Speaker 1: Welcome to bedtime Stories for Everyone, in which nothing much happens,
Speaker 1: you feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Catherine Nikolai.
Speaker 1: I read and write all the stories you'll hear on
Speaker 1: Nothing Much Happens. Audio Engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. We
Speaker 1: give to a different charity each week, and this week
Speaker 1: we are giving to Paracliff Hangers, creating opportunities for people
Speaker 1: with disabilities to overcome mountains. We have a link to
Speaker 1: them in our show notes. If this podcast works a
Speaker 1: little too well for you, if you haven't heard more
Speaker 1: than a few minutes of it, and you sometimes wish
Speaker 1: you could actually hear the story, well we made something
Speaker 1: for that. It's called Story from the Village of Nothing Much,
Speaker 1: and it's a daytime version of the show. It's a
Speaker 1: really enjoyable way to relax, refocus, and take a short
Speaker 1: vacation to our village. Bob makes a beautiful soundscape for
Speaker 1: each episode. Listen on any podcast app just search Stories
Speaker 1: from the Village of Nothing Much. As always, you can
Speaker 1: support what we do as well as get ad free
Speaker 1: and bonus episodes of our shows by subscribing to our
Speaker 1: premium feed. There is a link in our notes or
Speaker 1: you can just search NMH Premium on your Apple podcast app. Now,
Speaker 1: let's train your brain for some good sleep hygiene. All
Speaker 1: you need to do is listen, rest your mind on
Speaker 1: my words and the sound of my voice. I'll tell
Speaker 1: our story twice, and I'll go a little slower the
Speaker 1: second time through. If you wake later in the night,
Speaker 1: you can play the story again or just think through
Speaker 1: any part of it you can remember. The more you
Speaker 1: do this, the more reliable the response will become. Our
Speaker 1: story tonight is called the Greenhouse, and it's a story
Speaker 1: about flowers and vases and the deep green scent of
Speaker 1: plants in a warm space in the winter. It's also
Speaker 1: about a silver wine bucket, music playing while you work,
Speaker 1: pine needles and mint, and the small and big ways
Speaker 1: of building a life that you want. Now it's time
Speaker 1: to settle in, Pull your comforter up over your shoulder,
Speaker 1: get the right pillow in the right spot, and let
Speaker 1: everything relax. You have done enough for the day. Really
Speaker 1: it is enough. Nothing remains but rest, my friend, and
Speaker 1: I'll be here watching over till you wake. Draw a
Speaker 1: deep breath in through your nose and sigh from your mouth.
Speaker 1: Nice again, fill it up and let it go good.
Speaker 1: The greenhouse. When I was younger, there was a shop
Speaker 1: I would visit all year round, though it was most
Speaker 1: magical in the winter. It sold flowers and house plants,
Speaker 1: candles and journals, and blocks of French soap tied with ribbons.
Speaker 1: It was built inside of an old farmhouse, and in
Speaker 1: each room a fountain burbled and the air smelled of
Speaker 1: wood smoke and lavender. Outside of the back door was
Speaker 1: a pond that filled with tadpoles each spring, and a
Speaker 1: stony path leading down to their greenhouse. The greenhouse felt
Speaker 1: like a miracle. On cold winter days, you would trek
Speaker 1: through the snow to the door, and as soon as
Speaker 1: you pushed it open, a wave of warm, tropical air
Speaker 1: would wrap around you. Inside, plants grew everywhere, from the
Speaker 1: cracks and the field stones, up the legs of cast
Speaker 1: iron chairs, out of broken terra cotta pots, on shelves
Speaker 1: that seemed impossible to reach with a watering can. It
Speaker 1: felt like they hardly even had to try to grow
Speaker 1: things there. In fact, it seemed they might be working
Speaker 1: harder to keep the space from being taken over by
Speaker 1: the creeping vines and shoots. They'd had a dog that
Speaker 1: often greeted you when you climbed out of your car
Speaker 1: and walked companionably beside you as you browsed, eventually finding
Speaker 1: a sunny patch to lie in. I think he was
Speaker 1: a setter, with coppery red fur and gentle eyes, And
Speaker 1: though I often left without buying anything, I felt I
Speaker 1: was always coming away with more than i'd entered. Eventually,
Speaker 1: the owner had retired and reclaimed the house for herself,
Speaker 1: and I wondered if the plants still grew like they
Speaker 1: had before. It's funny how you don't always see the
Speaker 1: paths that brought you to where you end up. The
Speaker 1: connections aren't always clear while you're hip deep in them.
Speaker 1: But now I realize that place planted a seed in
Speaker 1: me pun intended. I'd been young then, just starting out
Speaker 1: in life. I'd been in my first apartment trying to
Speaker 1: figure out what I wanted my life to look like,
Speaker 1: and each time I would step into that greenhouse, though
Speaker 1: I wasn't conscious of it at the time, I realize
Speaker 1: now i'd felt like I was coming home. I'm smiling
Speaker 1: at that feeling now in my own greenhouse, it's not
Speaker 1: nearly as big as the one behind that lovely shop.
Speaker 1: But it is warm and tropical and smells of soil
Speaker 1: and chlorophyll and jasmine, and I feel so lucky to
Speaker 1: be the caretaker of all of its plants and flowers.
Speaker 1: Mine is more of a workshop than a place open
Speaker 1: to the public. But I think I was influenced by
Speaker 1: the charm and whimsy of that special place, because I
Speaker 1: find that we, me and the flora, are happiest when
Speaker 1: it is neat and pretty. I have a peg board
Speaker 1: strung with a couple dozen colors of ribbon for my bouquets,
Speaker 1: and pretty baskets for my tools and gloves. I play
Speaker 1: music for us again, that's me and the plants. And
Speaker 1: on sunny days we listen to happy songs, the kind
Speaker 1: you sing along to in the shower. When it rains
Speaker 1: and storms, we listen to powerful classical music, full of
Speaker 1: strings and drama. My own dog, a basset hound whose
Speaker 1: howl sounded so much like Arugulah that I named him.
Speaker 1: That scuttled along the stone floor and snored while I worked.
Speaker 1: I have a long work table that I rescued from
Speaker 1: an estate sale in a barn a few years ago.
Speaker 1: It's scrubbed top, seen many repottings and propagations, and today
Speaker 1: it was lined with faces that I was preparing for
Speaker 1: Valentine's Day at the inn for music. I turned down
Speaker 1: a station of crooners and sirens which seemed to fit the theme,
Speaker 1: and pulled on a fresh pair of red garden gloves
Speaker 1: and began to look through the roses I cut. Each
Speaker 1: room in the inn would have a small vase of
Speaker 1: them for the bedside tables, and then I was making
Speaker 1: a large arrangement for the entryway beside the grand staircase.
Speaker 1: I was proud of my roses when I walked through
Speaker 1: their section in the greenhouse and saw how tall they
Speaker 1: stood on their long stems, the variety of colors, When
Speaker 1: the sweet scent that came from them, I felt like
Speaker 1: I had really achieved something. Some roses look beautiful but
Speaker 1: offer nothing to appreciate when it comes to perfume. Others
Speaker 1: have scent but only a thin ring of fragile petals.
Speaker 1: These roses would last a while, were truly beautiful to
Speaker 1: look at, and the inn would smell like romance in
Speaker 1: every room. I had plenty of deep red roses. They
Speaker 1: are classic and are always requested, but I also grew
Speaker 1: pale pink, tangerine orange, a deep purple that was almost black,
Speaker 1: an elegant antique white, and a sweet, periwinkled blue rose.
Speaker 1: I decided to cut some of each and tuck one
Speaker 1: into each of the bedroom bouquets. I wondered what the
Speaker 1: guests would think about that extra bloom of color. I hoped,
Speaker 1: if luck was on my side, that for at least
Speaker 1: a few of the guests, I'd be adding a favorite
Speaker 1: or something that might spark a happy memory. I built
Speaker 1: each bouquet with a non red rose at its center,
Speaker 1: cudding in some greenery and ribbons. I had a selection
Speaker 1: of green plants cut to fold in some that may
Speaker 1: surprise you. I like to use sweet annie and silver
Speaker 1: cardoon leaves, but I also used curly parsley, which held
Speaker 1: up well and stayed a pretty bright green against the red.
Speaker 1: I had stems of mint. Nothing refreshed love like mint,
Speaker 1: and soft needle pine branches. All these scents together sang
Speaker 1: of winter and romance. For the large table arrangement, I
Speaker 1: had a beautiful old silver ice bucket, one that had
Speaker 1: I imagined, held many celebratory bottles of champagne in its day.
Speaker 1: I'd started to polish it up and make it like new,
Speaker 1: But then decided I wanted it to show its years
Speaker 1: and use. It felt fitting for the old inn, and
Speaker 1: I started to lay her flowers and herbs and greens
Speaker 1: into it until it was nearly bursting. I wanted each
Speaker 1: guest to stop when they came into that grand old
Speaker 1: entryway and literally smell the roses. It called out to
Speaker 1: your senses to be enjoyed. When I was done, I
Speaker 1: stooped down on to pet Arugola, who was on his
Speaker 1: bed beneath the work table. I wouldn't mind some company.
Speaker 1: As I loaded the vases into my truck and delivered
Speaker 1: them to the inn. Arugola was half asleep, but I
Speaker 1: leaned in close to his giant floppy ear and whispered,
Speaker 1: want to go for a ride in the car. His
Speaker 1: eyes opened and he stared at me, his tail beginning
Speaker 1: to bang out a rhythm. Behind him. I heard, the
Speaker 1: innkeeper has a new kiddy. Maybe we can meet him.
Speaker 1: He was up on his short legs. In an instant.
Speaker 1: I'd wondered all those years ago what my life should
Speaker 1: look like. I smiled as I picked up a box
Speaker 1: packed with vases, thinking that if this was it i'd
Speaker 1: done well the greenhouse. When I was younger, there was
Speaker 1: a shop I would visit all year round, though it
Speaker 1: was most magical in the winter. It sold flowers and
Speaker 1: house plants, candles and journals, and blocks of French soap
Speaker 1: tied with ribbons. It was built inside of an old
Speaker 1: farm house, and in Eaton shroom, a fountain burbled and
Speaker 1: the air smelled of wood smoke and lavender. Outside of
Speaker 1: the back door was a pond that filled with tadpoles
Speaker 1: each spring, and a stony path leading to their greenhouse.
Speaker 1: The greenhouse felt like a miracle. On cold winter days.
Speaker 1: You would trek through the snow to the door, and
Speaker 1: as soon as you pushed it open, a wave of warm,
Speaker 1: tropical air would wrap around you. Inside, plants grew everywhere,
Speaker 1: from the crack in the fieldstone, up the legs of
Speaker 1: old cast iron chairs, out of broken terra cotta pots,
Speaker 1: on shelves that seemed impossible to reach with a watering can.
Speaker 1: It felt like they hardly even had to try to
Speaker 1: grow things there. In fact, it seemed they might be
Speaker 1: working harder to keep the space from being taken over
Speaker 1: by the creeping vines and shoots. They'd had a dog
Speaker 1: that often greeted you when you climbed out of your car,
Speaker 1: and walked companionably beside you as you browsed, eventually finding
Speaker 1: a sunny patch to lie down in. I think he
Speaker 1: was a setter, with coppery red fur and gentle eyes.
Speaker 1: And though I often left without buying anything, I felt
Speaker 1: I was always coming away with more than I'd had
Speaker 1: when i'd entered. Eventually, the owner had retired and reclaimed
Speaker 1: the house for herself. I wondered if the plants still
Speaker 1: grew there like they had before. It's funny how you
Speaker 1: don't always see the paths that brought you to where
Speaker 1: you end up. The connections aren't always clear while you're
Speaker 1: still hip deep in them. But now I realize that
Speaker 1: place planted a seed in me pun intended.
Speaker 2: I'd been young then, just starting out in life. I'd
Speaker 2: been in my first apartment trying to figure out what
Speaker 2: I wanted my life to look like, and each time
Speaker 2: I would step into that greenhouse, though I wasn't conscious
Speaker 2: of it at the time, I realize now i'd felt
Speaker 2: like I was coming home. I am smiling at that
Speaker 2: feeling now in my own greenhouse. It's not nearly as
Speaker 2: big as the one behind that lovely shop, but it
Speaker 2: is warm and tropical and smells of soil and chlorophyll
Speaker 2: and jasmine. I feel so lucky to be the caretaker
Speaker 2: of all its plants and flowers. Mine is more of
Speaker 2: a workshop than a place open to the public. But
Speaker 2: I think I was influenced by the charm and whimsy
Speaker 2: of that special place, because I find that we, me
Speaker 2: and the flora, are happiest when it is neat and pretty.
Speaker 2: I have a pegboard strung with a couple dozen colors
Speaker 2: of ribbon for my bouquets, and pretty baskets for my
Speaker 2: tools and gloves. I play music for us again, that's
Speaker 2: me and the plants. And on sunny days we listen
Speaker 2: to happy songs, the kind you sing along to in
Speaker 2: the shower. When it rains and storms, we listen to
Speaker 2: powerful classical music, full of strings and drama. My own dog,
Speaker 2: a basset hound whose howl sounds so much like arugula
Speaker 2: that I named him, That scuttled along the stone floor
Speaker 2: and snored while I worked. I have a long work
Speaker 2: table I rescued from an estate sale in a barn
Speaker 2: a few years ago. Its scrubbed top has seen many
Speaker 2: repottings and propagations, and today it was lined with faces
Speaker 2: that I was preparing for Valentine's Day at the inn.
Speaker 1: For music. I turned down a station of crooners and
Speaker 1: sirens which seemed to fit the theme, and pulled on
Speaker 1: a fresh pair of red garden gloves. Began to look
Speaker 1: through the roses i'd cut. Each room in the inn
Speaker 1: would have a small vase of them for the bedside tables,
Speaker 1: and then I was making a large arrangement for the
Speaker 1: entryway beside the grand staircase. I was proud of my
Speaker 1: roses when I walked through their section in the greenhouse
Speaker 1: and saw how tall they stood on their long stems,
Speaker 1: the variety of colors, and the sweet scent that came
Speaker 1: from them, I felt like I had really achieved something.
Speaker 1: Some roses look beautiful but offer nothing to appreciate when
Speaker 1: it comes to perfume. Others have ascent but only a
Speaker 1: thin ring of fragile petals. These roses would last awhile,
Speaker 1: were truly beautiful to look at, and the inn would
Speaker 1: smell like romance in every room. I had plenty of
Speaker 1: deep red roses. They are classic and are always requested,
Speaker 1: but I also grew pale pink tangerine orange, a deep
Speaker 1: purple that was almost black, an elegant antique white, and
Speaker 1: a sweet periwinkle blue rose. I decided to cut some
Speaker 1: of each and tuck one into each of the bedroom bouquets.
Speaker 1: I wondered what the guests would think about the extra
Speaker 1: bloom of color. I hoped, if luck was on my side,
Speaker 1: that for at least a few of the guests, I'd
Speaker 1: be adding a favorite or something that might spark a
Speaker 1: happy memory. Each bouquet with a non red rose at
Speaker 1: its center. Adding in some greenery and ribbons, I had
Speaker 1: a selection of green plants cut to fold in some
Speaker 1: that may surprise you. I like to use sweet annie
Speaker 1: and silver cardoon leaves, but I also used curly parsley,
Speaker 1: which held up well and stayed a bright, pretty green
Speaker 1: against the red. I had stems of mint. Nothing refreshed
Speaker 1: love like mint, and soft needle pine branches. All these
Speaker 1: scentsed together, saying of winter and romance. For the large
Speaker 1: table arrangement, I had a beautiful old silver ice pocket,
Speaker 1: one that had I imagined held many celebratory bottles of
Speaker 1: champagne in its day. I'd started to polish it up
Speaker 1: and make it like new, but then I decided I
Speaker 1: wanted it to show its years and use. It felt
Speaker 1: fitting for the old inn, and I started to layer
Speaker 1: flowers and herbs and greens into it until it was
Speaker 1: nearly burst in. I wanted each guest to stop when
Speaker 1: they came into that grand old entryway and literally smell
Speaker 1: the roses that called out to your senses to be enjoyed.
Speaker 1: When I was done, I stooped down to pet Arugola,
Speaker 1: who was on his back beneath the work table. I
Speaker 1: wouldn't mind some company. As I loaded the vases into
Speaker 1: my truck and delivered them to the inn. Arugola was
Speaker 1: half asleep, but I leaned in close to his giant
Speaker 1: floppy ear and whispered, want to go for a ride
Speaker 1: in the car. His eyes opened and he stared at me,
Speaker 1: his tail beginning to bang out a rhythm behind him.
Speaker 1: I heard, the innkeeper has a new kiddy. Maybe we
Speaker 1: can meet him. He was up on his short legs.
Speaker 1: In an instant. I'd wondered all those years ago what
Speaker 1: my life should look like. I smiled as I picked
Speaker 1: up a box packed with vases, thinking that If this
Speaker 1: was it, I'd done well. Sweet Dreams,