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 write and read all the stories
Speaker 1: you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Our audio engineer is
Speaker 1: Bob Wittersheim. We are proud members of the Curious Cast
Speaker 1: podcast network. You can follow us on Facebook and Instagram
Speaker 1: and Twitter for pictures of cozy things on calm reminders
Speaker 1: to breathe and enjoy the small pleasures around you. If
Speaker 1: you need more nothing much in your life, go to
Speaker 1: Nothing Much Happens dot com, where you can order some
Speaker 1: lovely pieces inspired by our stories. Let me say a
Speaker 1: little about how to use this podcast. I'm about to
Speaker 1: tell you a bedtime story. It's simple and not much
Speaker 1: happens in it, and that is the idea. The story
Speaker 1: is a soft place to rest your mind, a simple
Speaker 1: and pleasant way to occupy it so that it doesn't
Speaker 1: wander away and keep you up. All you need to
Speaker 1: do is listen in a relaxed way. Just follow along
Speaker 1: with the sound of my voice and the simple details
Speaker 1: of the story, and soon, very soon, you'll be deeply asleep.
Speaker 1: I'll tell the story twice and I'll go a little
Speaker 1: slower the second time through. If you wake in the
Speaker 1: middle of the night, you could listen again or just
Speaker 1: think your way back through any part of the story
Speaker 1: that you can remember. We're training your brain to settle
Speaker 1: and rest, and the more you do this, the better
Speaker 1: your sleep will get. It's time turn off your light,
Speaker 1: snuggle your body down into your sheets, and get as
Speaker 1: comfortable as you can. Take a moment just to feel
Speaker 1: how good it is to be in bed, to be
Speaker 1: about to sleep. Let's take a deep breath in through
Speaker 1: the nose and out through the mouth. Nice. Let's do
Speaker 1: that again, Breathe in and out. Our story tonight is
Speaker 1: called The Cabin in the Woods, and it's a story
Speaker 1: about a trip along winding roads at a special place
Speaker 1: at the end of them. It's also about pine cones
Speaker 1: high in their branches, a jigsaw puzzle spread out on
Speaker 1: the kitchen table, and the calm, quiet feeling that comes
Speaker 1: from being far away from everything. The Cabin in the Woods.
Speaker 1: It took a few hours in the car to get there,
Speaker 1: and I, in the passenger seat, had been dozing listening
Speaker 1: to the slow swish of the windshield wipers. It wasn't storming,
Speaker 1: but there was a slow, misting rain that coated the
Speaker 1: windows and pushed the drying leaves from their branches. As
Speaker 1: we made our way along country roads to the cabin,
Speaker 1: I blinked my eyes open a few times and let
Speaker 1: out a slow sigh. A hand reached out for mine,
Speaker 1: and I squeezed. I slipped my feet back into my
Speaker 1: shoes and said, in a sleepy voice, almost there. Almost.
Speaker 1: The road was curving and climbing. Tall pines and bright
Speaker 1: red maples stood on either side, and I felt my
Speaker 1: shoulders relaxing down my back. The closer we got, the
Speaker 1: calmer I felt there was some point on these twisting roads.
Speaker 1: I wasn't sure if it was always the same point,
Speaker 1: not a particular mile marker or faded billboard, but a
Speaker 1: general distance away from everything else and closer to the cabin,
Speaker 1: where I suddenly felt like I had stepped into a
Speaker 1: hot shower, and my muscles softened and my breath got deeper.
Speaker 1: Soon we were turning down a dirt road, then another.
Speaker 1: We made a left at the fork and turned on
Speaker 1: to the long pebble drive of the cabin. I sat
Speaker 1: up taller in my seat and looked through the trees
Speaker 1: and the mist, and squeezed my sweetheart's hand again as
Speaker 1: the shape of the a frame came into view. It
Speaker 1: stood in an open space among the trees, a small
Speaker 1: meadow which in the summer was filled with sweet Williams
Speaker 1: and black eyed Susans, and now had drifts of fallen
Speaker 1: leaves ready for our rakes. It was small, a true cabin,
Speaker 1: with just enough room for the two of us, and
Speaker 1: the snugness of it, the simplicity that comes from small
Speaker 1: places and fewer choices, was an immediate calming tonic. Inside
Speaker 1: we hung our damp jackets on hooks by the door
Speaker 1: and turned on a few lights. Looking around at our
Speaker 1: tiny space. There was a small kitchen lined with old
Speaker 1: cupboards and open shelves, upon which stood a few cookbooks
Speaker 1: tucked between the percolator and the canisters of coffee and
Speaker 1: oats and flour and sugar. I set a sack of
Speaker 1: groceries on the counter. We'd stopped at a roadside stand,
Speaker 1: and I'd bought a few pairs with papery bronze skin
Speaker 1: that I might bake into a tart tomorrow. I'd also
Speaker 1: bought a squat butternut squash and a stem of Brussels sprouts.
Speaker 1: I drew back a thin patterned curtain over the pantry
Speaker 1: and saw a mason jar half full of arboreal rice
Speaker 1: and a couple containers of broth. I'd roast the squash
Speaker 1: and the sprouts and stir them into the risotto for dinner.
Speaker 1: In the middle of the cabin there was a small
Speaker 1: square of living space with a stone fireplace and sofa,
Speaker 1: an old striped afghan thrown over the back. Some houses
Speaker 1: have blankets, some cottages have throws, but cabins have afghans
Speaker 1: crotcheted years ago by someone's aunt in elaborate patterns, or
Speaker 1: with an amalgam of the last bits of yarn left
Speaker 1: in the basket. They don't match anything, but in a
Speaker 1: cabin a sofa without one just looks wrong. There was
Speaker 1: a bathroom with black and white tile and a small
Speaker 1: claw foot tub, and I slipped our toothbrushes into the
Speaker 1: cup by the sink. I opened the taps and let
Speaker 1: the water run for a few moments to clear out
Speaker 1: the rust and dust. I took fresh towels out of
Speaker 1: the cupboard and hung them behind the door. There would
Speaker 1: definitely be a long bath before the weekend. Was over
Speaker 1: the tilting walls of the a frame, leaned in on
Speaker 1: either side and took your eyes up and out toward
Speaker 1: the trees around us. We opened the sliding glass to
Speaker 1: let a bit of fresh air in and stepped out
Speaker 1: onto the tiny deck where we ate our meals in
Speaker 1: warm weather. The cabin was situated in a spot that
Speaker 1: gave a view over the tree tops as the land
Speaker 1: dropped down into a valley below us. I looked up
Speaker 1: into the highest branches of the pines and saw they
Speaker 1: were filled with cones. I thought of the cones wrapping
Speaker 1: their scales around the precious seeds, protecting them from cold
Speaker 1: and wind, waiting for the warm weather to open up
Speaker 1: and let them go. Yes, this is the time of
Speaker 1: year for holding tight. We stepped back in and closed
Speaker 1: the door behind us. I took the creaking stairs up
Speaker 1: to the sleeping loft, where our bed was spread with
Speaker 1: a thick comforter. I unpacked our bags into the old
Speaker 1: dresser and rooted around in the closet. I found a
Speaker 1: stack of old jigsaw puzzles and sat on the floor
Speaker 1: with them for a few moments, looking at the pictures
Speaker 1: on the boxes. There was a Parisian streetscape illustrated in
Speaker 1: bright reds and oranges and glossy black. There was a
Speaker 1: field dotted with rolls of hay and a paddock of
Speaker 1: sheep in the distance, and one with a tall masted
Speaker 1: ship on open water, ITTs deck bustling with sailors, coiling
Speaker 1: ropes and tying knots. I tucked the Paris Street under
Speaker 1: my arm and leaned to look over the edge of
Speaker 1: the loft. I had heard the door open and close
Speaker 1: a few times, and saw that the wood stall was
Speaker 1: filling up and a fire was coming to life in
Speaker 1: the grate. Carried my puzzle down to the kitchen table
Speaker 1: and opened it up, and began picking through the pieces
Speaker 1: to find the edges and the corners. A glass of
Speaker 1: wine was set down beside me as I worked. A
Speaker 1: teacher had told me once that learning about yourself was
Speaker 1: a bit like putting a puzzle together. You started with
Speaker 1: obvious markers and worked your way in towards the bits
Speaker 1: that were blurry or whose context wasn't clear until it
Speaker 1: was clicked into place. Sometimes, she said, you might find
Speaker 1: a piece along the way that doesn't seem to fit anywhere,
Speaker 1: and suddenly realize it must go to someone else's puzzle.
Speaker 1: When you did, you'd smilingly set it aside and focus
Speaker 1: instead on the pick that was taking shape in front
Speaker 1: of you. I liked that I sat and looked around
Speaker 1: at the picture in front of me, A snug, friendly
Speaker 1: place to retreat to with the person I loved, a
Speaker 1: dinner to cook, a fire to warm by, a bed
Speaker 1: to lay in as we listened to the rain falling
Speaker 1: on the old cedar roof tomorrow leaves to rake, and
Speaker 1: flower beds to prepare for the winter. In this small space,
Speaker 1: we would do small things and enjoy them hugely in
Speaker 1: the time that we had the cabin in the woods.
Speaker 1: It took a few hours in the car to get there,
Speaker 1: and I, in the passenger seat, had been dozing listening
Speaker 1: to the slow swish of the windshield wipers. It wasn't storming,
Speaker 1: but there was a slow, misting rain that coated the
Speaker 1: windows and pushed the drying leaves from their branches. As
Speaker 1: we made our way along country roads to the cabin,
Speaker 1: I blinked my eyes open a few times and let
Speaker 1: out a slow sigh. A hand reached out from mine
Speaker 1: and squeezed. I slipped my feet back into my shoes,
Speaker 1: and said in a sleepy voice. And almost there. Almost
Speaker 1: The road was curving and climbing. Tall pines and bright
Speaker 1: red maples stood on either side, and I felt my
Speaker 1: shoulders relaxing down my back. The closer we got, the
Speaker 1: calmer I felt there was some point on these twisting roads.
Speaker 1: I wasn't sure if it was always the same point,
Speaker 1: not a particular mile marker or faded billboard, but a
Speaker 1: general distance away from everything else and closer to the cabin,
Speaker 1: where I suddenly felt my eye had stepped into a
Speaker 1: hot shower, and my muscles softened, and my breath got deeper.
Speaker 1: Soon we were turning down a dirt road, then another.
Speaker 1: We made a left at the fork and turned onto
Speaker 1: the long pebble drive of the cabin. I sat up
Speaker 1: taller in my seat and looked through the trees and
Speaker 1: the mist, and squeezed my sweetheart's hand again. As the
Speaker 1: shape of the A frame came into view. It stood
Speaker 1: in an open space among the trees, a small meadow
Speaker 1: which in the summer was filled with sweet Williams and
Speaker 1: black eyed Susans, and now had drifts of fallen leaves
Speaker 1: ready for our rakes. It was small, a true cabin,
Speaker 1: with just enough room for the two of us, and
Speaker 1: the snugness of it. The simplicity that comes from small
Speaker 1: spaces and fewer choices was an immediate calming tonic. Inside
Speaker 1: we hung our damp jackets on hooks by the door
Speaker 1: and turned on a few lights. Looking around at our
Speaker 1: tiny space. There was a small kitchen lined with old
Speaker 1: cupboards and open shells, pond which stood a few cookbooks
Speaker 1: tucked between the percolator and the canisters of coffee and
Speaker 1: oats and flour and sugar. I set a sack of
Speaker 1: groceries on the counter. We'd stopped at a roadside stand,
Speaker 1: and I'd bought a few pairs with papery bronze skin
Speaker 1: that I might make into a tart tomorrow. I'd also
Speaker 1: bought a squat butternut squash and a stem of Brussels sprouts.
Speaker 1: I drew back the thin patterned curtain over the pantry
Speaker 1: and saw a mason jar half full of arboreo rice
Speaker 1: and a couple of containers of broth. I'd roast the
Speaker 1: squash and sprouts and stir them into the risotto for dinner.
Speaker 1: In the middle of the cabin there was a small
Speaker 1: square of living space with a stone fireplace and a
Speaker 1: sofa an old striped afghan thrown over the back. Some
Speaker 1: houses have blankets, some cottages have throws, but cabins have
Speaker 1: afghans crocheted years ago by someone's aunt in elaborate patterns,
Speaker 1: or with an amalgam of the last bits of yarn
Speaker 1: left in the basket. They don't match anything, but in
Speaker 1: a cabin a sofa without one just looks wrong. There
Speaker 1: was a bathroom with black and white tiles and a
Speaker 1: small cloth foot tub, and I slipped our toothbrushes into
Speaker 1: the cup by the sink. I opened the taps and
Speaker 1: let the water run for a few moments to clear
Speaker 1: out the rust and the dust. I took fresh towels
Speaker 1: out of the cupboard and hung them behind the door.
Speaker 1: There would definitely be a long bath before the weekend
Speaker 1: was over. The tilting walls of the a frame leaned
Speaker 1: in on either side and took your eyes up and
Speaker 1: out toward the trees all around us. We opened the
Speaker 1: sliding glass us to let in a bit of fresh air,
Speaker 1: and stepped out onto the tiny deck where we ate
Speaker 1: meals in warm weather. The cabin was situated in a
Speaker 1: spot that gave a view over the tree tops as
Speaker 1: the land dropped down into a valley below us. I
Speaker 1: looked up into the highest branches of the pines and
Speaker 1: saw that they were filled with cones. I thought of
Speaker 1: the cones wrapping their scales around the precious seeds, protecting
Speaker 1: them from cold and wind, waiting for the warm weather
Speaker 1: to open up and let them go. Yes, this is
Speaker 1: the time of year for holding tight. We stepped back
Speaker 1: in and closed the door behind us. I took the
Speaker 1: creaking stairs up to the sleeping loft, where our bed
Speaker 1: was spread with a thick comforter. I unpacked our bags
Speaker 1: into the old dresser and rooted around in the closet.
Speaker 1: I found a stack of old jig saw puzzles and
Speaker 1: sat on the floor with them for a few moments,
Speaker 1: looking at the pictures on the boxes. There was a
Speaker 1: Parisian streetscape illustrated in bright reds and oranges and glossy black.
Speaker 1: There was a field dotted with rolls of hay and
Speaker 1: a paddock of sheep in the distance, and one with
Speaker 1: a tall masted ship on open water, its deck bustling
Speaker 1: with sailors, coiling ropes and tying knots. I tucked the
Speaker 1: Paris Street under my arm and leaned to look over
Speaker 1: the edge of the loft. I had heard the door
Speaker 1: open and close a few times, and saw that the
Speaker 1: wood stall was filling up and a fire was coming
Speaker 1: to life in the grate. I carried my puzzle down
Speaker 1: to the kitchen table and opened it up, and began
Speaker 1: picking through the pieces to find the edges and the corners.
Speaker 1: A glass of wine was set down beside me as
Speaker 1: I worked. A teacher had told me once that learning
Speaker 1: about yourself was a bit like putting a puzzle together.
Speaker 1: You started with obvious markers and worked your way in
Speaker 1: toward the bits that were blurry or whose context wasn't
Speaker 1: clear until it was clicked into place. Sometimes, she said,
Speaker 1: you might find a piece along the way that doesn't
Speaker 1: seem to fit anywhere, and suddenly realize it must go
Speaker 1: to someone else's puzzle. When you did, you'd smilingly set
Speaker 1: it aside and focus instead on the picture that was
Speaker 1: taking shape in front of you. I liked that I
Speaker 1: sat and looked around at the picture in front of me.
Speaker 1: A snug, friendly place to retreat to with the person
Speaker 1: I loved, A dinner to cook, a fire to warm
Speaker 1: by a bed to lay in as we listened to
Speaker 1: the rain falling on the old cedar roof tomorrow leaves
Speaker 1: to rake, and flower beds to prepare for the winter.
Speaker 1: In this small space, we would do small things and
Speaker 1: enjoy them hugely. In the time that we had sweet
Speaker 1: dreams