Our story tonight is called September Leaves, and it’s a story about some time outside as the wind blows and the acorns fall. It’s also about the scent of bonfire, the weight of a dog laid across your legs, spaces where you feel safe and among friends, a memory of last summer and a glimpse of the coming winter.
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Welcome to bedtime Stories for Everyone, in which nothing much happens, you feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Catherine Nikolay. I read and write all the stories you hear and nothing much happens. Audio Engineering is by Bob Witttersheim. We give to a different charity each week, and this week we are giving to Equal Justice Initiative, protecting basic human rights for the most vulnerable people in American society. Learn more in our show notes. There's a team of people working behind the scenes here at Nothing Much Happens to bring you as much soothing content as possible, and the truth is that we just wouldn't be able to do it without our premium subscribers. So if this show is worth a dime a day to you, and you'd like the bliss of ad free, supersized and bonus episodes, and we'd love to have you subscribe at Nothing Much Happens dot com or through the link in our show notes. Now, busy brains need a place to rest. That's what the story is. A place to rest your mind. Just listen to the sound of my voice, and over time your system will be more and more conditioned to relax and go to sleep, and you'll even find returning to sleep in the middle of the night easier. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. It's okay to just play one story, or to let them play all through the night. Our story tonight is called September Leaves, and it's a story about some time outside as the wind blows and the acorns fall. It's also about the scent of bonfire, the weight of a dog laid across your legs, spaces where you feel safe and among friends, a memory of last summer, and a glimpse of the coming winter. Lights out, Campers, snuggle down and let every muscle relax. If it feels good right now, the softness of your bed, the touch of your favorite jammies, Please take a second to notice, to feel that this is good. Then take a slow, deep breath in through your nose and sigh from your mouth. Do it again, Breathe in and let it out. Good September Leaves. There is a word for this, I thought to myself as I sat bundled in a quilt on a lounge chair in the back yard. I needed to store the chair away in the garage, but was glad I'd been too lazy to actually do it. Yet. The grass needed at least one more mow as well, But right now, none of that seemed as important as sitting here and listening to the sound of the wind in the trees. That was the thing. There was a word for. And I leaned my head back and looked up at the drying leaves. There's shades of yellow and orange and red, and I remembered it sithurism. That was it Sithurism. When I'd first heard it, I'd had to look it up it's definition as well as its pronunciation, as it was one of those tricky words that starts with a pea, which isn't actually pronounced. I couldn't remember the exact wording of the definition now, something about whispering and rustling and another lovely word, suceration. The wind was whispering to me, using the leaves in the branches to convey a quiet message. Maybe the message was that winter was coming, or that the leaves were drying and beginning to fall, or maybe it was just the wind saying I am here. I stretched my legs out long on the lounge and adjusted the quilt so that I was completely covered up, even tucking it under my legs. My nose and cheeks were kissed by the wind. I sort of liked the juxtaposition of my warm, snug body and my cool face. The light was shifting through the trees and leaves, just like the wind was, and for a few minutes I watched it through my closed lids, the shadows like water colors, blurring into one another. I might have dozed for a few minutes, though some part of me was peripherally still observing, listening to acorns falling on the roof of the shed, smelling the spiced cool air. Some part of me was still awake and deeply glad to be where I was, my senses treated to so many good feelings and sounds. Then I noticed another sound coming from a ways off, more of that susserration, that whispering, though this was closer to the ground, and even to my sleepy brain, familiar and recognizable. I cracked one heavy eyelid and turned my head to the gate in the fence. It was made of wood slats, but through the narrow cracks between them, I could see some forms, one tall enough that his hair was just visible over the top and under the fence, I spotted a snuffling dog nose. They had their eyes to a couple of knots in the wood and were whispering about whether or not I was asleep, if they should just come in and pounce on me and wake me up, and if they did, just how grouchy I might be after I'm awake. I can hear you. I laughed and watched as the latch lifted on the gate and my two nephews and their sweet golden retriever came in. I scooed it up in my lounge chair and pulled back the blanket as I yawned. The youngest dove in and snuggled right up beside me as I knew he would, and their dog, Clover jumped up onto my legs. His big brother pulled up an old metal patio chair, plopped down onto it, and nudged his feet up beside mine and Clovers. I could smell the faint scent of bonfire in my nephew's hair and asked what they had been up to. Raking, said the oldest, so much, Raking, He said it with the exhaustion of a much older person, as if he'd just come off a long shift mining rocks in a quarry. Then Papa burned the leaves in the ditch, said his brother. Ah. I said, I see. Did you get too close and your dad sent you down here to keep you out of his hair? Possibly, he said, and leaned his head against my arm. They only lived a couple blocks away, and it was a rare day that I did not see them, at least one. I'd read recently about the idea of third spaces, how most of us have a first space, that being our homes, and a second space work or school, but that we also needed a third space, a place we went to be with other people. It wasn't about the necessity of work or shelter, but the embrace of community. I knew my nephews had other such spaces. One played hockey, one took dance and gymnastics. When they went with their dads to the coffee shop downtown every Sunday morning, I knew everyone in there by name. But I was also so glad that my house was one of their third spaces. They were as comfortable here as they were at home, made sandwiches from the fridge whenever they needed a snack, and often had the school bus drop them off at my place to start their homework in the afternoons. Even Clover had her own dog bed in my living room and a box of biscuits in the cupboard. We talked about school for a bit, how the first few weeks had treated them, what their teachers were like, and the new friends they'd met. Remember last year when we camped out in your backyard, the younger one asked. It had been a fun evening, with roasted marshmallows and sticks, and Clover snuggling between them in the small tent we'd set up in the grass. I'd camped out too, but just on my sofa where I could keep an eye on them. I'd laid out extra pillows and blankets in the living room, thinking that they might not make it through the night out there, And sure enough, the screen door had creaked open around midnight, and the youngest had come in to curl up beside me. When I woke in the morning, I'd found his brother and Clover sleeping on the floor beside the couch, covered in blankets. Of course, I remember, I said, it's too late in the year to have another camp out. Now though the nights are getting cold. I kind of like it, said my nephew. Me too, said his brother. The wind blew again, this time stronger, colder, as if agreeing with those of us down here on the ground. Come on, I've got cider in the fridge and we can order some pizzas. Your dads can come down and eat with us when they're done with the leaves. We shuffled out of our chairs and started to head inside clover, stretching into up dog and down dog before following us in September leaves. There is a word for this, I thought to myself, as I sat bundled in a quilt on a lounge chair in the back yard. I needed to store the chair away in the garage, but was glad that I'd been too lazy to actually do it. Yet. The grass needed at least one more mow as well, But right now, none of that seemed as important as sitting here and listening to the sound of the wind in the trees. That was the thing. There was a word for. And I leaned my head back and looked up at the drying leaves, their shades of yellow, an orange, and red, and I remembered it theorism. That was it sith theorism. When I'd first heard it, I'd had to look it up it's definition as well as its pronunciation, as it was one of those tricky words that starts with a P, which isn't actually pronounced. I couldn't remember the exact wording of the definition now, something about whispering and rustling and another lovely word, suceration. The wind was whispering to me, using the leaves in the branches to convey a quiet message. Maybe the message was that winter was coming, or that the leaves were drying and beginning to fall, or maybe it was just the wind saying I am here. I stretched my legs out long on the lounge and adjusted the quilt so that I was completely covered up, even tucking it under my legs. My nose and cheeks were kissed by the wind, and I sort of liked the juxtaposition of my warm, snog body and my cool face. The light was shifting through the trees and leaves, just like the wind was, and for a few minutes I watched it through my closed lids. The shadows, like watercolors, blurry into one another. I might have dozed for a few minutes. Though some part of me was still peripherally observing, listening to acorns falling on the roof of the shed, smelling the spiced cool air. Some part of me was still awake and deeply glad to be where I was, my senses treated to so many good feelings and sounds. Then I noticed another sound coming from a ways off, more of that suceration, that whispering, though this was closer to the ground, and even in my sleepy brain, familiar and recognizable. I cracked one heavy eyelid and turned my head to the gate in the fence. It was made of wood slats, but through the narrow cracks between them, I could see some forms, one tall enough that his hair was just visible over the top. Under the fence, I spotted a snuffling dog nose. They had their eyes to a couple of knots in the wood, and were whispering about whether or not I was asleep, if they should just come in and pounce on me and wake me up, and if they did, just how grouchy I might be after I'm awake. I can hear you. I laughed, and watched as the latch lifted on the gate and my two nephews and their sweet golden retriever came in. I scooted it up in my lounge chair and pulled back the blanket as I yawned. The youngest dove in and snuggled right up beside me as I knew he would, and their dog, Clover jumped up onto my legs. His big brother pulled up an old metal patio chair, plopped down onto it, and nudged his feet up beside mine and Clovers. I could smell the faint scent of bonfire in my nephew's hair, and I asked what they had been up to, raking, said the eldest. So much raking, He said it with the exhaustion of a much older person, as if he'd just come off a long shift mining rocks in a quarry. Then Papa burned the leaves in the ditch, said his brother. Ah. I said, my see, did you get too close and your dad sent you down here to keep you out of his hair? Possibly, he said, and leaned his head against my arm. They only lived a couple of blocks away, and it was a rare day that I did not see them, at least once. I'd read recently about the idea of third spaces. How most of us have a first space, that being our homes, and a second space work or school, but that we also needed a third space, a place we went to be with other people. That wasn't about the necessity of work or shelter, but the embrace of community. I knew my nephews had other such spaces. One played hockey, one took dance and gymnastics. They went with their dads to the coffee shop down town every Sunday morning and knew everyone in there by name. But I was also so glad that my house was one of their third spaces. They were as comfortable here as they were at home, made sandwiches from the fridge whenever they needed a snack, men often had The school boss dropped them at my place to start their homework in the afternoons. Even Clover had her own dog bed in my living room and a box of biscuits in the cupboard. We talked about school for a bit, how the first few weeks had treated them, but their teachers were like when the new friends they'd met, remember last year and we camped out in your backyard. The younger one asked, it had been a fun evening, with roasted marshmallows on sticks and Clover snuggling between them and the small tent we'd set up in the grass. I'd camped out, too, but just on my sofa where I could keep an eye on them. I'd laid out extra pillows and blankets in the living room, thinking that they might not make it through the night out there, And sure enough, the screen door had creaked open around midnight, and the youngest had come in to curl up beside me. When I woke in the morning, I'd found his brother and Clover sleeping on the floor beside the couch, covered in blankets. Of course, I remember, I said, it's too late in the year to have a camp out now, though the nights are getting cold. I kind of like it, said my nephew. Me too, said his brother. The wind blew again, this time stronger colder, as if agreeing with those of us down here on the ground. Come on, I've got cider in the fridge and we can order some pizzas. Your dads can come down and eat with us when they're done with the leaves. We shuffled out of our chairs and started to head inside. Clover stretching into up dog and down dog before following us in Sweet Dreams.