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Welcome to Get Sleepy, where we listen, we relax, and we get sleepy.
My name's Thomas, and I'm so honoured to be your host.
Our story tonight was written by Alicia Stefan, and will be read by Heather.
Shortly we'll join a little boy named Davey as he spends a golden summer afternoon in his grandma Hattie's farmhouse kitchen in 1950s America.
He'll help with child-sized tasks, enjoy typical radio programs of the era and soak up the sights and sounds of summer in the countryside.
While we're with him, our world will revolve around Grandma's kitchen table and we won't have a single worry.
We do what we do here at Get Sleepy because we care deeply about helping people all over the world enjoy better, healthier rest.
It's a contribution that we feel blessed to be able to make.
But of course, we have writers narrators producers, artists and more that all put their time, energy and love into making this show genuine caring people who want to play their part in helping you, our listeners.
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Thank you so much to everyone who's already joined our membership.
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And if you're on an iOS device, you can find a link to join our membership in the episode description.
Thank you so much my friends.
Your support really does make a big difference.
Okay, let's take a few moments now to just settle and find a place of peace and comfort.
As you lie in bed or wherever you're listening from, I want you to just steady your breathing into a calm, relaxed pattern.
Enjoy the sensation of the exhale as your muscles soften and tension gives way.
And while you enjoy these steady, calming breaths, just begin to consider some of the things that you are thankful for in your life.
Things you feel lucky to have. my lovely partner recently bought me a new journal.
One that not only has prompts and space to record thoughts and feelings, but also some stories and quotes that help to put things in perspective.
And one of the first things I read about in it was how so many of us focus a lot of our energy on what we don't have.
Striving for that next thing we want, or comparing ourselves to friends, neighbours or colleagues and thinking we need a bit of what they've got.
But when you take a break from that and think about the treasures you already possess, I bet you'll find a reason to be grateful.
So, before we begin our story, just spend a moment in that perspective.
Think about what you have in your life that you feel lucky for, and express a little gratitude in your heart for anything that comes to mind.
Now, my friend, let's turn to our story.
Try to imagine the open countryside bursting with summer vibrance under a blue sky.
You are far from the bustle of the city.
Here, the soundtrack of life is made up of the birds, the breezes and the backdrop of life on the farm.
This is where our story begins.
Davy sat up on his knees, boosting himself on one of Grandma Hattie's mismatched wooden chairs.
On the rectangular table in front of him, there were two large stoneware mixing bowls.
One was full of flour, and the other had a sifter with a hand crank sitting next to it.
Davy placed the sifter inside the empty bowl and began filling it with flour from the other one, using a large spoon Grandma had given him.
When the sifter was more than half full, he picked it up and began to turn the crank.
Tilting his head downward to look at the bottom.
He watched in delight as the silky flour poured out in a fine shower, forming a miniature snowstorm underneath.
Stopping to refill the metal container with more flour.
He asked Grandma Hattie why they always had to sift before baking.
Well Davy, she said, peering over her glasses with a smile.
You want to make sure that flour is the only thing that ends up in your cake.
Davey looked skeptical.
He stopped turning the crank briefly and scrutinized the portion that had yet to go through the process.
Then he shrugged and said, It looks fine to me.
Grandma clucked her tongue and told him that he might get lucky later or he might get some corn husks or something else in his dessert.
With mock seriousness she put her hands on her apron tips and added Do you really care to take that risk?
Davy chuckled at the notion of finding a corn husk in his cake and emphatically told her no.
He began cranking more vigorously.
As the pile of dusty white flour grew underneath the can, he lifted his arms higher, creating just enough space to finish the job.
He told Grandma Hattie that he was done and carefully placed the sifter into the now empty bowl to his right.
She nodded approvingly and brought him a whisk and a tiny little bowl with some other ingredients in it.
Use this to blend in the salt and the baking soda, she said.
And be careful not to knock the flour into the air and get it all over you.
You'll look like a ghost if you're not tidy.
Davey nodded solemnly and deposited the new ingredients into the mixing bowl.
He began to stir and blend it very slowly.
The pound cake they were preparing wasn't even in the oven yet, but Grandma's kitchen had that familiar smell that always reminded him of home.
It was a particular mix of cinnamon, vanilla, and something else he couldn't quite identify.
It was a freshness that reminded him of sheets hanging in the sun on the clothesline.
In fact...
From the window over the large enameled sink he could see laundry blowing merrily in the summer breeze.
Grandma was washing the breakfast dishes.
Pulling aside the skirt that covered the area underneath the sink, she pulled out a box of powdered soap, Adding it to the water she splashed vigorously, creating a pile of white bubbles.
Grandma Davy said you know, advertisements say you can just soak the dishes for two minutes in the sink and not even scrub them now, and the soap will even make your hands softer at the same time.
Grandma Hattie snorted with amusement.
Don't believe everything you hear on the radio, Davey.
That'll be the day that I don't even bother to wipe the dishes.
Davey shrugged his shoulders.
He couldn't expect his grandmother to be up on the latest products.
Peering back at her, taking in her pleasantly familiar floral house dress, he smiled to himself.
He didn't really want her to change.
As he watched still stirring the whisk, she rinsed each plate and set it up in the nearby plate rack to air dry.
Grandma Hattie smoothed her apron and walked across to the radio, adjusting the dial.
They'd been listening to a show called Alka-Seltzer Time.
Every day it was the same two men playing music.
They were always crooning about the moonlight and people being in love.
Davy found this noontime programming rather dull, but it was blessedly short, lasting a mere fifteen minutes.
The dial turned, rolling through fragments of other broadcasts, punctuated by static.
Then Grandma stopped on the Ozzie and Harriet show.
This was one that Davy secretly liked, although some of the jokes that elicited the laugh track were mysterious to him.
This episode was just starting.
First, the audience clapped and there was cheerful music.
Then the soundtrack became more dramatic, fading into the beginning of the dialogue between two women.
In this episode, that Harriet and another lady had run into each other in a department store.
Davy thought this seemed like it was a world away from Grandma Hattie's sunny kitchen out on the farms.
In this show, it became apparent that the other lady's husband was a farmer.
Harriet said her kids had never been to a real farm before.
Davey looked out the kitchen door that led to the side yard.
He scanned the vast expanse of blue sky, Grandma's vegetable garden, and beyond, the sea of corn.
What a notion, he thought.
How can someone have never seen a farm before?
Grandma told Davy he had done a fine job of whisking the flour mixture and instructed him to bring her the butter and the bowl of eggs from where they'd been waiting on the other side of the kitchen table.
As she measured sparkly white flour out of a nearby canister, she reminded Davy that it was important to use room-temperature eggs and butter in a pound cake.
It's the best way to get your butter to whip up nice and creamy, she explained with a twinkle in her eye.
For a brief moment.
Grandma's hand mixer drowned out the people talking on the Ozzie and Harriet episode.
The laugh track continued to rise over the whir of the appliance, but Davy was only dimly aware of what was going on in the story anyway.
Grandma had a special stepstool that could also be used as a chair.
It was a shiny mint green color.
Climbing up onto it.
He squeezed his hands between his knees as he watched his grandmother transform the butter and sugar into a fluffy mountain.
Then, one by one, she expertly cracked the eggs with one hand, dropping them into the mix.
A few more ingredients, then the flour, bit by bit.
And the batter was ready to go into the pans.
Davy leaned on the oilcloth-covered table, while Grandma Hattie poured the batter evenly into two identical loaf pans.
Her expert eye knew just how to divide it evenly.
Somehow, they came out exactly the same.
Looking up at Davy with a smile, she winked at him.
Perfect, Grandma, he said with admiration.
He stood back as she pulled out the door to the big, wide stove and deposited the loaf pans inside.
Then she set the metal kitchen timer for an hour and gently closed the oven again.
She would check on the pound cakes after 60 minutes to see if they were done.
Turning around, she noticed there was a new arrival in the kitchen.
Strolling in the open kitchen door was Grandma's orange cat, Buster.
He was an enormous and goofy sort of fella who always accepted a few pats from any kind of visitor.
Davey eagerly slid off the chair by the oven and sat down in the warm sunshine on the linoleum to stroke his head.
Buster had obviously been entertaining himself outside.
He had a few sticky burrs and twigs nestled in his fur.
Davy gently worked them free and tossed them out the door beyond the steps.
Buster licked Davy's hand in return, running his pink sandpaper tongue over his thumb.
But even Davy's attentions couldn't distract Buster from what Grandma was doing.
She had pulled a saucer from the open shelving on the wall and was filling it with creamy milk from the refrigerator.
Buster eagerly began lapping it up as soon as she placed it in the corner, away from the stove.
Davy knew that was because Grandma couldn't tolerate cats being underfoot while she was working in the kitchen.
Davy stayed in his spot on the floor, running his hand over the smoothness.
The summer sunshine was so warm and it made him feel just a little bit drowsy.
He closed his eyes, pausing in the moment.
A toasty dry breeze drifted through the door, bringing with it the smells of things that were green.
It was the time of the summer when the whole world was busy living.
The trees were in full leaf, the grass was high, the bees were humming in the garden.
It all filled Davy with an overwhelming sense of well-being and calm.
It was as if anything was possible at that moment.
While Davy basked in the sunlight, Grandma quietly returned to her work.
With his eyes closed, he detected some clinking noises.
She was retrieving a bowl of some type, he guessed.
She was putting something in the bowl.
Meanwhile, he was dimly aware of the heavenly scent of cake and sugar as the oven worked its magic on the contents of the two loaf pans.
When he opened his eyes again, everything in the room seemed briefly washed out by brightness.
But as his sight adjusted, he saw that there were once again two bowls on the kitchen table, and he knew they were there for him.
Grandma walked over to the radio and adjusted the dial.
A familiar trumpeting music began, followed by the familiar cry of.
With delight he instantly knew that Grandma Hattie was going to let him listen to his favorite show.
As the theme song galloped along, he happily returned to kneeling on his wooden chair at the table.
The announcer urged Davy to return with him to those thrilling days of yesteryear.
The Lone Ranger, champion of justice, would ride again.
Grandma had filled one of the bowls on the table with a huge pile of fresh green beans.
He knew that his job would be to snap off their ends, discarding any that were unusable.
Grandma always said that this was the perfect job for little hands.
She would be canning as many of these beans as possible while the gardens were bursting with them.
Later in the winter, he'd be seeing these same veggies on his dinner plate along with his meatloaf.
Davey was barely aware of his work as he listened intently to the radio show.
He knew that this wasn't Grandma's favorite, but she didn't mind Davey listening to it, since the Lone Ranger never seemed to engage in any real vices.
He smiled to himself as the story of adventure took shape.
Meanwhile, his hands were busy.
Pick up a bean, neatly detach the ends, drop it in the left-hand bowl.
Repeat.
In this way, he slowly made his way through the entire pile.
It was satisfying, after all, he thought vaguely.
He liked using his thumbnail to snap into the end of the bean, neatly severing the inedible stems.
Seeing all of the bright green little tubes pile up in the other bowl made him feel a sense of wholesome accomplishment.
He was helping.
Davy's mind wandered as he reached the end of his task.
He heard Silver's clopping hooves and imagined that he might have a strong white horse someday.
Grandma and Grandpa had a horse, but it was just an older brown mare.
Her name was Winnie, and she was so gentle.
He liked to sneak her an apple now and then when he found one that had fallen off one of the trees in the yard.
But he couldn't imagine the Lone Ranger riding Winnie.
He laughed quietly to himself at the thought of it.
He looked up and noticed that, as usual...
Grandma had not squandered a moment while she was waiting for the cake to be finished.
She had stepped out into the yard and through the window he could see her taking the white sheets off the clothesline.
They were dry now and billowing gently in the lazy summer wind.
He had a momentary impulse to run outside and wrap himself in the hanging sheets, letting their fresh silkiness surround him, hide him from the world, create a little cocoon for him in the ocean of space that was surrounding the farmland.
That was something he always liked about being at his grandparents' house.
One felt so big and yet so small at the same time.
But of course Grandma would never approve of him getting his little hands all over her bright white sheets.
She efficiently folded them into impossibly flat squares, holding the wooden pins briefly in her teeth as she did so.
Within moments, the clotheslines were empty and the Midwestern sunshine and wind was ready to come inside.
In the form of Grandma's clean bedding.
Nobody's sheets smelled as good as Grandma Hattie's.
That was for sure.
Buster had disappeared after his snack, but he strolled confidently back into the kitchen, now looking for all the world like he owned the place.
He turned three times and settled himself in the sunbeam by the door and promptly appeared to go to sleep.
Grandma pushed through the doorway, holding her basket, and stepped over him.
She clucked her tongue as if she were vexed with Buster, but Davy knew she spoiled him and didn't mind him enjoying the weather.
She bustled out of the room briefly and returned empty-handed.
Just in time for the kitchen timer to go off, it emitted its perky little chime, indicating that precisely an hour had passed.
Grandma put on a padded mitt and opened the oven door.
A mouth-watering scent of vanilla and cake flooded the kitchen, and Davy reflected briefly that it did actually smell even better than the outdoor breezes that had filled the room before.
Grandma carefully pulled one of the loaf pans atop the range and patted it experimentally with her hand.
She was like a baking clairvoyant channeling the soul of the pound cake.
She evaluated briefly and then nodded without an ounce of doubt.
These cakes were ready.
She removed the second pan, shut the door, and turned off the oven.
Davy knew what to do next.
He ran to a long cupboard nearby and pulled out Grandma's cooling rack.
Placing it on the table, he stood aside.
Grandma wordlessly transferred the loaf pans to the cooling rack, where they would rest for a few minutes before the cakes were turned out of them.
Hanging her oven mitt back on the hook, Grandma surveyed the kitchen with satisfaction.
The Lone Ranger had ended and now the radio was playing big band music, which was Grandma's usual preference.
He watched, with his chin in his hands, as she hummed along, all the while fetching a cutting board and a pile of carrots.
Pulling a vegetable peeler out of the drawer in her small kitchen work table.
She held it out to him with a smile.
"'Davey,' she said, "'my neighbor is under the weather,'
Even in the summer, there's nothing better than a chicken soup to put a person right.
He nodded in agreement.
Grandma's soup was the best in the whole world.
He loved eating it in any season.
Davy wasn't allowed to use knives in the kitchen yet, but this was a task he could do.
He came around to Grandma's side of the table and climbed up on the chair in front of her.
Then he took the peeler from her hand and picked up a carrot.
With an expression of the utmost concentration, he shaved a long ribbon of skin off it, watching the thin strip fall to the cutting board.
Then he created an identical strip right next to the first, revealing clean, bright orange carrots underneath.
Davey enjoyed this task.
He liked how you could start with a dusty, misshapen vegetable and end up with a fresh, appealing new version, popping with vivid color.
He also liked watching the pile of dainty carrot ribbons grow as he worked.
Grandma always said that if you're bothering to do something, you should do it well.
Davy was determined to peel her carrots perfectly.
As the mountain of pristine carrots slowly grew, Grandma Hattie was expertly dicing an onion on the other side of the kitchen.
She sniffed a little joking with Davy that she'd be crying into her onions any minute if she didn't finish this task quickly.
Then lickety-split, she put down the knife, lifted her wooden cutting board and scraped the onions into a nearby pot of homemade broth that she had gotten simmering on the stove.
With the eye-watering onions safely in the pot...
Grandma moved her cutting board to the place across from Davy at the table.
As he completed his own vegetable peeling, she took a freshly washed stack of celery ribs and laid them out.
Neatly trimming the leaves and ends off, she laid them in a short stack.
Then, with careful strokes, she thinly sliced them into identical green crescents.
Davy watched from behind his pile of finished carrots almost dazed, as the cheerful celery pieces cascaded to the side like dominoes.
They made such a fresh little noise when Grandma sliced them.
He loved hearing it over and over in perfect rhythms.
All too soon, the celery was gone too.
It joined the onion and broth in the pot.
Lastly, Grandma Hattie got to slicing Davy's carrots.
She made them into fat discs, which was just how she and Davy liked them.
He closed his eyes and pictured the chicken noodle soup when it was finished.
It would be heaping with fresh, bright vegetables and fat noodles.
Delicious.
Once the carrots were in the pot, it was time to turn out the pound cakes.
Yes.
Grandma washed her hands at the sink and dried them on a kitchen towel.
Then she walked over to the cooling rack and put her hand on the side of one of the loaf pans.
Clearly happy with the level of coolness, she proceeded to expertly flip the lobes, depositing two golden pound cakes onto the rack.
This was the part that always made Davy feel like his grandma was doing a high wire act at the circus.
The breathless moment when the cakes were unmolded always turned out perfectly, not a crack.
Grandma Hattie was truly a magician.
Now Davy, she said, once again peering over her glasses at him.
One of these loaves is going to my neighbor, along with the soup, but the other one is for us.
Davy clasped his hands together with glee.
But before he could speak, she held up a commanding finger.
Don't let this ruin your dinner, she said with a conspiratorial look.
Davey nodded vigorously.
He wanted to keep being able to eat cake when he was at Grandma's house.
He'd make sure to clean his plate at dinner for his mother that evening.
A few minutes later, Grandma carefully cut a thick slice off the loaf and slid it across the table to Davy on a plate.
He went to the cutlery drawer and got himself a fork.
Then he settled himself into a chair and prepared to enjoy his heavenly treat.
As he savored the vanilla and the sugar, he looked over his shoulder toward the open door again.
The sun was much lower in the sky now.
The whole world around Grandma's farmhouse had taken on a happy golden glow that made the late afternoon breezes seem warmer than they actually were.
Outside, Davey could see Buster.
He was walking across the yard as if he had someplace to go, and then he vanished into the miniature jungle of the vegetable garden.
Davey giggled quietly to himself.
Bad buster.
He always had important cat business to attend to.
Davey's slice of cake was gone before he knew it.
Grandma turned from where she was gently stirring the soup at the stove and smiled indulgently at him.
Don't worry, she said warmly.
I'll send some more pound cake home with you.
This made him very happy.
Perhaps Ma would let him have another slice after dinner later.
That's what Grandma would probably call a boondoggle.
He took his plate to the sink and stood on the stool where he carefully washed it.
Then he reached up high and managed to get it into the plate rack where it stood drying with the others.
Having conscientiously cleared his place, he walked over to the irresistible sunbeam that still lit the doorway from the west, and he laid himself down in it with his elbows propping him up near the threshold to the yard.
Lying like this just inside the kitchen, warmed by the summer sun.
He surveyed Grandma Hattie's kingdom.
A bird swooshed by, alighting on the nearby poles that held the clothesline.
He turned his head to watch it and the bird appeared to imitate him.
And then, in a flash, it was gone.
He smiled to himself and laid his head down on his folded hands.
He could feel the heat from the floor beneath his cheek.
It was so soothing, and he was rather tired.
A soft breeze drifted across his closed eyes, carrying with it the hint of dandelions, freshly cut grass and straw.
Davy was dimly aware that he probably shouldn't be lying on Grandma's kitchen floor.
But she wasn't making him get up, and he enjoyed this feeling that he was like a cat.
He was like Buster, all orange and glowing with summer sun and free to wander the farmland at will.
In a little while his mother would come to pick him up.
Grandma Hattie would enfold him in a comforting hug and he'd smell the lemon and the soap and the sugar and the vanilla on her apron.
And then she'd give him a kiss on the top of his head and tell him he'd been a good helper and that she would see him again soon.
But right now he was outside of time, suspended in this gorgeous moment, with the humming sounds of the honeybees faintly audible outside.
And inside the kitchen, grandma's music played on the crackly radio.
And just like that, he drifted off into a sweet summer dream.
Thanks for watching! you Thank you.
Thanks for watching!
Thanks for watching!
Thank you.
Thanks for watching!
Thanks for watching!
Thanks for watching!
Thank you.
