, I
Speaker 1: had decided to bring my basket with me and found
Speaker 1: a seat at a tiny table outside. I ordered my
Speaker 1: iced coffee with a bit of cocoanut milk, and sat
Speaker 1: my basket on the seat beside me. I picked through
Speaker 1: the stems, making small bouquets and tying them up with twine.
Speaker 1: Some were for me, and some I leave on the
Speaker 1: doorsteps of friends. Did you steal those lilacs? Asked a
Speaker 1: voice from behind me. I turned to see an older
Speaker 1: man with gray hair and bright eyes looking at me
Speaker 1: over his cup of coffee. What lilacs, I asked innocently.
Speaker 1: He winked at me and touched his finger to the
Speaker 1: side of his nose. Takes one to no one, he said,
Speaker 1: I laughed out loud, passed him over a bundle of flowers.
Speaker 1: He pressed them to his face and took a deep
Speaker 1: breath in and let it out in a contented sigh.
Speaker 1: We chatted for a few minutes about some of our
Speaker 1: favorite spots. He told me about a place by the highway.
Speaker 1: I told him about the tree behind the library. He
Speaker 1: lifted the bouquet to thank me, and I carried my
Speaker 1: basket out to divvy up the rest of my plunder
Speaker 1: among friends and strangers on my way back home. Sweet
Speaker 1: Dreams