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're proud members of the Curious Cast podcast network.
Speaker 1: You can follow us on Facebook and Instagram and Twitter
Speaker 1: for pictures of cozy things and calm reminders to breathe
Speaker 1: and enjoy the small pleasures around you. Has this ever
Speaker 1: happened to you? You're in bed, reading your book and
Speaker 1: maybe even scrunched up in an not so comfortable position,
Speaker 1: but you can't keep your eyes open. Then you turn
Speaker 1: off the light, get as snug as possible, and suddenly
Speaker 1: you can't sleep. What happened in those few seconds is
Speaker 1: that the narrative was replaced by your thinking mind. So
Speaker 1: that's how this works. I'll provide a story, simple and
Speaker 1: relaxing and told twice, with the second reading a little
Speaker 1: slower than the first. Let your mind just follow along
Speaker 1: as your eyes would have moved across the page, and
Speaker 1: before you know it, you'll be in deep, RESTful sleep.
Speaker 1: If you wake in the middle of the night, rather
Speaker 1: than letting your brain take over. Sink back through any
Speaker 1: of the story that you can remember, and you'll drop
Speaker 1: right back off. Now it's time to get comfortable. Switch
Speaker 1: off your light, snuggle your body down into your sheets,
Speaker 1: and feel how good it is to be in bed.
Speaker 1: Let's take a deep breath, in through the nose and
Speaker 1: out through the mouth. Ice. Let's do that one more time,
Speaker 1: in and out good. Our story tonight is called old House,
Speaker 1: and it's a story about a wandering amble through an
Speaker 1: unknown neighborhood. It's also about a forgotten piece of music
Speaker 1: in an old piano bench, a penny pressed into a sidewalk,
Speaker 1: and the stories we tell about the places we live
Speaker 1: old houses. On my walk today, I took a turn
Speaker 1: I hadn't taken before and found myself strolling past old
Speaker 1: stone houses with wide front porches and side lots devoted
Speaker 1: to flower gardens. The sidewalks were a bit cracked and uneven,
Speaker 1: misplaced by the thick roots of trees that must have
Speaker 1: been played well over a hundred years ago. Do you
Speaker 1: play this game walking in an old neighborhood and imagining
Speaker 1: a story about the people who'd lived in the houses?
Speaker 1: What they'd gotten up to, who they'd written in their
Speaker 1: diaries about, and what they'd eaten for breakfast. On sunny
Speaker 1: Saturday mornings, there was a house set well back from
Speaker 1: the street with a neat green lawn framed by a
Speaker 1: black iron frience. There were twisty flourishes shaped into the
Speaker 1: metal where the posts connected to the cross beams, some
Speaker 1: like leaves and some like petals. And I thought about
Speaker 1: how someone had come up with that design and crafted it,
Speaker 1: and how long it had lasted, and that it was
Speaker 1: still beautiful. In the side yard of the house was
Speaker 1: an ancient giant of a tree, an oak, who was
Speaker 1: just beginning to bud as he had done so many
Speaker 1: springs before. A bedroom window just beside a long, sideways
Speaker 1: jutting branch. It was open a few inches, and the
Speaker 1: curtains inside were shifting a bit with a breeze. I
Speaker 1: wondered if a few fearless teenagers had found that branch
Speaker 1: useful over the years, sneaking out late at night, if
Speaker 1: they'd scraped their hands on the bark as they caught
Speaker 1: a hold, climbed down till they could drop to their feet,
Speaker 1: quiet and watching to see if a lamp would come
Speaker 1: on inside the house, and when it didn't, Smiling excitedly
Speaker 1: in the darkness and rushing off to find some adventure,
Speaker 1: I crossed the street toward a row of paeony bushes
Speaker 1: that wrapped around a corner in front of a house
Speaker 1: made of dark aged wood that seemed to be held
Speaker 1: together by miles of ivy vines, winding around every window
Speaker 1: frame and climbing endlessly over eaves and dormers and gables.
Speaker 1: I stopped to squat down by the paeonies and look
Speaker 1: at their shining, dark green leaves and the tightly bundled
Speaker 1: buds of white and pink petals that were still the
Speaker 1: ways away from blooming. Tiny black ants crawled over the buds,
Speaker 1: eating their sweet waxy nectar. I laughed to myself, remembering
Speaker 1: a panicky call to my plant wise mother when I
Speaker 1: had found ants on my paeonies in my first garden.
Speaker 1: What do I do? I'd asked, nothing, She'd laughed, Nature,
Speaker 1: has it worked out, dear. Sure enough, the flowers had
Speaker 1: bloomed full and healthy a week later or so, and
Speaker 1: I had been reminded about the useful lesson of not
Speaker 1: fixing what wasn't broken, and just generally minding one's own business.
Speaker 1: Rising from my crouch, I looked back at the house
Speaker 1: with the ivy. I had a feeling there would be
Speaker 1: a piano in a house like that. Maybe it was
Speaker 1: just a touch out of tune, but still had a
Speaker 1: lovely sound in its bench where old piano lessons marked
Speaker 1: up with notes, dates to have the piece mastered by,
Speaker 1: and accolades for work well done. I had had a
Speaker 1: great great uncle who composed a few pieces that had
Speaker 1: been published in the twenties. I wondered if a few
Speaker 1: of his old scores were still sitting in piano benches
Speaker 1: and houses like this, waiting to be played again. On
Speaker 1: a corner, I looked down and noticed a dull glint
Speaker 1: at the edge of the sidewalk. I stooped down and
Speaker 1: saw that it was a penny planted deep into the cement.
Speaker 1: I suspected it was a way to mark the date
Speaker 1: that it had been pressed into the wet concrete. It
Speaker 1: was turned face up so that the year showed beside
Speaker 1: the profile. I rubbed at it for a moment and
Speaker 1: peered closer. Nineteen twenty, it said, and it was still here.
Speaker 1: The street curved ahead of me, and I followed it
Speaker 1: past more old houses, some a bit worse for wear,
Speaker 1: whose lawns had taken over the flower beds, or had
Speaker 1: a broken window up high in the attic and loose
Speaker 1: tiles on the roof. I wove a few more stories
Speaker 1: about them as I walked. This one was the one
Speaker 1: that all the kids dared each other to approach on
Speaker 1: Halloween night, with its dark, deep set doorway and dusty
Speaker 1: cobwebbed window panes. Across the street there was a tall
Speaker 1: Victorian painted in several bright shades of yellow and pink,
Speaker 1: with a small turret on the top floor and windows
Speaker 1: of stained glass. There were a dozen steps up to
Speaker 1: the front porch, and each baluster was painted in a complex,
Speaker 1: repeating design. I thought that it must have been the
Speaker 1: house of a wise old aunt. You'd go for advice,
Speaker 1: and she'd set you down and listen to you as
Speaker 1: she poured tea into matching cups, And after you'd got
Speaker 1: it all off your chest, she'd quietly sit with you
Speaker 1: and tilt her head a bit to the side, and
Speaker 1: you'd realize you already knew just what you needed to do.
Speaker 1: You'd fly down her front steps, calling your thinks over
Speaker 1: your shoulder and rush off to take the job, or
Speaker 1: confess your love, or pack your bags. There was a
Speaker 1: serious looking house with sharply trimmed shrubs framing the gardens,
Speaker 1: and dignified urns of flowers on stone pedestals at the
Speaker 1: front door. But at the edge of the drive, cut
Speaker 1: into a stone ledge, I found a tiny fairy garden
Speaker 1: with a miniature house and succulence, and very small stepping
Speaker 1: stones that reminded me of the kind I found by
Speaker 1: the lake and skipped into the water. I looked back
Speaker 1: up at the house and gave it a friendly wave
Speaker 1: that likely no one saw. These old houses held so
Speaker 1: many secrets and stories, and when you bumped into the small,
Speaker 1: beautiful details that could easily be missed, it felt like
Speaker 1: stumbling on a treasure. The twists in the wrought iron fence,
Speaker 1: the paeonies waiting for the ants to finish their meal,
Speaker 1: the penny turned face up in the sidewalk, carefully painted balusters,
Speaker 1: and the space set out for fairies to garden. I
Speaker 1: felt lucky to have seen them, to have not just
Speaker 1: rushed past. I'd keep taking new turns on my walks
Speaker 1: and see what else I could stumble upon. Old houses.
Speaker 1: On my walk today, I took a turn I hadn't
Speaker 1: taken before and found myself strolling past old stone houses
Speaker 1: with wide front porches and side lots devoted to flower gardens.
Speaker 1: The sidewalks were a bit cracked and uneven, misplaced by
Speaker 1: the thick roots of trees that must have been planted
Speaker 1: well over a hundred years ago. Do you play this
Speaker 1: game walking in an old neighborhood and imagining a story
Speaker 1: about the people who had lived in the houses, what
Speaker 1: they've gotten up to, who they'd written in their diaries about,
Speaker 1: and what they'd eaten for breakfast on sunny Saturday mornings.
Speaker 1: There was a house set well back from the street
Speaker 1: with a neat green lawn framed by a black iron fence.
Speaker 1: There were twisty flourishes shaped in the middle where the
Speaker 1: posts connected to cross beams, some like leaves and some
Speaker 1: like petals, And I thought about how someone had come
Speaker 1: up with this design and crafted it, and how long
Speaker 1: it had lasted, and that it was still beautiful. In
Speaker 1: the side yard of the house was an ancient giant
Speaker 1: of a tree, an oak, who was just beginning to
Speaker 1: bud as he had done so many springs before. A
Speaker 1: bedroom window just beside a long, sideways jutting branch was
Speaker 1: open a few inches, and the curtains inside were shifting
Speaker 1: a bit with the breeze. I wondered if a few
Speaker 1: fearless teenagers had found that branch useful over the years
Speaker 1: for sneaking out late at night, if they'd scraped their
Speaker 1: hands on the bark as they caught a hold, climbed
Speaker 1: down till they could drop to their feet, quiet and
Speaker 1: watching to see if a lamp would come on in
Speaker 1: the house, and when it didn't, Smiling excitedly in the darkness,
Speaker 1: and rushing off to find some adventure. I crossed the
Speaker 1: street toward a row of paeony bushes that wrapped around
Speaker 1: a corner in front of a house made of dark
Speaker 1: aged wood had seemed to be held together by miles
Speaker 1: of ivy vines, winding around every window frame and climbing
Speaker 1: endlessly over eaves and dormer and gables. I stopped to
Speaker 1: squat down by the paeonies and look at their shining
Speaker 1: dark green leaves and the tightly bundled buds of white
Speaker 1: and pink petals that were still aways away from blooming.
Speaker 1: Tiny black ants crawled over the buds eating away their
Speaker 1: sweet waxy nectar. I laughed to myself, remembering a panicky
Speaker 1: call to my plant wise mother when I'd found ants
Speaker 1: on my paeonies in my first garden. What do I do?
Speaker 1: I'd asked, nothing, She had laughed, Nature, has it worked out, dear?
Speaker 1: Sure enough the flowers had bloomed full and healthy a
Speaker 1: week or so later, and I had been reminded about
Speaker 1: the useful lesson of not fixing what wasn't broken, and
Speaker 1: just generally minding one's own business. Rising from my crouch,
Speaker 1: I looked back at the house with the ivy. I
Speaker 1: had a feeling there would be a piano and a
Speaker 1: house like that. Maybe it was just a touch out
Speaker 1: of tune, but still had a lovely sound. In its
Speaker 1: bench were old piano lessons, marked up with notes, dates
Speaker 1: to have the piece mastered by, and accolades for work
Speaker 1: well done. I'd had a great great uncle who composed
Speaker 1: a few pieces that had been published in the twenties,
Speaker 1: and I wondered if a few of his old scores
Speaker 1: were still sitting in piano benches in houses like this,
Speaker 1: waiting to be played again. On a corner, I looked
Speaker 1: down and noticed a dull glint at the edge of
Speaker 1: the sidewalk. I stooped down and saw that it was
Speaker 1: a penny planted deep into the cement. I suspected it
Speaker 1: was a way to mark the date that it had
Speaker 1: been pressed into the wet concrete. It was turned face
Speaker 1: up so that the year showed beside the profile. I
Speaker 1: rubbed at it for a moment and peered closer, nineteen twenty,
Speaker 1: and said, and it was still here. The street curved
Speaker 1: ahead of me, and I followed it past more old houses,
Speaker 1: some a bit worse for wear, whose lawns had taken
Speaker 1: over the flower beds or had a broken window up
Speaker 1: high in the attic and loose tiles on the roof.
Speaker 1: I wove a few more stories about them as I walked.
Speaker 1: This one was the one that all the kids dared
Speaker 1: each other to approach on Halloween night, with its dark,
Speaker 1: deep set doorways and dusty cobwebbed window panes. Across the
Speaker 1: street there was a tall Victorian painted in several bright
Speaker 1: shades of yellow and pink, with a small turret on
Speaker 1: the top floor and windows of stained glass. There were
Speaker 1: a dozen steps up to the front porch, and each
Speaker 1: baluster was painted in a complex, repeating design. I thought
Speaker 1: that it must have been the house of a wise
Speaker 1: old ant. You'd go for advice, and she'd sit you
Speaker 1: down and listen to you as she poured tea into
Speaker 1: matching cups, And after you'd got it all off your chest,
Speaker 1: she'd quietly sit with you and tilt her head a
Speaker 1: bit to the side, and you'd realize you already knew
Speaker 1: just what you needed to do. You'd fly down her
Speaker 1: front steps, calling your thanks over your shoulder, and rush
Speaker 1: off to take the job, or confess your love, or
Speaker 1: pack your bags. There was a serious looking house with
Speaker 1: sharply trimmed shrubs framing the gardens and dignified urns of
Speaker 1: flowers on stone pedestals at the front door. But at
Speaker 1: the edge of the drive, cut into a stone ledge,
Speaker 1: I found a tiny fairy garden with a miniature house
Speaker 1: and succulents and very small stepping stones that reminded me
Speaker 1: of the kind I found by the lake and skipped
Speaker 1: into the water. I looked back up at the house
Speaker 1: and gave it a friendly wave that likely no one saw.
Speaker 1: These old houses held so many secrets and stories, and
Speaker 1: when you bumped into the small, beautiful details that could
Speaker 1: easily be missed, and felt like stumbling on a treasure.
Speaker 1: The twists and the wrought iron fence, the paeonies waiting
Speaker 1: for the ants to finish their meal, the penny turned
Speaker 1: face up in the sidewalk, carefully painted balusters, and the
Speaker 1: space set out for fairies to garden. I felt lucky
Speaker 1: to have seen them, to have not just rushed past.
Speaker 1: I'd keep taking new turns on my walks and see
Speaker 1: what else I could stumble upon. Sweet dreams,