Heirloom (Encore)

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Welcome to bedtime stories for everyone

in which

nothing much happens.

You feel good

and then

you fall asleep.

I'm Catherine Nikolai.

I write and read all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens.

Audio Engineering is by Bob Wittersheim.

We are bringing you an encore episode tonight, meaning that this story originally aired at some point in the past.

It could have been recorded with different equipment in a different location.

And since I'm a person and not a computer, I sometimes sound just slightly different.

But the stories are always soothing and family friendly.

And our wishes for you are always deep rest and sweet dreams.

Now,

since every story is someone's first,

I'd like to say a little about how this works.

A busy brain will keep you up.

I'm sure you know the feeling.

But not having anything for your brain to focus on can actually make it spiral faster.

So I have a story that is simple and full of good feeling and cozy details.

You rest your mind on it just by listening

and before you know it you'll be out like a light.

I'll tell the story twice

and I'll go a little slower the second time through.

If you wake later in the night, you can just start the story over again

or think back through any part of it that you can remember.

This is brain training, and the effects will improve with use.

Our story tonight is called Heirloom,

and it's a story about a garden in the middle of the summer.

It's also about things handed down through generations,

Making and keeping friends of all ages.

And a stack of farmers' almanacs in the quiet corner of a shed.

Now,

get as comfortable as you can.

Snuggle deep into your sheets

and let your whole body relax.

Whatever you got done today,

it was enough.

Now nothing remains but rest.

Breathe in through your nose

and sigh through your mouth

one more all the way in

and out.

Good.

Heirloom.

This was our fourth summer at the allotment

in our little patch at the community garden

where we had learned to make things grow.

In fact, we now had twice the space we'd started with.

The family that gardened in the plot next to ours had gotten too busy as their sons grew

to keep up with growing plants as well.

And we'd taken over their beds.

A couple of times each summer, though,

They'd all come by and lend a hand with planting or weeding or harvesting

and we'd have a picnic together under the trees like old times

the boys would sit with us and catch us up on life in their world

middle school and piano lessons and soccer camp.

Something I have come to value as I've gotten older

is having more people in my life who are younger than me

and who are older than me.

Hearing their stories,

telling them mine.

Watching them move through landmark years.

Well,

I need it.

Not just for the context it gave me in my own experience, but

because I suspect we all need that sort of

fullness of family.

The different textures in our fellows to appreciate and wonder at

and attempt to love.

Now that I thought of it, the allotment was a sort of

extended family.

Children and adults and older folks.

A common goal.

Shared wisdom and effort

and some rain and some sun.

This year there had been more sun than rain.

And that might seem like a good thing

if you are, say, planning a trip to the beach.

But when you are trying to grow potatoes, which we still were after several somewhat unsuccessful seasons,

it can make each dry day worrisome.

I'd complained to another farmer about our spuds, thirsty and finicky in the arid dirt.

She'd patted me kindly on the back in sympathy, and reminded me that the domestication of the potato had taken around 8,000 years.

So if it took me more than a few summers to sort them out,

well,

that tracked.

We did water as much as we could.

The allotment had a rain collection system,

and each plot got a bit of what was left for as long as it lasted.

And we mulched and planted lots of local plants to shade the soil.

But mostly we crossed our fingers and hoped for rain.

The forecast for today

was promising.

And when I woke and stepped outside,

I could smell it off in the distance.

The sky had been cloudy and slightly gray all day.

And while the heat hadn't broken yet,

I could just tell that it wanted to.

I'd said as much to another gardener when I'd gotten to the plot

and added that

it might just be wishful thinking.

thinking.

He'd said wishful thinking was a key ingredient for gardening

that none of us would be here without it.

So I took my optimism and tromped over to our garden.

I started with my usual survey,

walking through the rows

and pulling weeds

noting what was ripening

what was close to going to seed

this year I had planted a few heirloom varieties of our favorite vegetables

look

Sometimes there are good reasons as to why plants are different now

from how they were for our distant relatives.

Those potatoes, for example,

had been bitter

and nearly inedible

for most of those thousands of years.

In fact, Every time I had a plate of french fries

or a big baked potato for dinner, dinner.

I paused to thank those cultivators of yore

for their persistence.

After so many generations of work on the plant,

they must have at least considered throwing in the towel.

And I was glad they hadn't.

Other times, though, plants were bred for

how they looked rather than how they tasted.

And the flavors that had been savored and loved by our ancestors

were lost in the modern iterations.

And the idea that

I could taste something

that had been missing for generations drove me to plant

as many heirlooms as I could this summer.

Another reason to plant heirloom vegetables

is that,

without exception, they have fantastic names.

And I said them aloud as I walked through the garden.

Black valentine beans

still thriving on the bush.

The green tops of the scarlet Nance carrots were still a bit sparse,

and I hoped we'd be able to pick some in a few more weeks.

I'd gone a little overboard with the lettuces,

which we'd planted in two-week shifts to be able to harvest continually.

We had May Queen

and Little Gem

and Paris white coes

and black-seeded Simpson to choose from.

Green arrow peas, bullnose peppers,

Easter basket radishes,

Vero Flay spinach,

and three different vines of watermelon called Moon and Stars,

Blacktail Mountain,

and Cream of Saskatchewan.

I checked their leaves, plucking away any dead bits

and patting them firmly on their rinds.

I figured they liked to know someone was there watching over them.

I'd heard that fiddle figs that live indoors

sometimes grow trunks

too skinny and insubstantial

because they aren't out in the wind,

which stimulates them to grow.

So you should give your fig a good shake now and then

I hoped that padding watermelon rinds would work the same way.

Just as I was beginning to fret

about the dry, cracked soil under my feet,

I felt a sudden, cooler breeze cutting through the garden.

I'd been lost in thought

and hadn't noticed the dark clouds rolling in.

I realized that rain was just moments away.

We had a shared shed at the edge of the lots

with chairs under an awning

and a coffee pot.

and old copies of the farmer's almanac going back for decades

and I knew it would be the perfect spot to watch the rain soak into our plants.

But

before I took off for it in my garden clogs,

I just breathed in the smell of the water in the air

and let the first few drops fall on my bare arms and face.

I thought of how green and healthy

everything would be tomorrow.

How the vegetables would look like they'd all finally gotten a good night's sleep.

And I sighed,

as I imagine gardeners have

for millennia

as the rain came down.

Heirloom.

This was our fourth summer

at the allotment

in our little patch

at the community garden

where we had learned how to make things grow.

In fact,

we now had twice the space we'd started with.

The family that gardened in the plot next to ours

had gotten too busy as their sons grew

to keep up with growing plants as well.

And we'd taken taken over their beds.

A couple of times each summer, though,

they'd all come by and lend a hand with planting

or weeding or harvesting.

And we'd have a picnic together under the trees, like old times.

The boys would sit with us

and catch us up on life in their world.

Middle school and piano lessons

and soccer camp.

Something I have come to value as I've gotten older

is having more people in my life

who are younger than me

and more who are older than me,

hearing their stories,

telling them mine,

watching them move through

landmark years.

Well,

I need it,

not just for the context it gave me in my own experience,

but because I suspect

we all need that sort of

fullness of family,

different textures in our fellows to appreciate

and wonder at

and attempt to love.

Now that I thought of it,

the allotment

was

a sort of extended family.

Children and adults and older folks.

A common goal.

Shared wisdom.

An effort.

Some rain and some sun.

This year there had been

more sun than rain.

And that might seem like a good thing

if you are, say,

planning a trip to the beach.

But when you are trying to grow potatoes,

which we still were

after several somewhat unsuccessful seasons.

It can make each dry day worrisome.

I'd complained to another farmer about our spuds,

thirsty and finicky

in the arid dirt.

She'd patted me kindly on the back in sympathy and reminded me that

the domestication of the potato had taken around 8,000 years.

So

if it took me more than a few summers to sort them out,

well,

that tracked.

We did water

as much as we could.

The allotment had a rain collection system,

and each plot got a bit of what was left

for as long as it lasted.

And we mulched

and planted lots of local plants to shade the soil.

But mostly we crossed our fingers

and hoped for rain.

The forecast for today

was promising.

And when I woke and stepped outside,

I could smell it

off in the distance.

The sky had been cloudy and slightly gray all day

And while the heat hadn't broken yet,

I could just tell

that it wanted to.

I'd said as much to another gardener when I'd gotten to the plot,

and added that it might just be wishful thinking.

He'd said wishful thinking was a key ingredient for gardening.

That none of us would be here without it.

So I took my optimism

and tromped over to our plot.

I started with my usual survey,

walking through the rows

and pulling weeds,

noting what was ripening,

what was close to going to seed.

This year I had planted a few heirloom varieties of our favorite vegetable.

Sometimes there are good reasons as to why

plants today

are different

from how they were for our distant relatives.

Those potatoes, for example,

had been bitter

and nearly inedible

for most of those thousands of years.

In fact,

every time I had a plate of french fries

or a big baked potato for dinner,

I paused to thank those

cultivators of yore for their persistence.

After so many generations of work on the plant,

they must have at least considered throwing in the towel.

And I was grateful that they hadn't.

Other times, though, plants had been bred

for how they looked

rather than how they tasted,

and the flavors that had been savored

and loved by our ancestors

were lost in the modern iterations.

And the idea that

I could taste something

that had been missing for generations,

it drove me to plant as many heirlooms as I could this summer.

Another reason to plant heirloom vegetables

is that,

without exception,

they have fantastic names.

And I said them aloud

as I walked through the garden.

Black valentine beans

still thriving on the bush.

The green tops of the scarlet Nance carrots

were still a bit sparse

and I hoped

we'd be able to pick some in a few more weeks.

I'd gone a little overboard with the lettuces,

which we planted in two week shifts

to be able to harvest continually.

We had May Queen

and Little Gem

and Paris white coes

and black seeded Simpson to choose from.

green arrow peas,

bull-nose peppers,

Easter basket radishes,

Viro Flay spinach,

and three different vines of watermelon

called Moon and Stars,

Black Tail Mountain,

and Cream of Saskatchewan.

I checked their leaves, plucking away any dead bits

and patting them firmly on their rinds.

I figured

they liked to know

someone was there, watching over them.

I'd heard that fiddle figs that live indoors

sometimes grow trunks that are

too skinny and insubstantial

because they aren't out in the wind,

which

stimulates them to grow.

So you should give your fig

a good shake now and then.

I hoped that patting my watermelon rinds would work the same.

Just as I was beginning to fret

about the dry,

cracked soil under my feet,

I felt a sudden cooler breeze cutting through the garden.

I'd been lost in thought

and hadn't noticed the dark clouds rolling in.

I realized that rain

was moments away.

We had a shared shed

at the edge of the lots

with chairs under an awning

and a coffee pot

and old copies of the farmer's almanac

going back for decades

and I knew it would be the perfect spot

to watch the rain

soak into our plants

But before I took off for it in my garden clogs,

I just breathed in the smell of the water in the air

and let drops fall

on my bare arms and face.

I thought of how green and healthy

everything would be tomorrow,

how the vegetables would look like

they'd all finally gotten a good night's sleep

And I sighed

As I imagine

gardeners have

for millennia

As the rain came down

Sweet dreams