Our story tonight is called A Day at the Cottage and it’s a story about settling back into a beloved place as the weather warms up. It’s also about a cupboard full of old dishes that have served meals for decades, a stack of magazines to flip through from the lounge chair, and a love for hand-me-downs and the memories they carry.
We give to a different charity each week and this week we are giving to Alliance for the Great Lakes at greatlakes.org. They are a nonpartisan nonprofit working across the region to protect the fresh, clean, and natural waters of the Great Lakes.
Welcome to bedtime Stories for Everyone, in which nothing much happens, you feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Katherine Nikolai. I write and read all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens with audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. Thank you for listening and for sharing our show with others. We give to a different charity each week, and this week we are giving to the Alliance for the Great Lakes at Great Lakes dot org. They are a non partisan nonprofit working across the region to protect the fresh, clean and natural waters of the Great Lakes. If you're looking for an ad free version of the show, you can subscribe to our premium feed through Nothing Much Happens dot com. Now let's do some sleep training. We are going to settle your brain into its task positive network where you'll be able to quickly fall asleep. And we'll do that by giving your brain a teeny tiny job to do, and that is simply to listen, to follow along with the sound of my voice and a bit of the story I have for you. I'll tell it twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you find you are still awake at the end. Don't worry. This training can take some time if you're new to it. Keep listening, keep relaxing. Soon you'll be falling asleep within minutes. Now, lights out, campers, It's time be as comfortable as you can. Let everything relax, and sink into the bed. You are done for the day. Whatever the day was, it's over now. I take a slow, deep breath in and sigh again in through the nose, I said, long, through the mouth. Good. Our story tonight is called a Day at the Cottage, and it's a story about settling back into a beloved place as the weather warms up. It's also about a cupboard full of old dishes that have served family meals for decades, a stack of magazines to flip through from the lounge chair, and a love for hand me downs and the memories they carry. A Day at the Cottage. The cottage was ready for summer. We'd spent a few days cleaning with the windows open, and it felt for rush and welcoming again. We put clean sheets on the beds and shook out the rugs in the backyard. We dusted the bookshelves and the family photos in their frames. The beach towels had all been freshly washed and were waiting in a neat stack in the closet for their first trip of the summer to the water's edge. The key hanging inside the back door had been successfully wiggled into the lock on the shed, and the lawnmower convinced to start up. The smell of fresh cut grass and turned over dirt in the flower beds made summer feel real, and from time to time I'd stop and look out at the water, at the way the sunlight shimmered on the surface, and feel overwhelmed with contentment for the season and the place. In the kitchen, I'd re stocked the pantry shelves with jars of pickles for our sandwiches, jam for our toast, and sauces for all the things we'd cook up on the grill. Cottages tend to get filled up with hand me downs, old dishes that don't match or have chips along the rim, threadbare blankets, and lamps with wonky shades. When they get replaced elsewhere, they show up at the cottage, and they become precious objects again for a whole new reason, because they are a part of a beloved place and sweet memories. As I cleaned the kitchen, I washed the giant platter that had served a thousand summer suppers, the coffee cup that my father had always carried out to the water with him in the mornings, and the tiny juice glasses my grandmother had sipped wine from as she sat on the front porch. I filled the vases with wild flowers that grew in the ditch, and replaced the burnt out light bulb that shone over the back steps. And then we were done. We were ready to settle into the business of enjoying the summer, the water and the sun. I've always loved the way that we That is, people of all ages recognize the importance of napping in the middle of the day in the summertime, whether it is on a blanket stretched out in the sun, or with a hat tipped over your eyes, in a lounge chair, or under a big umbrella and a hammock. On any given summer day, the only logical thing to do is sleep. And even people who struggle to sit still, who keep busy nearly all the time, when they feel the warmth and smell the summer air, they start to look for a place to stretch out and catch some shut eye. I looked forward to all those summer naps that lay ahead of me as I got ready to head to the water. I made a giant glass of cold tea with mint leaves and a bit of sugar swirling around the ice cubes, and I got a few of those clean towels from the closet. I laughed as I tucked them under my arm. These towels were holding on by a literal thread. I remembered wrapping up in them when I was a kid, tying the corners around my neck like a superhero's cape. Running through the yard, my hair still wet from my latest cannonball into the water. They were still here and would probably still be here next year. A neighbor had dropped off a bundle of magazines on the front steps. We shared, sometimes passing them back and forth until we'd read them all, and I took a few with me and my sunglasses and made my way over to the water. We had an old picnic table that was tilting slowly into the soft ground. It wasn't bad enough that my glass of tea would spill, but I added it to my mental list for a fix. Up. I remembered seeing a stack of old bricks in the shed we could use to brace the legs hand me downs on fixer uppers. That was the cottage. We'd put out a few lounge chairs the day before, and I dragged one into the shade of a tall beech tree. As I struggled one handed to spread my towels over it, I remembered the chairs we'd had when I was little. There was one that folded flat, though you had to have an engineering degree to set it back up again. It was made of canvas and a wood frame, and I thought of my father flipping the fabric this way and that sure he had it this time, then trying to sit and the whole thing collapsing. Then there were the beach chairs my mother and I tried to lay on. They were the kind that folded up like a trifled wallet and made of rubbery plastic tubes that your skin would get pinched in and leave you with striped marks all over your body once you managed to stand up out of them. The frames were aluminum that rusted almost instantly and buckled when he tried to flip onto your belly. I could still remember the clicking sound the hinges made as you lowered or lifted the head rest trying to get comfortable. I was almost certain though we still had all those chairs somewhere in the cottage. Finally I settled into my spot and found a flatish patch of grass to rest my drink. I took a long, slow breath in and let it out. My magazines could wait. I wanted to watch the water. There was a light breeze to day, and a few boats out, so the surface rippled and rose in soft waves. I closed my eyes and listened. I could hear water birds calling, the far off buzz of a lawnmower, water lapping against boat hulls, and high and softer than all of it, the light rustle of the breeze, and the leaves. I knew in a minute or two that first summer nap of the season would swallow me up my doze deeply, happily warm and content, and wake to find all the ice cubes and my tea melted, and the magazine flapping in the breeze. I held on to this moment for just a little longer, that sweet feeling of inevitable, heavy sleep coming to restore me. A day at the cottage. The cottage was ready for the summer. We'd spent a few days cleaning with the windows open, and it felt fresh and welcoming again. We put clean sheets on the beds and shook out the rug in the backyard. We dusted the bookshelves and the family photos in their frames. The beach towels had all been freshly washed, and we're waiting in a neat stack in the closet for their first trip of the summer to the water's edge. The key hanging inside the back door had been successfully wiggled into the lock on the shed, and the lawnmower convinced to start up. The smell of fresh cut grass and turned over dirt in the flower beds made summer feel real, And from time to time I'd stop and look out at the water, at the way the sunlight shimmered on the surface, and feel overwhelmed with contentment for the season and the place. In the kitchen, I'd re stocked the pantry with jars of pickles for our sandwiches, jam for our toast, and sauces for all the things we'd cook on the grill. Cottages tend to get filled up with hand me downs, old dishes that don't match or have chips along the rim, threadbare blankets, and lamps with wonky shades. When they get replaced elsewhere, they show up at the cottage and become precious objects again for a whole new reason, because they are a part of a beloved place and sweet memories. As I cleaned the kitchen, I washed the giant platter that had served a thousand summer suppers, the coffee cup that my father had always carried out to the water with him in the morning, and the tiny juice glasses my grandmother had sipped wine from as she sat on the front porch. I filled the vases with wild flowers that grew in the ditch, and replaced the burnt out light bulb but shone over the back steps. And then we were done. We were ready to settle into the business of enjoying the summer, the water and the sun. I've always loved the way we That is, people of all ages recognize the importance of napping in the middle of the day in the summertime, whether it is on a blanket stretched out in the sun, or with a hat tipped over your eyes in a lounge chair or under a big umbrella in a hammock. At some point on any given summer day, the only logical thing to do I sleep. And even people who struggle to sit still, who keep busy nearly all the time, when they feel that warmth and smell the summer air, they start to look for a place to stretch out and catch some shut eye. I looked forward to all those summer naps that lay ahead of me. As I got ready to head to the water. I made a glass of cold tea with mint leaves and a bit of sugar swirling around the ice cubes. I got a few of those clean towels from the closet. I laughed as I tucked them under my arm. These towels were holding on by a literal thread. I remembered wrapping up in them when I was a kid, tying the corners around my neck like a superhero's cape, and running through the yard my hair still wet from my latest cannonball into the water. They were still here, and would probably still be here next year. A neighbor had dropped off a bundle of magazines on the front steps. We shared, sometimes passing them back and forth until we'd read them. All. When I took a few with me and my sunglasses and made my way over to the water. We had an old picnic table that was tilting slowly into the ground. It wasn't bad enough that my glass of tea would spill, but I added it to my mental list for a fix up. I remembered seeing a stack of old bricks in the shed and could use to brace the legs, hand me downs and fix her uppers. That was the cottage. We'd put out a few lounge chairs the day before, and I dragged one into the shade of a tall beech tree. As I struggled one handed to spread my towels over it, I remembered the chairs we'd had when I was little. There was one that folded flat, though you had to have an engineering degree to set it up again. It was made of canvas and a wooden frame, and I thought of my father flipping the fabric this way and that, sure that he had it this time, then trying to sit and the whole thing collapsing. Then there were the beach chairs my mother and I tried to lay on. They were the kind that folded up like a trifol wallet. Their seats made of rubbery plastic tubes that your skin would get pinched in and leave you with striped marks all over your body once you eventually managed to stand up out of them. The frames were aluminum that rusted almost instantly and buckled when you tried to flip onto your belly. I could still remember the clicking sound the hinges made as you lowered or lifted the head rest trying to get comfortable. I was almost certain, though, that we still had all of those chairs somewhere in the cottage. Finally, I settled into my spot and found a flatish patch of grass to rest my drink. I took a long, slow breath and let it out. My magazines could wait. I wanted to watch the water. There was a light breeze to day and a few boats out, so the surface rippled and rose in soft waves. I closed my eyes and listened. I could hear water birds calling, the far off buzz of a lawnmower, water lapping against boat hulls, and high and softer than all of it, the light rustle of the breeze in the leaves. I knew in a minute or two that first summer nap of the season would swallow me up. I doze deeply, happily warm and content, and wake to find all the ice cubes in my tea melted and the magazines flapping in the breeze. I held on to this moment for just a little longer, that sweet feeling of inevitable heavy sleep coming to restore me sweet dreams.