The Houseboat
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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'll hear on Nothing Much Happens
with Audio Engineering by Bob Wittersheim.
We give to a different charity each week, and this week we are giving to AdoptiPet of Fenton, Michigan.
Adopt-i-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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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
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.
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Okay,
time to snuggle in.
Maybe you've been on all day,
or 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
and went out onto the deck.
The scent of fresh
on-the-cusp of summer air 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 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 gum flowers
that liked 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 love seat where I could stretch out
an ottoman to prop my feet on
and a side table for my drink
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 the deck.
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,
and 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 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,
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 hemming 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 cafe 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 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 bow.
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
Samaras 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
when 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 padded 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,
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 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 had kept
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 a 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, for 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 onto 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 farmers' market.
Along the shore,
I'd stopped to talk to a mudlarker
who had found a glass hemming 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 cafe 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 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.
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
and switched,
their bills pointing the other way.
Back and forth,
they did this for several minutes,
clearly agreeding
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.