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: that you hear on nothing much happens. Our audio engineering
Speaker 1: is done by Bob Wittersheim. Nothing Much Happens is a
Speaker 1: proud member of the Curious cast podcast network. Let me
Speaker 1: say a bit about how this podcast works. Just as
Speaker 1: your body needs a bed to sleep in, your mind
Speaker 1: needs a place to rest, someplace calm and safe and simple.
Speaker 1: That's what the story is. A place to rest your mind.
Speaker 1: I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a bit
Speaker 1: slower the second time through. As you listen, pull the
Speaker 1: details of the story around you like a blanket, imagine
Speaker 1: yourself in the story, and before you know it, likely
Speaker 1: before I finish reading, you'll be deeply and peacefully asleep.
Speaker 1: If you wake again in the middle of the night,
Speaker 1: walk yourself back through any details from the story that
Speaker 1: you can remember. It'll put your mind right back into
Speaker 1: its nest, and soon you'll be waking up tomorrow feeling
Speaker 1: relaxed and refreshed. Now it's time to settle in and
Speaker 1: set yourself up for sleep. Turn off the light, set
Speaker 1: aside anything you've been looking at or working on, Adjust
Speaker 1: your pillows, and comfort her until you feel completely at ease.
Speaker 1: You are about to fall asleep. You will sleep deeply
Speaker 1: all night. Take a deep breath in through your nose
Speaker 1: and sigh out of the mouth again. Breathe in and
Speaker 1: out good. Our story tonight is called Grandmother's Grimoire, and
Speaker 1: it's a story about a family heirloom that arrives in
Speaker 1: the crispy, cool days of October. It's also about an
Speaker 1: afternoon in the attic with old trunks and photographs, a
Speaker 1: cup of sugar from the pantry, and the return of
Speaker 1: an old friend. Grandmother's Grimoire. I'd been sitting at the
Speaker 1: kitchen table, slowly stirring a cup of tea and turning
Speaker 1: the pages of an old photo album. I'd had a
Speaker 1: nostalgic streak lately and had been going through some old things.
Speaker 1: I'd spent a dusty afternoon in the attic, shifting cases,
Speaker 1: opening old trunks, and sitting on the creaky floorboards while
Speaker 1: the autumn lights slanted over my shoulders. I'd brought some
Speaker 1: of my fines down to examine and was leisurely working
Speaker 1: my way through them. I'd found a tin of old
Speaker 1: recipe cards, handwritten by several different hands, and I'd taken
Speaker 1: a few out to try for Sunday dinner. Some were pristine,
Speaker 1: and I imagined polite, great ants asking for a recipe
Speaker 1: at a garden party. I'd found an old pair of
Speaker 1: soft gray gloves, and I pictured them primly holding a
Speaker 1: cup of tea as the recipe was jotted down and
Speaker 1: passed over. But I don't trust a recipe card that's
Speaker 1: neat and tidy. I looked for the ones with worn edges,
Speaker 1: notes written slantwise in margins, amending the measurements or baking times.
Speaker 1: I looked for the ones with layers of stains from
Speaker 1: sitting too near the pots and bowls. Those were the
Speaker 1: ones I pulled out and set aside. Along with the
Speaker 1: recipes and the gloves, were stacks of photos and old albums,
Speaker 1: their pages sticking together slightly, and names and dates written
Speaker 1: in faded ink below the pictures. Aunt Adelaide had been
Speaker 1: a beauty who'd played the piano and celebrated her birthday
Speaker 1: on a boat somewhere. Uncle Kenneth had smoked a pipe
Speaker 1: and played cards. On the porch on rainy days. Here
Speaker 1: was someone's first car. Here was a cake with fifty
Speaker 1: written in wobbly letters and frosting. Here were kids in
Speaker 1: homemade Halloween costumes holding pillowcases on their way out for
Speaker 1: the night. I turned the pages and studied faces, matching
Speaker 1: people from one celebration to another, from one year to another.
Speaker 1: Then I absent mindedly closed the book and stood up,
Speaker 1: walking slowly to the front door. When I reached out
Speaker 1: and turned the doorknob, I found our mail carrier coming
Speaker 1: up the front path. She smiled at me and shook
Speaker 1: her head. She had a package in her hands, wrapped
Speaker 1: in brown paper and tied with string. How do you
Speaker 1: do that? You always seem to know when I'm about
Speaker 1: to knock on your door. Just a lucky guess, I said.
Speaker 1: She handed over the package, and I thinked her and
Speaker 1: carried it in back to my table of treasures. I
Speaker 1: ran my hand over the paper and untied the string.
Speaker 1: My name was inked out in looping, beautiful letters, and
Speaker 1: I felt that phizz of excitement that children feel when
Speaker 1: they get mail. In adulthood, mail is often dull and
Speaker 1: sometimes distinctly unfun but to children it's all just mystery
Speaker 1: and delight. I hadn't even opened it up yet, and
Speaker 1: I was already delighted. Out of the paper came a
Speaker 1: thick book, bound in deep green velvet, with an image
Speaker 1: of a woman with long flowing hair embossed on the cover.
Speaker 1: I hadn't seen this book in years, not since I
Speaker 1: was a child. How had it come to me today?
Speaker 1: I looked back at the paper wrapper. My name and
Speaker 1: address were the only things on it. I had only
Speaker 1: ever seen this book in my grandmother's house, sometimes opened
Speaker 1: beside the stove or propped up against the pestle and
Speaker 1: mortar in the workroom where she dried herbs. I'd seen
Speaker 1: it most when it was carried in her strong arms
Speaker 1: from the garden to the armchair in front of the place,
Speaker 1: when she'd stop at the end of the day to
Speaker 1: make notes. I realized I'd never paid much attention to it,
Speaker 1: guessing it must have been some sort of journal or cookbook.
Speaker 1: But as I let the book fall open in my
Speaker 1: hands and looked over the pages, I saw it for
Speaker 1: what it was. A spell book, a grimoire, and she
Speaker 1: hadn't been the first to write her charms into it.
Speaker 1: This book was started long before she was born, and
Speaker 1: the handwriting in the first dozen pages was full of flourishes,
Speaker 1: which made the script beautiful, though tricky to read. I
Speaker 1: followed through the pages, picking out the best loves bells.
Speaker 1: They reminded me of the recipe cards I had plucked
Speaker 1: from the tin, full of extra notes that the cock'scomb
Speaker 1: should be cut at the quarter moon, or that the
Speaker 1: Althaea root should be stored in a stone bowl, not glass.
Speaker 1: There were a dozen ribbons of different colors, marking out
Speaker 1: sections for protection, or prosperity or fertility. I sat back
Speaker 1: in my chair and felt the weight of the book
Speaker 1: in my lap. I remembered a blustery October day with
Speaker 1: Graham when I was quite young. She'd been busy in
Speaker 1: the kitchen, and the window panes were covered with the
Speaker 1: sweet smelling steam from her pots. She had all gray
Speaker 1: cat who followed her everywhere and watched me with her
Speaker 1: yellow eyes as she stirred and worked from her book.
Speaker 1: I had stretched up onto my toes beside her to
Speaker 1: reach an old measuring cup on the counter. When I
Speaker 1: caught it up, I opened a tin in her pantry
Speaker 1: and dipped out a cup of sugar grandmother put her
Speaker 1: hands on her hips and just watched as I carefully
Speaker 1: carried the cup to her kitchen door, where I stopped
Speaker 1: and waited patiently. A moment later, there was a knock
Speaker 1: and the neighbor from across the yard poked her head in.
Speaker 1: She looked down at me holding the cup on the doorstep,
Speaker 1: and then over a grandmother, who gave her a wink.
Speaker 1: The neighbor took the cup and thanked me and went
Speaker 1: back to finish her cake. Gran came over and gave
Speaker 1: me a kiss on the top of my head, and
Speaker 1: as I sat back down to watch her work, the
Speaker 1: gray cat hopped up into my lap. Now holding this
Speaker 1: book that must have been passed down quietly through the
Speaker 1: limbs of our family tree, I thought about that feeling
Speaker 1: that had driven me up into the attic to think
Speaker 1: of family and feel connected to the past, my past
Speaker 1: hour past. I closed the book and tucked it into
Speaker 1: the crook of my arm, just as Gran had done.
Speaker 1: She'd seen something then that one day I would need
Speaker 1: this book. How she'd gotten it to me today was
Speaker 1: a mystery, I contemplated as I looked out On another
Speaker 1: blustery October day, I carried the book to my own
Speaker 1: kitchen door that opened out to where I guessed I'd
Speaker 1: be putting in a nerb garden in the spring, as
Speaker 1: i'd need a salad source for the coxcomb and althea root.
Speaker 1: I paused with a smile on my face as I
Speaker 1: reached out for the door knob, knowing what I would
Speaker 1: find on the other side. I opened the door, and
Speaker 1: a small gray cat with bright yellow eyes walked over
Speaker 1: the threshold and circled around my ankles. Grandmother's grimoire. I
Speaker 1: had been sitting at the kitchen table, slowly stirring a
Speaker 1: cup of tea and turning the pages of an old
Speaker 1: photo album. I'd had a nostalgic streak lately and had
Speaker 1: been going through some old things. I'd spent a dusty
Speaker 1: afternoon in the attic, shifting cases, opening old trunks, and
Speaker 1: sitting on the creaky floorboards while the autumn light slanted
Speaker 1: over my shoulders. I'd brought some of my fines down
Speaker 1: to examine and was leisurely working my way through them.
Speaker 1: I'd found a tin of old recipe cards, handwritten by
Speaker 1: several different hands, and I'd taken a few out to
Speaker 1: try for Sunday dinner. Some were pristine, and I imagined polite,
Speaker 1: great ants asking for a recipe at a garden party.
Speaker 1: I'd found an old pair of soft gray gloves, and
Speaker 1: I pictured them primly holding a cup of tea as
Speaker 1: the recipe was jotted down and passed over. But I
Speaker 1: don't trust a recipe card that's neat and tidy. I
Speaker 1: looked for the ones with worn edges, notes written slant
Speaker 1: wise in margins, amending the measurements or baking times. I
Speaker 1: looked for the ones with layers of stains from sitting
Speaker 1: too near the pots and bowls. Those were the ones
Speaker 1: I pulled out and set aside. Along with the recipes
Speaker 1: and the gloves were stacks of photos and old albums,
Speaker 1: their pages sticking together slightly, and names and dates written
Speaker 1: in faded ink. Below the pictures. Aunt Adelaide had been
Speaker 1: a beauty who'd played the piano and celebrated her birthday
Speaker 1: on a boat. Somewhere Uncle Kenneth had smoked a pipe
Speaker 1: and played cards on the porch on rainy days. Here
Speaker 1: was someone's first car. Here was a cake with fifty
Speaker 1: written in wobbly letters in frosting. Here were kids in
Speaker 1: homemade Halloween costumes holding pillow cases on their way out
Speaker 1: for the night. I turned the pages and studied faces,
Speaker 1: matching people from one celebration to another, from one year
Speaker 1: to another. Then I absent mindedly closed the book and
Speaker 1: stood up, walking slowly to the front door. When I
Speaker 1: reached out and turned the door knob, I opened the
Speaker 1: door to see our mail carrier coming up the front path.
Speaker 1: She smiled at me and shook her head. She had
Speaker 1: a package in her hands, wrapped in brown paper and
Speaker 1: tied with string. How do you do that? You always
Speaker 1: seem to know when I'm about to knock on your door.
Speaker 1: Just a lucky guess, I said. She handed over the package,
Speaker 1: and I thanked her and carried it in back to
Speaker 1: my table of treasures. I ran my hand over the
Speaker 1: paper and untied the string. My name was inked out
Speaker 1: in looping, beautiful letters, and I felt that fizz of
Speaker 1: excitement that children feel when they get mail. An adulthood
Speaker 1: male is often dull and sometimes distinctly unfun, but to children,
Speaker 1: it's all just mystery and delight. I hadn't even opened
Speaker 1: it up yet, and I was all ready delighted. Out
Speaker 1: of the paper came a thick book, bound in deep
Speaker 1: green velvet, with an image of a woman with long
Speaker 1: flowing hair embossed on the cover. I hadn't seen this
Speaker 1: book in years, not since I was a child. How
Speaker 1: had it come to me today? I looked back at
Speaker 1: the paper wrapper. My name an address were the only
Speaker 1: things on it. I had only ever seen this book
Speaker 1: in my grandmother's house, sometimes open beside the stove or
Speaker 1: propped up against the pestle and mortar in the workroom
Speaker 1: where she dried herbs. I'd seen it most when it
Speaker 1: was carried in her strong arms from the garden to
Speaker 1: the armchair in front of her fireplace, when she'd stop
Speaker 1: at the end of the day to make some notes.
Speaker 1: I realized I'd never paid much attention to it, guessing
Speaker 1: it must have been a sort of journal or cookbook.
Speaker 1: But as I let the book fall open in my
Speaker 1: hands and looked over the pages, I saw it for
Speaker 1: what it was. A spell book, a grimoire, and she
Speaker 1: hadn't been the first to write her charms into it.
Speaker 1: This book was started long before she was born, and
Speaker 1: the handwriting in the first dozen pages was full of flourishes,
Speaker 1: which made the script beautiful, though tricky to read. I
Speaker 1: followed through the pages, picking out the best love spells.
Speaker 1: They reminded me of the recipe cards I'd plucked from
Speaker 1: the tin, full of extra notes that the cockscomb should
Speaker 1: be cut at the quarter moon, or that the alfia
Speaker 1: root should be stored in a stone bowl, not glass.
Speaker 1: There were a dozen ribbons of different colors marking out
Speaker 1: sections for protection, or prosperity or fertility. I sat back
Speaker 1: in my chair and felt the weight of the book
Speaker 1: in my lap. I remembered a plustery October day with
Speaker 1: gran when I was quite young. She'd been busy in
Speaker 1: the kitchen and the window panes were covered with the
Speaker 1: sweet smelling steam from her pots. She had a small
Speaker 1: gray cat who followed her everywhere and watched me with
Speaker 1: her yellow eyes as she stirred and worked from her book.
Speaker 1: I'd stretched up onto my toes beside her to reach
Speaker 1: an old measuring cup on the counter. When I caught
Speaker 1: it up, I opened a tin in her pantry and
Speaker 1: dipped out a cup of sugar. Grandmother put her hands
Speaker 1: on her hips and just watched as I carefully carried
Speaker 1: the cup to her kitchen door, where I stopped and
Speaker 1: waited patiently. A moment later, there was a knock and
Speaker 1: the neighbor from across the yard poked her head in.
Speaker 1: She looked down at me holding the cup on the doorstep,
Speaker 1: then over a grandmother, who gave her a wink. The
Speaker 1: neighbor took the cup and thanked me and went back
Speaker 1: to finish her cake. Grhan came over and gave me
Speaker 1: a kiss on the top of my head, and as
Speaker 1: I sat back down to watch her work, the gray
Speaker 1: cat hopped up into my lap. Now holding this book
Speaker 1: that must have been passed down quietly through the limbs
Speaker 1: of our family tree, I thought about that feeling that
Speaker 1: had driven me up into the attic to think of
Speaker 1: family and feel connected to the past, my past hour past.
Speaker 1: I closed the book and tucked it into the crook
Speaker 1: of my arm, just as Graham had done. She'd seen
Speaker 1: something then that one day I would need this book.
Speaker 1: How she'd gotten it to me to day was a mystery,
Speaker 1: I contemplated as I looked out on another blustery October day,
Speaker 1: I carried the book to my own kitchen door that
Speaker 1: opened out to where I guessed I'd be putting a
Speaker 1: herb garden in the spring, as I'd need a solid
Speaker 1: source for the coxcomb and althea root. I paused with
Speaker 1: a smile on my face as I reached out for
Speaker 1: the door knob, knowing what I would find on the
Speaker 1: other side. I opened the door and a small gray
Speaker 1: cat with bright yellow eyes walked over the threshold and
Speaker 1: circled around my ankles. Sweet Dreams,