The Lake at the Inn (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.

Your mind needs a place to rest.

Without one, it will likely wander off and keep you up.

The story I'm about to tell you is like a nest to settle your mind into.

Just by listening to the sound of my voice and the simple shape of the tale,

you'll begin to train your brain to stay in the nest.

To rest and to sleep.

I'll tell the story twice, going a little slower the second time through.

If you wake in the middle of the night, try thinking your way back through any parts of the story you can remember,

or even just walking yourself through a fond memory.

We're building better sleep habits, and that takes a bit of time and patience.

But you'll notice that as you go, you'll fall asleep faster

and return to sleep more easily.

Our story tonight is called The Lake at the Inn.

And it's a story about a misty summer morning on the water.

It's also about a mug of coffee poured by a friend,

the sounds you hear when you truly stop to listen,

and a rowboat just waiting to be pushed out away from the shore.

Now,

lights out, campers,

snuggle down into your sheets and get the right pillow in the right spot

and let your whole body relax.

Whatever you have done today,

it is enough.

I am here

and I will watch over

so you can let go of even that last spoonful of alertness

and just rest.

Let's take a deep breath in through the nose

and sigh through the mouth.

Nice.

Let's do one more

in

and out.

Good.

The lake at the inn.

Mist

was thick in the trees.

It shifted slowly through the backyard,

clinging to the towels I'd forgotten on the clothesline the night before.

It made the air thick and sweet smelling,

like deep woods,

like when you're so far into the forest

that there isn't a bit of man-made anything

anywhere around you

And you breathe in the layered scents of fallen trees and grasses and hidden pools of water.

Watching the mist recede through the hedges made me want to chase it.

I thought of the lake at the end of the lane,

wondering if the fog was still thick on the surface.

I was tying the laces on my sneakers a few minutes later,

and pulling the screen door closed behind me.

Eager as a child, I raced down the drive

and onto the dirt road.

I liked the way the gravel and grit crunched under my soles.

And whenever I found a larger stone in my path, I kicked it forward,

skidding it along the surface,

hopping it over the puddles and wheel ruts.

It must have rained overnight.

I'd slept through it all, with the bedroom windows cracked open a few inches,

and the ceiling fan turning in lazy circles.

Now the grass in the fields,

the growing stalks of corn and beans,

and the caged tomato plants on the front porches of my neighbors

were all dripping wet.

And I thought of how good it feels to have a long drink of water when your throat is dry

and found myself being happy for the plants,

happy for the blades of grass and flowering fruits.

It doesn't take much to celebrate someone else's good fortune.

Just a moment's awareness outside of yourself,

and a recollection that we're all connected.

At the end of the lane,

I followed a grass path down toward the lake.

The fog was still sitting on top of the water,

and though the lake wasn't that big,

I couldn't quite make out the shore on the other side.

The sun was just starting to burn through the cloudy haze.

And I had a sudden urge to get closer to the mist

before it was gone.

I wanted to float right through the center of it,

as if I were being borne along inside a cloud.

I needed a boat.

I smiled, thinking of where I could get one.

Just across a stretch of bare grasses and scrub

was the neatly trimmed lawn of the inn.

I would go see the innkeeper.

We were childhood friends.

We'd ridden the bus back and forth to school together each day

and spent summer mornings with bad mitten rackets down by the lake,

hitting the birdie back and forth between us.

Once, dressed in our Halloween costumes,

we'd snuck away from the party on the main floor of the inn

to creep up into the attic

with shaky flashlights

jumping out from behind old trunks

and armchairs draped in sheets to scare one another.

We'd shrieked and laughed and shrieked some more

until we'd thoroughly spooked ourselves and run down the attic stairs into the light of the hall,

not stopping until we got to the library, where we could soothe our jangled nerves with candy apples

and pretend we'd never really been scared at all.

I saw her,

the innkeeper,

on the back porch of the inn.

She had a carafe of coffee in her hand

and was chatting with a guest whose table was spread with breakfast dishes.

When she looked up at me, she winked and turned toward the steps.

She stopped at a table stacked with clean plates and mugs

and rolls of silverware.

She flipped over one of the mugs

and filled it with the hot coffee.

She set the carafe down and carried the mug down the steps

and across the lawn to meet me, where I was leaning one shoulder against the boathouse.

I reached out for the coffee and wrapped my hands around the thick ceramic mug.

It had the name and logo of the inn printed in faded dark blue.

And I thought that probably everyone in our village had at least one of these mugs in their cupboard.

They gave them away to guests,

sold them in the little shop in the front office.

But I doubted that was how most of us got our hands on them.

More likely, it was just like this moment now.

The innkeeper spotted you kneading a cup of coffee, and she handed one over.

And at some point, you'd realized you'd come home with it.

She turned toward the water,

leaned her own back against the boathouse,

and pointed to a bevy of swans at the edge of the water.

The parents had long, regal necks and sharp eyes that scanned back and forth

as their grey, fluffy signets

clumsily dunked and played in the lake.

The innkeeper laughed, watching them, and asked,

Did you want to take a rowboat out?

Are you

chasing the mist to day?

She always saw right through me.

I nodded smilingly behind my mug.

If you've got one to spare,

I said in my best la-di-da voice.

She gestured to the half-dozen or so boats pulled up on the shore and told me to take my pick.

She bumped one elbow against mine and turned to get back to the breakfast crowd.

I stood watching the swans,

finishing my coffee,

and breathing in the good smell of the lake for a moment.

And I set my mug in the grass beside the edge of the water,

and picked my way carefully around the swans to the boats.

From the random facts file in my brain, I retrieved the memory that male swans are called cobs

and females called pens

and wondered who had come up with such words, and then who had gone along with it.

The rowboats were old,

the varnished wood smelling sweet and dusty even in the open air, and each with the name of a tree stenciled on the bow.

I'd been out on all of them in my time

the horn beam, the catalpa,

the pawpaw,

the hawthorn.

But my favorite, and the last one in the row at the water, was the sycamore.

I left my shoes at the shore and stepped into the shallow water where minnows were swimming in tiny streams.

The water was cool from the rain overnight

and clear straight to the bottom.

With slow, wobbly movements,

I inched my way into the seat well

and used the oars to push from the land.

My back was turned to the center of the lake,

where the mist was still floating, though beginning to fade

in the increasing sunlight.

And as I pulled on the oars, I watched the inn and the people on the porch shrinking away.

Sound on water echoes

So many times as a kid on the shore

I'd heard early morning boaters conversing from the other side of the lake,

as if I'd been on board with them.

And as I made my way into the mist,

I pulled in my oars

and opened my ears.

I listened for the water lapping against the side of the boat,

for the call of water birds overhead,

and for insects buzzing in the air or skittering across the lake's surface.

Though I had headed for the thickest pockets of fog, as soon as I entered one,

it seemed to disappear,

to shift around me.

While I couldn't seem to sit right in the cloud,

I could see it circled far out around me.

I stayed, not rowing,

just letting the boat turn and drift as she would.

I watched the sun come out in full and the last bit of mist dissolve in the warm light.

I looked to shore,

saw guests at the inn,

with towels slung over their shoulders, coming down to the beach.

I thought of my shoes and the coffee mug in the grass,

and decided it was time to take the sycamore back in

and see if the innkeeper was up for a game of badminton.

The lake at the inn.

Mist was thick in the trees.

It shifted slowly through the back yard,

clinging to the towels

I'd forgotten on the clothes line the night before.

It made the air thick

and sweet smelling,

like deep woods,

like when you're so far into the forest

that there isn't a bit of man-made anything

anywhere around,

and you breathe in the layered scents of fallen trees

and grasses

and hidden pools of water.

Watching the mist recede through the hedges

made me want to chase it.

I thought suddenly of the lake at the end of the lane,

wondering if the fog was still thick on the surface.

I was tying the laces on my sneakers a few moments later,

and pulling the screen door closed behind me.

Eager as a child,

I raced down the drive and on to the dirt road.

I liked the way the gravel and grit

crunched under my soles.

And whenever I found a larger stone in my path,

I kicked it forward,

skidding it along the surface,

hopping it over the puddles in wheel ruts.

It must have rained overnight.

I'd slept through it all,

with the bedroom windows cracked open a few inches,

and the ceiling fan turning in lazy circles.

Now

the grass in the fields,

the growing stalks of corn and beans,

and the caged tomato plants on the front porches of my neighbors

were all dripping wet.

And I thought of how good it feels

to have a long drink of water

when your throat is dry.

And I found myself being happy for the plants,

happy for the blades of grass

and flowering fruits.

It doesn't take much

to celebrate someone else's good fortune.

just a moment's awareness outside of yourself

and a recollection that we're all connected

at the end of the lane

I followed a grass path

down toward the lake

The fog was still sitting on top of the water,

and though the lake wasn't that big,

I couldn't quite make out the shore

on the other side.

The sun was just starting to burn through the cloudy haze,

and I had a sudden urge to get closer to the mist

before it was gone.

I wanted to float right through the center of it,

as if I were being

borne along

inside a cloud.

I needed a boat.

I smiled,

thinking of where I could get one.

Just across a stretch of bare grasses and scrub

was the neatly trimmed lawn of the inn.

I would go see the innkeeper.

We were childhood friends.

We'd ridden the bus back and forth to school together each day

and spent summer mornings

with badminton rackets

down by the lake,

hitting the birdie back and forth between us.

Once,

dressed in our Halloween costumes,

we'd snuck away from the party on the main floor of the inn

to creep up into the attic

with shaky flashlights,

jumping out from behind old trunks and armchairs draped in sheets to scare one another.

We'd shrieked and laughed

and shrieked some more

until we'd thoroughly spooked ourselves

and run down the attic stairs into the light of the hall,

not stopping until we got to the library,

where we could soothe our jangled nerves with candy apples

and pretend we'd never really been scared at all.

I saw her,

the innkeeper,

on the back porch of the inn.

She had a carafe of coffee in her hand

and was chatting with a guest whose table was spread with breakfast dishes.

When she looked up at me, she winked

and turned toward the steps.

She stopped at a table stacked with clean plates and mugs and rolls of silverware.

She flipped over one of the mugs

and filled it with the hot coffee.

She set the carafe down

and carried the mug down the steps and across the lawn

to meet me

where I was leaning one shoulder against the boathouse.

I reached out for the coffee

and wrapped my hands around the thick thick ceramic mug.

It had the name and the logo of the inn,

printed in faded dark blue.

It had the name and logo of the inn

printed in faded dark blue.

And I thought that probably

everyone in village

had at least one of these mugs in their cupboard.

They gave them away to guests,

sold them in the little shop in the front office.

But I doubted that was how most of us got our hands on them.

More likely,

it was just like this moment now.

The innkeeper spotted you, needing a cup of coffee,

and she handed one over.

And at some point,

you'd realize

you'd come home with it.

She turned toward the water,

leaning her own back against the boathouse,

and pointed to a bevy of swans at the edge of the water.

The parents had long, regal necks,

and sharp eyes that scanned back and forth

as their grey, fluffy signets

clumsily clumsily dunked and played in the lake.

The innkeeper laughed, watching them,

then asked,

Did you want to take a rowboat out?

Are you chasing the mist to-day?

She always saw right through me.

I nodded, smilingly behind my mug.

If you've got one to spare,

I said in my best la di-da voice.

She gestured to the half-dozen or so boats pulled up on the shore

and told me to take my pick.

She bumped an elbow against mine

and turned to get back to the breakfast crowd.

I stood

watching the swans,

finishing my coffee

and breathing in the good smell of the lake for a moment.

I set my mug in the grass beside the edge of the water,

and picked my way carefully

around the swans to the boats.

From the random facts file in my brain,

I retrieved the memory

that male swans are called cobs,

and females called pens,

and wondered who had come up with such words,

and then who had gone along with it.

The rowboats were old,

the varnished woods smelling sweet and dusty even in the open air,

and each with the name of a tree stenciled on its bow.

I'd been out on all of them in my time:

the horn beam,

the catalpa,

the pawpaw, the hawthorn.

But my favorite, and the last one in the row at the water,

was the sycamore.

I left my shoes at the shore

and stepped into the shallow water

where minnows were swimming in tiny streams.

The water was cool from the rain overnight

and clear straight to the bottom.

With slow, wobbly movements,

I inched my way into the seat well

and used the oars to push back from the land.

My back was turned to the center of the lake,

where the mist was still floating,

though beginning to fade

in the increasing sunlight

And as I pulled on the oars

I watched the inn

and the people on the porch shrinking away

Sound on water echoes

So many times as a kid on the shore

I'd heard early morning boaters

conversing from the other side of the lake,

as if I'd been on board with them.

And as I made my way into the mist,

I pulled in my oars

and opened my ears.

I listened for the water lapping against the side of the boat,

for the call of water birds overhead,

and for insects buzzing in the air

or skittering across the lake's surface.

Though I had headed for the thickest pockets of fog,

as soon as I entered one,

it seemed to disappear,

to shift around me.

And while I couldn't seem to sit right in the cloud,

I could see it circled on all sides.

I stayed,

not rowing,

just letting the boat turn and drift as she would.

I watched the sun come out in full

and the last bit of mist dissolve in the warm light.

I looked to shore,

saw guests at the inn,

with towels slung over their shoulders,

coming down to the beach.

I thought of my shoes and the coffee mug in the grass,

and decided it was time to take the sycamore back in

and see if the innkeeper

was up for a game of badminton.

Sweet dreams.