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More On Our Love Story

Published Sep 16, 2024, 4:00 AM

Our stories today start with a find discovered at the village yard sale. We’ll spend an afternoon in a field with a friend, gathering a harvest and greeting the neighbors in The Pecan Tree. Then, in Special Delivery at Weathervane Farm, we’ll check the mailbox and add what we find in it to the fridge door. Finally, we’ll set out to find the perfect gift for the happy couple in Something Old.

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Welcome to Stories from the Village of Nothing Much like easy Listening, but for fiction. I'm Catherine Nikolai. I write and read all the stories you'll hear on the Village of Nothing Much. Audio engineering and sound design is by Bob Wittershein. In our show notes, you'll find links to our ad free premium version, our other shows, and some lovely soothing merch to make your days and night's sweeter. A few weeks ago, we had a few stories that I called the beginning of a love story. It's episode thirty five. If you want to go back. We are picking up on those threads with today's tales, stitching our way closer to a very special event, the biggest bit of nothing Much this village has ever seen. If you are new here and you're like, what is she talking about, well, first welcome, I'm so glad you've found us. I write stories whose purpose is to make you feel good and sometimes to make you fall asleep. These stories initially appeared in my bedtime story podcast called Nothing Much Happens. Listeners told me that they really loved the stories, but they worked a bit too well that they fell asleep within a minute or two of pressing play and sometimes they'd kind of like to actually hear the stories, so we started this show. I write conflict free fiction and it's family friendly in case you're listening with littles. I focus on soothing experiences, sensory happenings, charm, whimsy, and dogs. There are a lot of dogs, and all these stories take place in the same town, what I call the Village of Nothing Much. There are reoccurring characters and slowly developing storylines, and the stories from today are part of a storyline of two people falling in love. The oldest story around. Right, will zoom out a bit and follow some of the connected stories and the dearly beloveds as usual. If you stick around after the last story, I'll talk a little bit about the inspiration for these and the behind the scenes process. Now, just because it's a good habit to have, let's take a deep breath in and sigh it out one more inhale, and let it go good. Our stories today start with a find discovered at the village yard sale. We'll spend an afternoon in a field with a friend, gathering a harvest and greeting the neighbors in the pecan tree. Then in special delivery at weather Vane Farm. We'll check the mailbox and add what we find in it to the fridge door. Finally, we'll set out to find the perfect gift for the happy couple in something old the pecan tree. I'd been walking past it for weeks, stuck in the umbrella stand at the front door, where i'd put it since i'd bought it at the neighborhood yard sale. In fact, when I first picked it up, I didn't know what it was. A long wooden handle whose dark green paint was beginning to flake off places, and at one end a wire drum held in place with a metal framework. I thought it must be some sort of tool. It was as long as a rake. I picked it up and set the end of the handle in the grass and spun the drum and tried to look like I had the first clue of what this object was. The woman who's watch, I might call it, I was handling, lifted an eyebrow, watching me with one hand on her hip. AM, clearly, it's it's for I spun the wire bit again. You put the bingo balls in here, I said, and we both laughed. She took it from me and gestured for me to follow her in her sideyard. She had a tall walnut tree, and all over the ground were fallen nuts. She set the wire drum against the ground and rolled it back and forth. With a little pressure. The walnuts began to pop through the wires and collect inside the drum. A picker upper, she said, with satisfaction. A picker upper, I exclaimed. She handed it back to me, and with a very little haggling, we agreed on a price. I'd found a few other things that day, a stained glass window that I was planning to put in my garden shed, a collection of matchbooks from restaurants that had all closed decades ago, salt and pepper shakers and the shape of windmills that must have been bought in a souvenir shop on someone's vacation, and a broad brimmed panama hat with a navy blue band. It had been a busy day in the neighborhood, and I'd also gladly patronized the lemonade stand and helped move a piano from one house to another that had taken several of us and a bit of engineering. The boy whose house it had gone into had been so excited when we rolled it up into his front room. I'd since heard some enthusiastic plunking when I passed his house on walks, and hoped, as I think many of the neighbors did, that lessons would begin soon. At the end of the day, I'd come home with all my treasures and stuck my picker upper in the umbrella stand and sort of forgotten about it. I was a collector. Some people are minimalists and thrive with more space than things, but I'd come to accept that I was the opposite. I liked treasures, little dishes from the thrift store, candle holders and books of postcards, scarves and belt buckles and teapots. My house was full of whimsical bits and bobs, and I used as many of them as I could. I ate off my good China. I brought my opera glasses to the Shakespeare in the Park production and decked the halls at Christmas time with a forest of vintage ceramic trees. So when a friend told me he had a yard full of pecan nuts and no quick way to harvest them, I leapt into service. I have just the thing for that, I said, eyeballing the roller by the door. I thought you might, he laughed. He promised me half the haul for my help, but I would have done it for nothing. I was just excited to play with my new toy. He lived out of town a bit, just past the big farm with the weather vane on its barn. In fact, his land backed up to theirs, and sometimes their ducks would waddle over in the afternoons and need to be herded back before dark. It was still early in the new season. Only a few leaves at the very tips of branches were turning red and orange, and while I showed up in a sweater, I had a feeling a few minutes of pecan gathering would warm me up enough to shed it. We walked through his backyard along pea gravel paths, stopping to admire his garden beds. He had lots of lavender, and I plucked a few stems to tuck behind my ear. There were butterfly bushes with flowers so heavy they tipped nearly upside down, and hibiscus plants that were practically trees. The path wove through a stand of trees and to a meadow with native grasses and a huge tree at its center. There was a wheelbarrow ready for all the nuts we hoped to harvest, and a couple pairs of gardening gloves waiting for us. I was hoping that picking up these pecans would be as easy as my neighbor had made it seem the day of the sail, and it mostly was. I took the first turn, gripping the handle and rolling the drum over the ground. The pecans popped through the wires around together as I rolled it. Every few minutes, i'd stop to empty the drum by easing the wires apart enough to let the contents pour into the wheelbarrow. Then they'd spring right back into place, and I'd roll the ground for more. I remembered that my grandfather had shown me once how to crack these nuts with just his hands, and I tried it, placing two pecans in my palm, snugly one against the other and wrapping my fingers over them. Then I used one hand to squeeze the other until I heard a pop of shell cracking. We ate a few like that in the field. Sure enough, after a few minutes, my sweater was hung over one of the barrow handles, and I was glad for the shade of the giant tree. While I worked the picker upper, my friend was picking up fallen branches, snapping the smaller ones into kindling, and stacking larger ones to cut for firewood. Soon it became apparent that we would have more than one wheelbarrow's worth of pecans, and we started to talk through what we would do with all of them. I had a few books at home, of course I did that gave advice on how to preserve things, how best to store things for the winter, and I promised to consult and to report back. I stopped to stretch and heard a hee haw in the distance. My friend gave a low laugh and said it must be donkey o'clock. When they showed up at the split rail fence for a pet, we wandered over and saw three of them trotting toward us, braying and twitching their ears. I stepped over to meet them, plucking my gloves off finger by finger. They lined up and let me stroke their long noses and pet their soft ears. I asked my friend if he thought we could feed them the pecans, but he said we'd better not, that they mostly ate hay and grasses, and he'd heard from the neighbor that they got plenty of treats at home already, So we just stood in the autumn afternoon as they shifted around us to get the best scratches and watch the sun begin to dip toward the horizon. Special delivery at weather Vane Farm. Nothing much happens on the farm that the animals don't tell us about. Our old rooster crows not only as the sun rises, but also every time we start the tractor up. The donkeys bray when their feed runs out, the pigs grunt happily when they spot the ducks coming back to the barn from the pond, and our cows let out slow ringing moves whenever the mail truck trundles up to the box. So when I heard them lowing while I was spreading straw in the barn, I leaned my rake against the doorframe and braced my hands against my lower back for a good stretch time for our break. I thought this summer had been a hot one, and with a lot to do to take care of our rescue animals, we make sure to stop frequently for cold drinks and to just enjoy our work, so we don't overheat or burn out. I took my water bottle from the high shelf where the barncats liked to sleep in the afternoons, and took a long drink. I filled it with ice and slices of ginger and a few mint leaves today, and it was refreshing in the dusty heat of the barn. I heard the cows again and headed out to them in the field. We only had two, a mama that we had rescued the autumn before, not knowing that she was pregnant, and her calf, who was now I stopped to count on my fingers ash almost ten months old. He had pretty golden fur, which was how he'd gotten the name Winnie the move, though we usually just called him Win unless he was naughty knocking over his kiddie pool or nosing the gate latch till he managed to pop it open and let the goats out. Then we called him Winifred theodor mussef. It didn't stop him, but it made us chuckle as we refilled the pool or rounded up the goats. As soon as I stepped into the pasture, they both turned toward me and started a slow stroll in my direction for ear scratches and pats. No matter how many times I stopped to give some love to our animals, I was always happy to give some more, and they were happy to have it. If you've never sat in the shade of a tall tree with a cow beside you, their head resting in your lap as you lay a hand on their neck, they can't know how absolutely soul healing it is. You slow way down. You remember that just being in the world, watching the tree branches move in the wind, is a reason to be alive. You remember that your own nature is what you see in the growing blades of grass and shifting clouds, evolving, becoming not possible to be wrong in the way that it has approached, And when you finally get back on your feet, you feel recalibrated, the gears in your mind and heart running smoothly again. It was tempting to sit down with the cows now, but I had a feeling that if I did, I wouldn't get any other chores done today. So I gave them a few pats and friendly words, and headed down the gravel drive to the mailbox. The goats watched me go and bleeded in a way that was clearly communicating Mom, come back. I'm just getting the mail, I said, shaking my head in the way of all parents who have ever gotten out of the shower to find notes shoved under the locked bathroom door. The driveway cut through a shady glade, and as I passed through it, I enjoyed the cooler air. I noticed how differently it smelled here in the bright sunny fields. It smelled well, like sunshine, like how your sheets smell after they dry on the line, or how your skin smells after driving with the windows down through the country. In the shade, I could smell a deep green scent, damp moss and chlorophyll, and the stony shores of the creek. I walked slowly in the shade, seeing that the flag was down on our old mailbox, a sign that the outgoing letters had indeed been picked up, and maybe something new was left in its place. It was a clever mailbox. Instead of just opening from the front flap, causing me to step into the road to get my mail, it opened from the back as well, so I could stay safely in our yard. Though out here in the country, if we saw a single vehicle every ten minutes, it felt like heavy traffic. I tugged on the latch and the flap creaked open. Inside I spied a few larger envelopes, bills, I assumed, and a folded collection of flyers and circulars, and tucked in the middle of all of it as if it was being protected from the dust of the road. A pretty cream envelope, square and small, with our ad just written by hand and pretty script. I slid it out, leaving the rest of the mail in the box, and opened it on the spot. A smile spread over my face as I read the details. Yes we would save the date, Yes we could attend. I forgot to even close the back flap of the mailbox as I turned and treked up the drive toward the farmhouse. Suddenly energized by the idea of the celebration to come in September, I didn't even notice the wind picking up as I went. The weather vane on top of the barn started to spin as the gusts caught it. The animals must have noticed, though, I saw the ducks coming back from the pond early. The barn cats, who never liked to get caught in the rain, were standing just inside the barn door. Waiting for everyone to roll in before a storm did. I'd tuck every one in snug as bugs in just a second, but first I climbed the farmhouse steps and swung the screen door open. I took the invitation straight through to the kitchen and cleared a space on the fridge door for it. I scanned the door until I found a heart shaped magnet to pin it in place, and stood back to smile at it one more time. The dogs gathered round my ankles, looking from me to the fridge, probably hoping i'd open it and drop something tasty on the floor. Instead, I dug around in their cookie jar on the counter, tossing them each one and telling them the news. I turned on my heel to rush back out to the yard. The sky was getting dark and an afternoon rainstorm was on its way. As I herded the animals into their stalls, topping up water bowls and food troughs, I wondered what we could gift the happy couple. Maybe we could invite them for an afternoon nap with the cows in the field. If I was them, i'd register for it. Something old. I have to admit I haven't used my iron in a long time. It took me a while to find it. In fact, it had been pushed all the way back on a shelf over the washer and dryer, and I'd had to get a step stool out to bring it down. But I needed it. It was required in order for this to be done properly, and that mattered to me. I'd spent a good bit of time trying to find the right thing. After the invitation had come, we'd rsvp'ed right away yes for both of us, and I'd circled the date on the calendar that hung inside the pantry, exciting a wedding and at the old Inn. It would be beautiful, I was sure. I imagined the large porch that ran along the back of the house, lit with candles and string lights, the path down to the lake decorated with flowers, and the great ballroom up on the second floor, filled with folks dancing and raising their glasses to toast the couple. There would be favors and a giant cake, and a pretty table for gifts and cards. A gift, what should it be? I wanted to give them something sentimental rather than practical. Let someone else get them a new blender or fancy wine glasses, and I suppose that is part of who I am. I spend a lot of my time taking care of old, precious things, things that are kept even though they are not at all practical. There's a great old house a little outside of the village. It was once a private residence, but has for decades now been a sort of museum. Its rooms full of the restored and archived belongings of the family that live there, as well as things from other villagers of the past. There's a room on the third floor that is full of maps, local and exotic, hand drawn are printed on inky presses long ago. In the entryway, on a table under an impressive chandelier is a meticulously built miniature of a sailing ship with a tiny rudder and crow's nest, and hand carved figurehead of a mermaid. There are rooms of books portraits. The old kitchens are full of patinated copper pants hanging from hooks and clever cooking apparatuses. The newly renovated solarium houses rare tropical plants and a collection of hanging prisms that throw rainbows against the floor and walls on sunny days. Then there are the grounds gardens upon gardens, tended by a crowd of volunteers each year, and full of walking paths that the public are welcome to and frequently use. There's a lovely labyrinth that takes a good half hour to walk, and a stretch of woods full of deer. And when I park my car in the lot there and step out and smell the air and look up at the lovely old house, I'm regularly astonished that I get to work there. I'm only there a few days a week now. I spent most of my career teaching history at the college, and when I was ready to downshift a bit, I found a warm welcome at the Great House. I spend some time going through boxes and cataloging, sometime teaching on the history of the house and the objects in it, and sometime just scouting out new fines and estate sales and swap meets. And that's where I'd found the wedding gift. I'd been deep in a wardrobe at an estate sale, an old Victorian house that was being cleaned out completely for renovation. The wardrobe was full of old suits, and while I didn't have much interest in the clothes, I always checked pockets for pens or little notebooks, the everyday objects that got carried around, almost like afterthoughts, they had a lot to tell us about the quotidian moments of their owner's lives. I'd come away with a bare money clip with initials etched into the tarnished silver, and a nub of pencil with teethmarks in the wood. I chuckled, as my own pencils often end up looking the same way. I pushed aside an armful of the suits, and at the bottom of the wardrobe found a stack of small boxes jackpot. They were made of thin cardboard and warmed my local historian heart as they were stamped with the names and addresses of their suppliers. One held dress socks and had been opened with the pair missing, one held a shoeshine kit that had clearly been well used, and one was still unopened. A gold label taped the box of the handsome white handkerchiefs closed. There were a dozen of them, hemmed in different colors, I assumed to match different shirts or ties. Finds like these helped us document where various shops had been the cost of things, as they often still had a tag on them or a handwritten receipt tucked inside. They were a glimpse into a simple interaction in the past, here in the village. The socks and the shoeshine kit I purchased for the museum. We could stage them in one of the dressing rooms where we had other bits of clothing and personal care objects to flesh out the picture of life at the time. But I used my own money to buy the handkerchiefs, because as soon as I saw them, I thought of the adage about gifts at a wedding that the couple needs something old, something new, something borrowed, and something blue. These could be there, something old. So at home, I'd broken the seal that had been set in place decades before, and washed and dried them carefully. I'm not the best at embroidery, but I got out my hoop and thread and I'd sown something onto each one, their first names, some rather amateurish but recognizable paw prints crawling across the fabric to represent their dogs and cat, and the date of the wedding. And now I was ironing them so that though they were old, they would feel crisp and fresh, just the thing to tuck into a pocket or purse to clean glasses or wipe away a tear. I smiled as I fitted them back into their original box and wrapped it in shiny paper, tying it with an orange ribbon, thinking that some future local historian might find these handkerchiefs in a drawer a cupboard like I had, and try to match up the names and the date to learn a little bit more about a special moment in the lives of our friends. Oh, these were some fun stories to write. The first one might not seem connected to the others, but it is. Let me count the ways. In the village yard sale, which is in episode thirty three, we meet a person selling salt and pepper shakers and a man selling a piano. Then in episode thirty five, we follow the mail carrier as she delivers a wedding invitation to the same man. This narrator, who bought some of those salt and pepper shaker and helped move the piano, mentions the boy who was beginning to plunk away at it. He'll appear in the wedding episode of the storyline in a couple of weeks. So while this particular tale isn't someone who knows the happy couple or is going to the wedding. She is a connective thread between those who do and I love that aspect of the village. Seeing the way a community is connected. It reminds me that even when I feel isolated or alone in something, the street truth is that I'm not. In a million small ways, I'm tied to others. There is not a person on the planet who is anything less than your twentieth cousin. In the weather Van Farm story, possibly the same mail carrier is pulling up to the mailbox. I know that's not how mail roots actually work. They are bedtime stories. Remember this spot, weather Vein Farm has appeared in several previous episodes. It's a favorite location and one I think a lot of us fantasize about to have a place where we can rescue all the animals, a safe landing spot for ourselves and any other souls in need. And of course, the donkeys and ducks in the pecan tree are the same ones in this story. I love that the invite is on the fridge, the dog's got a treat, and that the story ends with the winds winds of change blowing. Finally, in something old, we see a wedding guest, lovingly preparing a gift for the big day. I remember riding my moped along Lake Michigan when I thought of using the bit of folklore about something old, something new, something borrowed, and something blue to tell these stories. Maybe it was looking out at the magnificent blue of the lake, which is also something very old, that delivered the idea to me. But as soon as I thought of it, I began to plan the gifts and how they could tie establish characters and places into the wedding. And in this story, we have met this narrator before, briefly in the episode called the Solarium it's episode six of this show, when she directs us to the sunny glaston space at the old House on a bright winter day. She gets her own story here, and I loved following her to estate sales to feel into coat pockets for everyday treasures. Like her, I have not seen my iron in many years. Unlike her, I cannot embroider. I based the old stately house on a place I visit often. It's called Cranbrook House and it's part of an educational community here in Michigan. It's an amazingly beautiful place. If you are ever at Woodward Avenue and Cranbrook Drive, go It's open to the public and there are tours available. Not just of the Cranbrook Home. You can see the Sarin In House, the art museum. There are miles of paths and fountains and statues. It's a gem and we are really lucky to have it. Even growing up nearby, I didn't know about it for most of my life, and it makes me wonder what places near to you might be waiting to be found and enjoyed. We'll hear more about the gifts and their givers in next week's episode. Until then, I wish you small moments of ordinary magic, gentleness, and good spirits.

Stories from the Village of Nothing Much

In the Village of Nothing Much, everyday life is full of glimmers of ordinary magic. From the Inn on 
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