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Thanks for being here.
I'm so grateful that we get to do this together.
Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Everyone, in which nothing much happens.
You feel good, and then you fall asleep.
I'm Catherine Nicolai.
I write and read all the stories you'll hear on Nothing Much Happens, with Audio Engineering by Bob Withershine.
We give to a different charity each week, and this week we are giving to Adopt -A -Pet of Fenton, Michigan.
Adopt -A -Pet's goals are to continue to find loving families for homeless dogs and cats, as well as assist people in the community with their personal animals.
You can learn more about them in our show notes.
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It made paying our staff and overhead possible and let us dream about ways to grow.
While the world of podcasting is changing, and those contracts don't look like they used to if they come up at all, the good news is that we aren't going anywhere.
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Now, I have a story to tell you.
Not much happens in it, and that is sort of the point.
It's a gentle place to rest your mind, and with regular use, it will train you to fall asleep quickly and easily, and to return to sleep if you wake in the night.
All you have to do is listen.
I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through.
Our story tonight is called The House Boat, and it's a story about a calm morning on the water and the small joys of observation.
It's also about a kettle on the stove, orange zest and sweet gum flowers, properly tied knots, and a sweet reunion, celebrated without words.
It's wild how complicated taking care of ourselves has become.
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It's become a real part of my wind -down ritual.
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I've already gifted a few to friends and family, and these would make a perfect Mother's Day present too.
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Okay. Time to snuggle in.
Maybe you've been on all day.
You can shut off now.
Nothing more is needed from you.
You're safe, and I'll be here to watch over, with my voice.
Take a slow, deep breath in through your nose, And sigh from your mouth.
One more time, breathe in.
And let it out. Good.
The houseboat. Water lapped against the bow.
The day before had been rainy and gray, but today the sky was clear.
And when I pushed back the thin cotton curtains from the windows, I could see sunlight.
sparkling on waves.
The houseboat rocked gently as I filled the kettle at the sink.
I loved this part of the morning.
Few were out yet, and besides the occasional voices of kayakers, the only sounds were the water and the birds.
I set the kettle on the stove and lit it.
Bustled around, getting my French press ready, and my cup down from the shelf.
Then I took the broom from behind the door, The scent of fresh, on -the -cusp of summer air filled my lungs, and I stood for a few Each morning, I swept the deck and checked the mooring ropes.
Today, I also needed to bring out the cushions for my little wicker love seat and chair.
I'd taken them in when the rain started the day before.
The trees beside the shore were dropping all sorts of things this time of year.
Stringy catkins from the oak tree.
Samaras from the maple.
And the soft, but spiky sweet gumflowers that like to stick in the bristles of my broom.
I was patient, sweeping from the corners out.
And just as I finished up, I heard the kettle whistle from inside.
The broom went back behind the door and I switched off the burner.
As the hot water hit the coffee grounds in my press, the smell of it rushed up toward me.
It was nutty. And earthy.
It smelled a bit caramelized.
like burnt sugar. And I smiled as I set the lid in place, and went to gather the cushions.
Back, on the now -clean deck, I plumped them up and padded them into place.
In fine weather, I spent a good bit of time out here, and I liked to arrange it for maximum comfort each day.
I had the loveseat, where I could stretch out, an ottoman to prop my feet on, and a Then a chair that was mostly meant for company, with wide arms and a deep seat.
There was another side table and a larger, low coffee table that I wiped with a rag to make the surface shine.
I had an awning that worked on a hand crank.
Right now it was drawn in to let the sun shine on the deck, but in the afternoon, I often cranked it out to shade the whole area.
It was perfect for a nap, when the day got hot.
As I put the last cushion in place, a breeze blew through the open windows of the boat.
And again, the scent of coffee hit me.
I went in to fix my cup.
A little creamer and a scrape of orange zest. A habit I'd gotten into when the winter was in full force, and I'd needed something citrusy and bright to pick me up, then had kept even after the season turned.
I took my cup out onto the deck, and watched the steam ripple up in the clear air.
I still needed to check the lines, so I left it on a side table and walked the length of She was secured bow and stern with double -braided dock lines, looped through the cleats and tied off with the proper cleat hitch. The fenders were still hanging between the hull and the dock, just brushing the edge as the boat rocked.
I tugged gently at each line, checking for slack or chafe.
One gave the springline a final glance, to make sure she wasn't drifting forward on her mooring.
All sound, all snug.
My morning routine complete, I went to enjoy my coffee and settled onto my love seat.
I propped my heels on the ottoman.
That first sip of coffee was so good.
I closed my eyes to taste it, the dark rich flavor of the roast, the creaminess and floral touch of the orange.
I sighed with contentment and held the cup close as I looked out at the water, hoping to see the swans as they started their day.
I'd been moored here for about a week, and in another day or two, would move on.
I liked seeing new places, exploring and changing my view pretty regularly.
This little village was a sweet one though.
And I thought I might make it a regular stop on my rotation.
When I'd first drifted down the river, I'd spotted a few places I wanted to take a closer look at.
And that was how I'd been spending my days.
There was a big house that had been preserved as a museum when I'd walked its pea gravel labyrinth and admired the koi fish in its pond.
There was a pretty stone bridge I'd sailed under, and when I went to visit it from above, I found it had carved finials at either end.
They'd been worn away by weather and wind, and lost the sharp lines their mason had given them.
I'd stocked up the galley pantry from a corner grocery and bought a vase of lilacs from their farmer's market.
Along the shore, I'd stopped to talk to a mudlarker who had found a glass, humming -gray insulator, the kind that used to sit atop power lines.
I'd seen them in antique stores before.
The object was a ridged, glass dome, usually clear, or shades of blue or green.
But this one was pale purple, and the mudlarker told me excitedly how rare that was.
From my houseboat, I could hear music at night, soft but clear, coming from a café in downtown.
And one morning, I'd watched a street sweeper work its way through the grid of lanes and news.
But my favorite part of my stay in this little village were the swans.
I'd been sitting on my deck on my first morning here, When I'd heard the trumpet call of one.
It sounded urgent and excited.
And I'd gotten up to take a closer look.
At the shore, a small group of people huddled around a crate.
And I could hear one reassuring the swan inside that they were about to release her, back to the lake.
She was all healed up, the person said, ready to get back to her life.
When the door swung open, she shuffled out and shook her wings cautiously, maybe testing them to see that the healed one worked as it should.
It must have, because she waddled happily to the water, and pushed off.
As she swam out from shore, she trumpeted again, and her mate finally heard her.
He came half -flying, half -paddling through the water toward her.
And when they met, they began to dance.
As if they were setting out to tango, down a long ballroom floor.
They pressed cheek to cheek, then switched their bills pointing the other way.
Back and forth they did this for several minutes, clearly a greeting, their own wordless way of saying, Thank goodness you're home.
I love you. Now as I nursed my coffee, I spotted them coasting through the water together, shaking out their wings, and bathing in the morning air.
And I hoped the next time I sailed through town, our paths would cross again.
The Houseboat. Water lapped against the bough.
The day before had been rainy and grey, but today the sky was clear, and when I pushed back, the thin cotton curtains from the windows, I could see sunlight sparkling on the waves.
The houseboat rocked gently as I filled the kettle at the sink.
I loved this part of the morning.
Few were out yet. And besides the occasional voices of kayakers, the only sounds were the water and the birds.
I set the kettle on the stove and lit it, bustled around, getting my French press ready, and my cup down from the shelf.
Then I took the broom from behind the door.
and went out onto the deck.
The scent of fresh on the cusp of summer air filled my lungs.
And I stood for a few moments just feeling the warm sun on my face and breathing deeply.
Each morning, I swept the deck, and checked the mooring ropes.
Today, I also needed to bring out the cushions for the little wicker love seat and chair.
I'd taken them in when the rain started the day before.
The trees beside the shore were dropping all sorts of things this time of year.
Stringy Catkins from the oak tree.
Samoras from the maple.
And the soft, but spiky sweet gum flowers that like to stick in the bristles of my broom.
I was patient, sweeping from the corners out.
And just as I finished up, I heard the kettle whistle from inside.
The broom went back behind the door, and I switched off the burner.
As the hot water hit the coffee grounds in my press, the smell of it rushed up toward me.
It was nutty, and earthy.
It smelled a bit caramelized, like nearly burnt sugar, and I smiled as I set the lid in place and went to gather the cushions.
Back on the now clean deck, I plumped them up and patted them into place.
In fine weather, I spend a good bit of time out here and like to arrange it for maximum comfort each day.
I had the love seat where I could stretch out.
An ottoman to prop my feet on.
And a side table for my drink.
than a chair that was mostly meant for company, with wide arms and a deep seat.
There was another side table and a larger low coffee table that I wiped with a rag to make the surface shine.
I had an awning that worked on a hand crank.
Right now it was drawn in to let the sun shine on deck.
But in the afternoon, I often cranked it out to shade the whole area.
It was perfect for a nap, when the day got hot.
As I put the last cushion in place, a breeze blew through the open windows of the boat.
And again, the scent of coffee hit me.
I went to fix my cup.
A little creamer and a scrape of orange zest. It was a habit I'd gotten into when the winter was in full force, and I'd needed something citrusy and bright to pick me up, and then headcapped even after the season turned.
I took my cup out onto the deck and watched the steam ripple up into the clear air.
I still needed to check the lines, so I left it on the side table and walked the length of the deck.
She was secured bow and stern with double braided dock lines, looped through the cleats, And tied off with a proper cleat hitch, the fenders were still hanging between the hull and the dock, just brushing the edge as the boat rocked.
I tugged gently at each line, checking for slack or chafe.
Then gave the spring line a final glance to make sure she wasn't drifting forward on her mooring.
All sound. All snug.
My morning routine complete, I went to enjoy my coffee, and settled on to my love seat, and propped my heels on the ottoman.
That first sip of coffee was so good, I closed my eyes to taste it.
The dark, rich flavor of the roast, the creaminess and floral touch of the orange.
I sighed with contentment and held the cup close as I looked out at the water, hoping to see the swans as they started their day.
I'd been moored here for about a week and in another day or two would move on.
I liked seeing new places, exploring and changing my view pretty regularly.
This little village was a sweet one though and I thought I might make it a regular stop on my rotation.
When I'd first drifted down the river, I'd spotted a few places I wanted to take a closer look at.
And that was how I'd been spending my days.
There was a big house that had been preserved as a museum, and I'd walked its pea gravel labyrinth and admired the koi fish in its pond.
There was a pretty stone bridge I'd sailed under.
And when I went to visit it from above, I found it had carved finials at either end.
They'd been worn away by weather and wind, and lost the sharp lines their mason had given them.
I'd stocked up the galley pantry from a corner grocery, and bought a vase of lilacs from their farmer's market.
Along the shore, I'd stopped to talk to a mudlarker, who had found a glass, humming gray insulator – the kind that used to sit atop power lines.
I'd seen them in antique stores before.
The object was a ridged glass dome, usually clear or shades of blue or green.
But this one was a pale purple, and the mudlarker told me excitedly how rare that was.
From my houseboat, I could hear music at night.
Soft, but clear, coming from a café in downtown.
And one morning, I'd watched a street sweeper work its way through the grid of lanes and avenues.
But my favorite part of my stay in this little village were the swans.
I'd been sitting on my deck on my first morning here, when I'd heard the trumpet call of one.
It sounded urgent, unexcited, and I'd gotten up to take a closer look.
At the shore, a small group of people huddled around a crate.
And I could hear one reassuring the swan inside that they were about to release her back to the lake.
She was all healed up, the person said.
Time to get back to her life.
When the door swung open, she shuffled out and shook her wings cautiously, maybe testing them, to see that the healed one worked as it should.
It must have, because she waddled happily to the water and pushed off.
As she swam out from shore, she trumpeted again, and her mate finally heard her.
He came half -flying, half -paddling through the water, toward her.
And when they met, they began to dance, as if they were setting out to tango down a long ballroom floor.
They pressed cheek to cheek.
Ben switched, their bills pointing the other way.
Back and forth. They did this for several minutes.
Clearly a greeting.
their own wordless way of saying, Thank goodness you're home, I love you.
Now as I nursed my coffee, I spotted them coasting through the water together, shaking out their wings and bathing in the morning air.
And I hoped the next time I sailed through town, our paths would cross again.
Sweet dreams.
