Welcome to bedtime stories for grown ups in which nothing much happens, You feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Katherine Nikolay. I write and read all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Audio Engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. My book, also called Nothing Much Happens, is available wherever books are sold. Thank you for your support. Now I have a story to tell you, and the story is a place to rest your mind. Especially at night, our minds can feel so busy and overloaded, like an overwhelmed clock. Just by following along my voice and the general shape of the story, your mind can passively unwind, and soon you'll be ticking along at your own natural pace, sleeping deeply and waking up feeling rested and relaxed. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower on the second read through. If you wake in the middle of the night and feel your mind winding back up, you could listen again or just think your way through any part of the story you remember, or even any soothing memory. It will shift networks in your brain and help you to drop right back off. This, like most anything, gets better with practice, so be patient. If you are new to it. Our story tonight is called the Tulip Farm, and it's a story about a bright spring day among beds of flowers. It's also about a gift left at dawn, red winged blackbirds, and soft moments that take your breath away. Now it's time to turn off the light and put away anything you are looking at. Settle into your favorite sleeping position, and feel how good it is just to be safe and quiet in bed. You have done enough for today. It's time to rest. Take a deep breath in through your nose, sigh it out through your mouth, nice again, in and out. Good. The tulip farm, out past the apple orchards and cider mills where we went to get lost in corn mazes and buy paper bags of fresh hot doughnuts in the crisp days of autumn, was a tulip farm. It was something I'd driven past a hundred times without realizing what it was. Then to day I'd seen a hand painted sign of a red tulip on a yellow background with an arrow pointing the way. The sign said they were open to the public and folks were welcome to come and pick their own. The tulip had reminded me suddenly of a day a dozen years before. It had been the first day of May, and I'd opened my front door to find a simple wicker basket hanging from the outside knob. It was overflowing with bright red tulips and foil wrapped sweets, and tiny delicate stems of lilies of the valley. I remember lifting the basket right up to my face to smell the good sweet scent of the flowers, then wondering how and why they'd been picked for me. It had taken me a day to unwind the mystery. I'd carried everything back inside and rooted through my cabinets for a bunch of tiny jars and bud vases. I put each flower in its own container to make them go as far as possible, then spread them out through the house on window sills and side tables, and a teeny ledge in the hall that seemed to have been built just for this. I went back to the basket and carefully gathered all the candies and slid them into my jacket pocket, then stepped back out of the front door and off down the street. I don't remember now where I'd been going. Maybe I had a class to take or a shift to work at the Delhi downtown, but along the way, every now and then, I'd slip a candy from my pocket, unwrap it, and drop it into my mouth. There were some wrapped to look like strawberries, and I remembered that my grandmother had always had the same ones on a shelf in her sitting room. I'd laughed when I'd tasted the familiar flavor, remembering sneaking into that room to peruse the little collection of sweets and cut glass jars. It was the kind of sitting room no one actually sat in, and that meant there were always interesting things to find in the drawers and cupboards. I used to take a few candies from the jars, pull down a heavy book with pictures of butterflies and birds and animals from all over the world, and tuck myself into the space behind the couch to slowly turn the pages until the suites ran out. Wherever I'd been off to that day, I must have run into friends, and soon found out I wasn't the only one to have been visited by the spring ferry. Overnight. Three or four of us had found baskets, all with flowers and candy, and we'd spent some time on a park bench in the sunshine trying to guess who our benefactor was. Finally, we'd spotted another friend coming towards us down the path, and we'd called out, asking if she'd found a surprise on her doorstep. No, she shrugged, I was busy leaving them for all of you. May Day, she told us, was sometimes celebrated this way with gifts of spring flowers and candies or baked goods. Thinking back on that May Day, the kindness of a gift given when no one was looking, and the memories that the sweets had brought back, made me turn into the gravel lot at the tulip farm. Stepping out of my car, I was greeted by the lilting call of the song sparrow, a bird whose return, along with that of the red winged blackbird and the orange breasted house finch, marked the arrival of spring. The sky was a soft, pale blue, with a few feathery clouds shifting in the breeze. Two lips don't have a strong smell. They aren't like those lilies of the valley or hyacinth, but smells so powerfully like sweet water and greenery, but still there was a light scent in the air, like citrus and honey and cut grass. I followed a dirt trail toward the fields, glad I'd worn sturdy shoes instead of flip flops, and as it turned to pass behind a barn, the tulip fields came into view. I thought I'd been ready for that, but I wasn't. Actual goose bumps stood out on my arms, and I stopped stock still to give all my attention to what I was seeing. Stretching out for acres in front of me and broad, flat, even rectangles were bright patches in fifty colors, or more like a panoramic picture. I turned my head to see the farthest field to the left, then slowly scanned all the way to the right, and marveled that tulips could come in so many shades. When I had had my fill of looking and began to walk again, I spotted a man in dusty overalls with a broad brimmed hat. He waved me over, and as I got closer, he said, I like watching people's faces as they first see the fields. Have you been here before? I told him I hadn't, and felt lucky to be. He fitted me out with a pair of gloves, some small garden shears, and a long, deep basket I could carry over one arm. He gave me a folded paper map with the names of the different varieties of flowers and their locations, then sent me off to gather as many as I was inclined to cut. I thought I might just wander and be led by my eyes and instincts. But looking at the card I found some of the names so intriguing that I decided to aim for some specific plots. Some were classic in shape and color, called things like Christmas, Marvel, or Ruby Red or Diana. Others were streaked with color in bold lines that looked like brushstrokes. There were Rembrands and Davenports and Marylands. Some had double blossoms or fringed petals, or very thin veins of color that you could only see when you leaned down close. Into my basket went stems of the Queen of Night, Golden Apple, Dorn, and Dreamland. I picked enough for a few May Day baskets and to fill my own vase at home, before I walked back to the barn to pay for my flowers and turn over my tools. I stopped and sat at a bench under a tall sycamore tree whose leaves were just budding out, so that the branches looked coated in a light green haze. I thought of the baskets I would put together with my tulips, of stopping at the candy store across from the movie theater and filling a bag with sweet pin wheels and tart lemon drops and strawberry bonbonds. I'd sneak out early to morrow morning and leave them at a few front doors, that their faces and finding them might look something like mine did when I'd first seen the tulip fields surprise its spring. The tulip farm out past the apple orchards and cider mills where we went to get lost in corn mazes and buy bags full of fresh hot doughnuts in the crisp days of autumn was a tulip farm. It was something I'd driven past a hundred times without realizing what it was. Then today I'd seen a hand painted sign of a red tulip on a yellow background with an arrow pointing the way. The sign said they were open to the public and folks were welcome to come and pick their own the tulip had reminded me suddenly of a day a dozen years before. It had been the first day of May, and I'd opened my front door to find a simple wicker basket hanging from the outside knob. It was overflowing with bright red tulips and foil wrapped sweets, and tiny delicate stems of lilies of the valley. I remember lifting the basket right up to my face to smell the good, sweet scent of the flowers, then wondering how and why they'd been picked for me. It had taken me a day to unwind the mystery. I've carried everything back inside and rooted through my cabinets for a bunch of tiny jars and bud faces. I put each flower in its own container to make them go as far as possible, then spread them out through the house on window sills and side tables, and a teeny ledge in the hall that seem'd to have been built just for this. I went back to the basket and carefully gathered all the candies. I'd slid them into my jacket pocket, then stepped back out of the front door and off down the street. I don't remember now where I'd been going. Maybe I had a class to take or a shift to work at the deli downtown. But along the way, every now and then, I'd slip a candy from my pocket, unwrap it, and drop it into my mouth. There were some wrapped to look like strawberries, and I'd remembered that my grandmother had always had the same ones on a shelf in her sitting room. I'd laughed when I'd tasted the familiar flavor, remembering sneaking into that room to peruse the little collection of sweets and cut glass jars. It was the kind of sitting room no one actually sat in, and that meant there were always interesting things to find in the drawers and cupboards. I used to take a few candies from the jars, pulled down a heavy book with pictures of butterflies and birds and animals from all over the world, and tuck myself into the space behind the couch to slowly turn the pages until the sweets ran out. Wherever I'd been off to that day, I must have run into friends, and soon found out I wasn't the only one to have been visited by the Spring Fairy. Overnight, three or four of us had found baskets, all with flowers and candy, and we'd spent some time on a park bench in the sunshine trying to guess who our benefactor was. Finally, we'd spotted another friend coming toward us, and we'd called out, asking if she'd found a surprise on her doorstep. No, she shrugged, I was busy leaving them for all of you. May Day, she told us, was sometimes celebrated this way with gifts of spring flowers and candies or baked goods. Thinking back on that May Day, the kindness of a gift given when no one was looking, and the memories that the sweets had brought back had made me turn into the gravel lot with the tulip farm. Stepping out of my car, I was greeted by the lilting call of the song sparrow, a bird whose return, along with that of the red winged blackbird and the orange breasted house finch, marked the arrival of spring. The sky was a soft, pale blue, with a few feathery clouds shifting in the breeze. Tulips don't have a strong smell. They aren't like those lilies of the valley or hyacinth that smell so powerfully, like sweet water and greenery. But still there was a light scent in the like citrus and honey and cut grass. I followed a dirt trail toward the fields, glad I'd worn sturdy shoes instead of flip flops, and as it turned to pass behind a barn, the tulip fields came into view. I thought I'd been ready for that. I wasn't. Actual goose bumps stood out on my arms, and I stopped stuckll to give all my attention to what I was seeing. Stretching out for acres in front of me in broad, flat even rectangles were bright patches and fifty colors, or more like a panoramic picture. I turned my head to see the farthest field to the left, then slowly scanned all the way to the right, and marveled that tulips could come in so many shades. When I'd had my fill of looking and began to walk again, I spotted a man in dusty overalls with a broad brimmed hat. He waved me over, and as I got closer, he said, I like watching people's faces as they first see the fields. Have you been here before? I told him that I hadn't and felt lucky to be. He fitted me out with a pain air of gloves, some small garden shears, and a long, deep basket I could carry over one arm. He gave me a folded paper map with the names of the different varieties of flowers and their locations, then sent me off to gather as many as I was inclined to cut. I thought I might just wander and be led by my eyes and instincts. But looking at the map I found some of the names so intriguing that I decided to aim for some specific spots. Some tulips were classic in shape and color, called things like Christmas Marvel, or ruby red or Diana. Others were streaked with color in bold lines that looked like brushstrokes. There were Rembrandts and Davenport's and Marylands. Some had double blossoms or fringed petals, or very thin veins of color that you could only see when you leaned down close into my basket when stems of the Queen of Night, Golden Apple, Dorn, and Dreamland. I picked enough for a few may Day baskets and to fill my own vase at home, before I walked back to the barn to pay for my flowers and turn over my tools. I stopped and sat on a bench under a tall sycamore tree whose leaves were just budding out, so that the branches looked coated in a light green haze. I thought of the baskets I would put together with my tulips, of stopping at the candy store across from the movie theater and filling a bag with sweet pin wheels and tart lemon drops and strawberry bonbonds. I'd sneak out early to morrow morning and leave them at a few front doors. I thought that their faces and finding them might look something like mine dead when I'd first seen the tulip fields. Surprise, It's spring, Sweet dreams.

Welcome to bedtime stories for grown ups in which nothing much happens, You feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Katherine Nikolay. I write and read all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Audio Engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. My book, also called Nothing Much Happens, is available wherever books are sold. Thank you for your support. Now I have a story to tell you, and the story is a place to rest your mind. Especially at night, our minds can feel so busy and overloaded, like an overwhelmed clock. Just by following along my voice and the general shape of the story, your mind can passively unwind, and soon you'll be ticking along at your own natural pace, sleeping deeply and waking up feeling rested and relaxed. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower on the second read through. If you wake in the middle of the night and feel your mind winding back up, you could listen again or just think your way through any part of the story you remember, or even any soothing memory. It will shift networks in your brain and help you to drop right back off. This, like most anything, gets better with practice, so be patient. If you are new to it. Our story tonight is called the Tulip Farm, and it's a story about a bright spring day among beds of flowers. It's also about a gift left at dawn, red winged blackbirds, and soft moments that take your breath away. Now it's time to turn off the light and put away anything you are looking at. Settle into your favorite sleeping position, and feel how good it is just to be safe and quiet in bed. You have done enough for today. It's time to rest. Take a deep breath in through your nose, sigh it out through your mouth, nice again, in and out. Good. The tulip farm, out past the apple orchards and cider mills where we went to get lost in corn mazes and buy paper bags of fresh hot doughnuts in the crisp days of autumn, was a tulip farm. It was something I'd driven past a hundred times without realizing what it was. Then to day I'd seen a hand painted sign of a red tulip on a yellow background with an arrow pointing the way. The sign said they were open to the public and folks were welcome to come and pick their own. The tulip had reminded me suddenly of a day a dozen years before. It had been the first day of May, and I'd opened my front door to find a simple wicker basket hanging from the outside knob. It was overflowing with bright red tulips and foil wrapped sweets, and tiny delicate stems of lilies of the valley. I remember lifting the basket right up to my face to smell the good sweet scent of the flowers, then wondering how and why they'd been picked for me. It had taken me a day to unwind the mystery. I'd carried everything back inside and rooted through my cabinets for a bunch of tiny jars and bud vases. I put each flower in its own container to make them go as far as possible, then spread them out through the house on window sills and side tables, and a teeny ledge in the hall that seemed to have been built just for this. I went back to the basket and carefully gathered all the candies and slid them into my jacket pocket, then stepped back out of the front door and off down the street. I don't remember now where I'd been going. Maybe I had a class to take or a shift to work at the Delhi downtown, but along the way, every now and then, I'd slip a candy from my pocket, unwrap it, and drop it into my mouth. There were some wrapped to look like strawberries, and I remembered that my grandmother had always had the same ones on a shelf in her sitting room. I'd laughed when I'd tasted the familiar flavor, remembering sneaking into that room to peruse the little collection of sweets and cut glass jars. It was the kind of sitting room no one actually sat in, and that meant there were always interesting things to find in the drawers and cupboards. I used to take a few candies from the jars, pull down a heavy book with pictures of butterflies and birds and animals from all over the world, and tuck myself into the space behind the couch to slowly turn the pages until the suites ran out. Wherever I'd been off to that day, I must have run into friends, and soon found out I wasn't the only one to have been visited by the spring ferry. Overnight. Three or four of us had found baskets, all with flowers and candy, and we'd spent some time on a park bench in the sunshine trying to guess who our benefactor was. Finally, we'd spotted another friend coming towards us down the path, and we'd called out, asking if she'd found a surprise on her doorstep. No, she shrugged, I was busy leaving them for all of you. May Day, she told us, was sometimes celebrated this way with gifts of spring flowers and candies or baked goods. Thinking back on that May Day, the kindness of a gift given when no one was looking, and the memories that the sweets had brought back, made me turn into the gravel lot at the tulip farm. Stepping out of my car, I was greeted by the lilting call of the song sparrow, a bird whose return, along with that of the red winged blackbird and the orange breasted house finch, marked the arrival of spring. The sky was a soft, pale blue, with a few feathery clouds shifting in the breeze. Two lips don't have a strong smell. They aren't like those lilies of the valley or hyacinth, but smells so powerfully like sweet water and greenery, but still there was a light scent in the air, like citrus and honey and cut grass. I followed a dirt trail toward the fields, glad I'd worn sturdy shoes instead of flip flops, and as it turned to pass behind a barn, the tulip fields came into view. I thought I'd been ready for that, but I wasn't. Actual goose bumps stood out on my arms, and I stopped stock still to give all my attention to what I was seeing. Stretching out for acres in front of me and broad, flat, even rectangles were bright patches in fifty colors, or more like a panoramic picture. I turned my head to see the farthest field to the left, then slowly scanned all the way to the right, and marveled that tulips could come in so many shades. When I had had my fill of looking and began to walk again, I spotted a man in dusty overalls with a broad brimmed hat. He waved me over, and as I got closer, he said, I like watching people's faces as they first see the fields. Have you been here before? I told him I hadn't, and felt lucky to be. He fitted me out with a pair of gloves, some small garden shears, and a long, deep basket I could carry over one arm. He gave me a folded paper map with the names of the different varieties of flowers and their locations, then sent me off to gather as many as I was inclined to cut. I thought I might just wander and be led by my eyes and instincts. But looking at the card I found some of the names so intriguing that I decided to aim for some specific plots. Some were classic in shape and color, called things like Christmas, Marvel, or Ruby Red or Diana. Others were streaked with color in bold lines that looked like brushstrokes. There were Rembrands and Davenports and Marylands. Some had double blossoms or fringed petals, or very thin veins of color that you could only see when you leaned down close. Into my basket went stems of the Queen of Night, Golden Apple, Dorn, and Dreamland. I picked enough for a few May Day baskets and to fill my own vase at home, before I walked back to the barn to pay for my flowers and turn over my tools. I stopped and sat at a bench under a tall sycamore tree whose leaves were just budding out, so that the branches looked coated in a light green haze. I thought of the baskets I would put together with my tulips, of stopping at the candy store across from the movie theater and filling a bag with sweet pin wheels and tart lemon drops and strawberry bonbonds. I'd sneak out early to morrow morning and leave them at a few front doors, that their faces and finding them might look something like mine did when I'd first seen the tulip fields surprise its spring. The tulip farm out past the apple orchards and cider mills where we went to get lost in corn mazes and buy bags full of fresh hot doughnuts in the crisp days of autumn was a tulip farm. It was something I'd driven past a hundred times without realizing what it was. Then today I'd seen a hand painted sign of a red tulip on a yellow background with an arrow pointing the way. The sign said they were open to the public and folks were welcome to come and pick their own the tulip had reminded me suddenly of a day a dozen years before. It had been the first day of May, and I'd opened my front door to find a simple wicker basket hanging from the outside knob. It was overflowing with bright red tulips and foil wrapped sweets, and tiny delicate stems of lilies of the valley. I remember lifting the basket right up to my face to smell the good, sweet scent of the flowers, then wondering how and why they'd been picked for me. It had taken me a day to unwind the mystery. I've carried everything back inside and rooted through my cabinets for a bunch of tiny jars and bud faces. I put each flower in its own container to make them go as far as possible, then spread them out through the house on window sills and side tables, and a teeny ledge in the hall that seem'd to have been built just for this. I went back to the basket and carefully gathered all the candies. I'd slid them into my jacket pocket, then stepped back out of the front door and off down the street. I don't remember now where I'd been going. Maybe I had a class to take or a shift to work at the deli downtown. But along the way, every now and then, I'd slip a candy from my pocket, unwrap it, and drop it into my mouth. There were some wrapped to look like strawberries, and I'd remembered that my grandmother had always had the same ones on a shelf in her sitting room. I'd laughed when I'd tasted the familiar flavor, remembering sneaking into that room to peruse the little collection of sweets and cut glass jars. It was the kind of sitting room no one actually sat in, and that meant there were always interesting things to find in the drawers and cupboards. I used to take a few candies from the jars, pulled down a heavy book with pictures of butterflies and birds and animals from all over the world, and tuck myself into the space behind the couch to slowly turn the pages until the sweets ran out. Wherever I'd been off to that day, I must have run into friends, and soon found out I wasn't the only one to have been visited by the Spring Fairy. Overnight, three or four of us had found baskets, all with flowers and candy, and we'd spent some time on a park bench in the sunshine trying to guess who our benefactor was. Finally, we'd spotted another friend coming toward us, and we'd called out, asking if she'd found a surprise on her doorstep. No, she shrugged, I was busy leaving them for all of you. May Day, she told us, was sometimes celebrated this way with gifts of spring flowers and candies or baked goods. Thinking back on that May Day, the kindness of a gift given when no one was looking, and the memories that the sweets had brought back had made me turn into the gravel lot with the tulip farm. Stepping out of my car, I was greeted by the lilting call of the song sparrow, a bird whose return, along with that of the red winged blackbird and the orange breasted house finch, marked the arrival of spring. The sky was a soft, pale blue, with a few feathery clouds shifting in the breeze. Tulips don't have a strong smell. They aren't like those lilies of the valley or hyacinth that smell so powerfully, like sweet water and greenery. But still there was a light scent in the like citrus and honey and cut grass. I followed a dirt trail toward the fields, glad I'd worn sturdy shoes instead of flip flops, and as it turned to pass behind a barn, the tulip fields came into view. I thought I'd been ready for that. I wasn't. Actual goose bumps stood out on my arms, and I stopped stuckll to give all my attention to what I was seeing. Stretching out for acres in front of me in broad, flat even rectangles were bright patches and fifty colors, or more like a panoramic picture. I turned my head to see the farthest field to the left, then slowly scanned all the way to the right, and marveled that tulips could come in so many shades. When I'd had my fill of looking and began to walk again, I spotted a man in dusty overalls with a broad brimmed hat. He waved me over, and as I got closer, he said, I like watching people's faces as they first see the fields. Have you been here before? I told him that I hadn't and felt lucky to be. He fitted me out with a pain air of gloves, some small garden shears, and a long, deep basket I could carry over one arm. He gave me a folded paper map with the names of the different varieties of flowers and their locations, then sent me off to gather as many as I was inclined to cut. I thought I might just wander and be led by my eyes and instincts. But looking at the map I found some of the names so intriguing that I decided to aim for some specific spots. Some tulips were classic in shape and color, called things like Christmas Marvel, or ruby red or Diana. Others were streaked with color in bold lines that looked like brushstrokes. There were Rembrandts and Davenport's and Marylands. Some had double blossoms or fringed petals, or very thin veins of color that you could only see when you leaned down close into my basket when stems of the Queen of Night, Golden Apple, Dorn, and Dreamland. I picked enough for a few may Day baskets and to fill my own vase at home, before I walked back to the barn to pay for my flowers and turn over my tools. I stopped and sat on a bench under a tall sycamore tree whose leaves were just budding out, so that the branches looked coated in a light green haze. I thought of the baskets I would put together with my tulips, of stopping at the candy store across from the movie theater and filling a bag with sweet pin wheels and tart lemon drops and strawberry bonbonds. I'd sneak out early to morrow morning and leave them at a few front doors. I thought that their faces and finding them might look something like mine dead when I'd first seen the tulip fields. Surprise, It's spring, Sweet dreams.