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 Wittersheim. Thank you for listening and for sharing our
Speaker 1: stories with anyone you know who likes relaxation and good sleep.
Speaker 1: You can follow us on Instagram and Facebook and Twitter
Speaker 1: for a bit of extra coziness. And if you need
Speaker 1: a bit more nothing much in your life, head to
Speaker 1: Nothing Much Happens dot com, where you can find some
Speaker 1: special pieces inspired by the show. Let me say a
Speaker 1: little about how to use this podcast. In order to
Speaker 1: relax and sleep, your mind needs to rest, and probably
Speaker 1: it needs a specific place to rest. In Left to
Speaker 1: its own devices, it's likely to wander and race and
Speaker 1: keep you up. So these stories are a resting place.
Speaker 1: Let your mind follow along with the simple shape of
Speaker 1: the story and the sound of my voice, as an
Speaker 1: upturned leaf would rest on the current of a stream.
Speaker 1: I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little
Speaker 1: slower the second time through. If you find you are
Speaker 1: still awake at the end of the second telling don't worry.
Speaker 1: That's a good rule of thumb when you are trying
Speaker 1: to fall asleep. Don't worry. You can keep listening or
Speaker 1: just think your way back through any details from the
Speaker 1: story that you can remember. This is grown up sleep training,
Speaker 1: and it may take a bit of time to relearn
Speaker 1: how to rest and sleep well. Be patient. With a
Speaker 1: bit of practice, you'll soon find yourself falling asleep more
Speaker 1: and more quickly and returning to sleep easily. Should you
Speaker 1: wake in the middle of the night, Now it's time
Speaker 1: to turn off the light. It's time to put away
Speaker 1: anything you've been like at or playing with. Settle yourself
Speaker 1: into your preferred sleeping position, and let everything relax. Sometimes
Speaker 1: it helps to say to yourself, I'm about to fall
Speaker 1: asleep and I'll sleep deeply all night. Now, let's take
Speaker 1: a deep breath in through the nose and let a
Speaker 1: soft sigh out of the mouth. Good, do that again,
Speaker 1: Breathe in and out. Our story tonight is called Rosemary
Speaker 1: for Remembrance, and it's a story about preparing a garden
Speaker 1: for the coming frost. It's also about a row of
Speaker 1: pumpkins waiting to be claimed. What the poets have to
Speaker 1: say about herbs and the unending generosity of nature, rosemary
Speaker 1: for remembrance. I was out in my herb garden, back
Speaker 1: behind the edge of the vegetable patch, which by now
Speaker 1: had mostly been tilled back into the earth. After the
Speaker 1: last ears of corn had been eaten. We'd cut the
Speaker 1: cornstalks and tied them with twine and propped some along
Speaker 1: the front of the old red barn with a few
Speaker 1: bales of drying hay. I'd spend the morning harvesting the
Speaker 1: last few bits that the garden could give us before
Speaker 1: the hard frost set in. I had a section of
Speaker 1: gourds grown mostly as ornaments and extra food for the
Speaker 1: rabbits and the deer. There were soft skin cords, which
Speaker 1: are called crocubeda. They grow with long hooked necks and
Speaker 1: nobbily shiny skin. They were green and gold or a
Speaker 1: bright sunrise orange red, and most were small enough to
Speaker 1: be carried in one hand. I'd cut them from the
Speaker 1: vine and heaped them into wooden baskets. They'd decorate my table,
Speaker 1: sit in wreaths of bright red maple leaves on my porch,
Speaker 1: and the extra would be set out at the edge
Speaker 1: of the woods for any passing animal in search of
Speaker 1: a nibble. I also grew hard skin gords called lugenaria.
Speaker 1: These were a tan sandy brown and quite large. In fact,
Speaker 1: some had grown almost as big as my pumpkins. I
Speaker 1: had harvested them one at a time, leaving a few
Speaker 1: inches of vine on the stem, and carrying each one
Speaker 1: to the spigot at the edge of the barn. I'd
Speaker 1: washed each gourd carefully in the cold water of the
Speaker 1: tap and laid them out on an old patched quilt
Speaker 1: and the autumn sunlight to dry. The cords would cure
Speaker 1: over the winter, and their insides would slowly dry till
Speaker 1: they were as light as paper. I had a spot
Speaker 1: in the barn warm enough that they wouldn't freeze in
Speaker 1: the depth of the winter, but dry and where the
Speaker 1: air could move around them. I'd set them out in
Speaker 1: a long row on a screen shelf, with a bit
Speaker 1: of space between each one, and I would come and
Speaker 1: give them a turn every couple of months in the spring.
Speaker 1: They would rattle when you shook them as their seeds
Speaker 1: danced around inside the hard skin, and then I would
Speaker 1: carefully cut into them to make an open space to
Speaker 1: fill with bird seed and a slot to thread a
Speaker 1: bit of rope, and then hang them out to feed
Speaker 1: the black capped chickadees, the cerulean warblers, and the yellow
Speaker 1: breasted chats. I might paint some in shades of sky
Speaker 1: blue or shiny black and give them to friends or neighbors.
Speaker 1: I'd spent some time cutting pumpkins from their vines and
Speaker 1: setting them in a row at the end of the
Speaker 1: long gravel drive. We had more than we could use
Speaker 1: or eat, so I'd set out a hand stenciled sign
Speaker 1: asking a few dollars per pumpkin, and left an old
Speaker 1: coffee can to collect on top of the mailbox. Now
Speaker 1: in my herb garden, I heard the crunch of tires
Speaker 1: on the drive and looked up to see a couple
Speaker 1: and a little boy inspecting the pumpkins. The boy squatted
Speaker 1: down to run his tiny hands over the smooth, bright
Speaker 1: orange skin and the prickly green stem. It's a big
Speaker 1: decision to a little one which pumpkin was the right one.
Speaker 1: After a minute, he picked one, and though it took
Speaker 1: him a few tries, he got his arms around it
Speaker 1: and shuffled it back to his car. I saw his
Speaker 1: mom push a few bills into the coffee can, and
Speaker 1: she raised an arm to wave at me in the garden.
Speaker 1: I waved back and turned back to my herbs. At
Speaker 1: this time of year, many of them had already had
Speaker 1: their last harvest. I had cut the last of the parsley,
Speaker 1: oregano and basil in September, but there was still plenty
Speaker 1: of sage and sorrel and time. The time in particular
Speaker 1: smelled so good warmed in the sun that I rubbed
Speaker 1: it between my palms and cupped them in front of
Speaker 1: my face. I closed my eyes and pulled several slow
Speaker 1: breaths of it deeply. In Rudyard Kipling wrote that time
Speaker 1: smelled like dawn in paradise. Thinking of the poetry of
Speaker 1: plants and herbs, I reached out to prune the last
Speaker 1: branches of rosemary. There's rosemary that's for remembrance. Pray you love, remember,
Speaker 1: And there is pansies that's for thoughts. I said it aloud.
Speaker 1: Although I was no Ophelia, I wasn't broken hearted or lost. Instead,
Speaker 1: when I was in my garden, I was found. I
Speaker 1: thought of how abundantly nature gives. I'd harvested a few
Speaker 1: glossy gray Hubbard squashes, that were at least twenty pounds each.
Speaker 1: They were sweet and nutty, and one could feed a
Speaker 1: family for a week. Those cured chords would last indefinitely.
Speaker 1: Nature gives and gives and gives. I stood a moment,
Speaker 1: pressing down through the toes of my shoes into the garden.
Speaker 1: I was trying to connect my body directly into the earth,
Speaker 1: to say thank you, to say I am noticing how
Speaker 1: much you give, and I am grateful. I remembered a
Speaker 1: moment years earlier that regularly came to mind, and I'd
Speaker 1: said to a friend that I felt the strong need
Speaker 1: to be out in nature. He'd said, with kindness in
Speaker 1: his voice, you are nature. Of course, he was right,
Speaker 1: and I had carried that remembrance with me when I
Speaker 1: couldn't be in the open fresh air, or touch the soil,
Speaker 1: or walk in the thick groves of trees. I piled
Speaker 1: a few inches of pine needles over the prune stems
Speaker 1: of the rosemary to protect her from the frost and
Speaker 1: snow that would come. I cut bunches of sage for
Speaker 1: our Thanksgiving dinner, and stems of catnip for the felines
Speaker 1: in the family. I tucked a branch of rosemary into
Speaker 1: the front pocket of my old flannel shirt, so that
Speaker 1: the perfume would follow me all day. Rosemary was for
Speaker 1: a remembrance, and I was remembering my place in the
Speaker 1: nature of things. Rosemary for remembrance. I was out in
Speaker 1: my herb garden, back behind the edge of the vegetable patch,
Speaker 1: which by now had mostly been tilled down back into
Speaker 1: the earth. After the last years of corn had been eaten.
Speaker 1: We'd cut the cornstalks and tied them with twine and
Speaker 1: propped some along the front of the old red barn
Speaker 1: with a few bales of drying hay. I'd spent the
Speaker 1: morning harvesting the last few bits that the garden could
Speaker 1: give us before the hard frost set in. I had
Speaker 1: a section of gourds grown mostly as ornaments an extra
Speaker 1: food for the rabbits. In the deer There were soft
Speaker 1: skin gourds, which are called cubita. They grow with long
Speaker 1: hooked necks and knobbly, shiny skin. They were green and
Speaker 1: gold or a bright sunrise orange dread, and most were
Speaker 1: small enough to be carried in one hand. I'd cut
Speaker 1: them from the vine and heaped them into wooden baskets.
Speaker 1: They decorate my table sit in wreaths of bright red
Speaker 1: maple leaves on my porch, and the extra would be
Speaker 1: set out at the edge of the woods for any
Speaker 1: passing animal in search of a nibble. I also grew
Speaker 1: hard skinned cords called legendaria. They were a tan sandy
Speaker 1: brown and quite large. In fact, some had grown almost
Speaker 1: as big as my pumpkins. I had harvested them one
Speaker 1: at a time, leaving a few inches of vine on
Speaker 1: the stem, and carrying each one to the spigot at
Speaker 1: the edge of the barn. I'd washed each gord carefully
Speaker 1: in the cold water of the tap and laid them
Speaker 1: out on an old patched quilt in the autumn sunlight
Speaker 1: to dry. The gourds would cure over the winter, and
Speaker 1: their insides would slowly dry till they were as light
Speaker 1: as paper. I had a spot in the barn warm
Speaker 1: enough that they wouldn't freeze in the depth of the winter,
Speaker 1: but dry and where the air could move around them.
Speaker 1: I'd set them out in a long row on a
Speaker 1: screen shelf, with a bit of space between each one,
Speaker 1: and I would come and give them a turn every
Speaker 1: couple of months in the spring. They would rattle when
Speaker 1: you shook them as their seeds danced around inside the
Speaker 1: hard skin. I would carefully cut into them to make
Speaker 1: an open space to fill with bird seed and a
Speaker 1: slot to thread a bit of rope, and then hang
Speaker 1: them out to feed the black capped chickadees, the cerulean warblers,
Speaker 1: and the yellow breasted chats. I might paint some in
Speaker 1: shades of sky blue or shiny black and give them
Speaker 1: to friends or neighbors. I had spent some time cutting
Speaker 1: pumpkins from their vines and setting them in a row
Speaker 1: at the end of the long gravel drive. We had
Speaker 1: more than we could use or eat, so I'd set
Speaker 1: out a hand stenciled sign asking for a few dollars
Speaker 1: per pumpkin, and left an old coffee can to collect
Speaker 1: on top of the mail box. Now in my herb garden,
Speaker 1: I heard the crunch of tires on the drive and
Speaker 1: looked up to see a couple and a little boy
Speaker 1: inspecting the pumpkins. The boy squatted down to run his
Speaker 1: tiny hands over the smooth, bright orange skin and the
Speaker 1: prickly green stem. It's a big decision to a little
Speaker 1: one which pumpkin was the right one. After a minute,
Speaker 1: he picked one, and though it took him a few tries.
Speaker 1: He got his arms around it and shuffled it back
Speaker 1: to the car. I saw his mom push a few
Speaker 1: bills into the coffee can, and she raised an arm
Speaker 1: to wave at me in the garden. I waved back
Speaker 1: and turned back to my herbs. At this time of year,
Speaker 1: many of them had already had their last harvest. I'd
Speaker 1: cut the last of the parsley, oregano and basil in September,
Speaker 1: but there was still plenty of sage and sorrel and time.
Speaker 1: The time in particular smelt so good, warmed in the sun,
Speaker 1: that I rubbed it between my palms and cupped them
Speaker 1: in front of my face. I closed my eyes and
Speaker 1: pulled several slow breaths of it deeply. In Rodyard, Kipling
Speaker 1: wrote that time smelt like dawn in paradise. Thinking of
Speaker 1: the poetry of plants and herbs, I reached out to
Speaker 1: prune the last branches of rosemary. There's rosemary that's for remembrance.
Speaker 1: Pray you love, remember, And there's pansies that's for thoughts.
Speaker 1: I said it aloud. Although I was no Ophelia, I
Speaker 1: wasn't broken hearted or lost. Instead, when I was in
Speaker 1: my garden I was found. I thought of how abundantly
Speaker 1: nature gives. I'd harvested a few glossy gray hubbard squashes
Speaker 1: were at least twenty pounds apiece. They were sweet and nutty,
Speaker 1: and one could feed a family for a week. Those
Speaker 1: cured gourds would last indefinitely. Nature gives, I'm gives, I'm gives.
Speaker 1: I stood a moment, pressing down through the toes of
Speaker 1: my shoes into the garden. I was trying to connect
Speaker 1: my body directly into the earth to say thank you,
Speaker 1: to say I am noticing how much you give, and
Speaker 1: I am grateful. I remembered a moment from years earlier
Speaker 1: that regularly came to mind, when I'd said to a
Speaker 1: friend that I felt the strong need to be out
Speaker 1: in nature. He'd said, with kindness in his voice, you
Speaker 1: are nature. Of course he was right, and I'd carried
Speaker 1: that remembrance with me when I couldn't be in the
Speaker 1: open fresh air or touched the soil or walk in
Speaker 1: the thick groves of trees. I piled a few inches
Speaker 1: of pine needles over the prune stems of the rosemary
Speaker 1: to protect her from the frost and the snow that
Speaker 1: would come. I cut punches of sage for our Thanksgiving dinner,
Speaker 1: and stems of catnip for the felines in the family.
Speaker 1: I tucked a branch of rosemary into the front pocket
Speaker 1: of my old flannel shirt so that the perfume would
Speaker 1: follow me all day. Rosemary was for a remembrance, and
Speaker 1: I was remembering my place in the nature of things.
Speaker 1: Sweet Dreams