At the Tower Mill (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,

I have a story to tell you.

And the story is simple,

without much action,

but full of relaxing detail.

Our minds race.

You know this.

And the story is a way to move your mind off the expressway

and onto an exit ramp toward a serene resting spot.

I'll tell the story twice.

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

If you wake in the night, don't worry.

Just take yourself back through any of the details of the story that you can remember or turn the episode right back on.

You'll drop off again almost instantly.

Now,

it's time to turn the light off

and set aside anything you've been working on or looking at.

Adjust your pillows and pull your blanket up over your shoulder.

All of this preparation you are doing before you close your eyes

is setting you up for an excellent night's sleep.

And sometimes

it even helps to say to yourself,

I'm about to fall asleep

and I'll sleep sound all night.

Take a deep breath in through your nose

and let it out with a sigh.

Nice.

Do it again.

Breathe in

and out.

Good.

Our story tonight is called At the Tower Mill.

And it's a story about the sails of a windmill

turning in the spring breeze.

It's also about a warm morning and breakfast in the open air,

cherry trees, carved furstone,

and the things that bring neighbors together.

at the Tower Mill

Some mills run on water

A giant wheel turned by the flow of a river

And those have their own kind of magic

Watching the wheel turn

Especially if you have seen one start

from a stopped position.

It's a delight.

A sluice gate is lifted somewhere on higher ground.

And water comes rushing down a canal

to fill the bucket sections along the diameter of the wheel.

Once three or four are full,

the weight of the water

pulls the wheel forward

and it begins to turn

until it is spinning powerfully

and driving a mechanical process

that might be milling your flour

or making pulp for your paper

It is ingenious engineering

A marvel

considering it's thousands of years old

Yes, I have a soft spot for water mills

But watch a windmill

on a breezy day

And and see if you don't get carried away in a daydream.

Ours is out on a high stretch of newly green grass,

catching the spring wind and its long sails.

Ours is old,

hundreds of years old,

and still in solid working order.

Most every morning,

now that the snow has melted,

I walk out to check on her.

And today is no different.

It was bright

and truly warm today.

Not the kind of warm that is only warm if you stand in the sun and out of of the wind.

No, it was

just actually warm.

So I'd drunk my coffee

and eaten my cinnamon raisin toast spread with peanut butter out on the back porch.

The birds were singing arias

all around the old farmhouse

and hopping in the flower beds,

finding twigs and dried stems to make into nests.

Those first few mornings of the spring

when I can breakfast in the out of doors again.

I always think

I'll never miss another chance to do so.

The fresh air makes the coffee taste so much better.

The food satisfies in a different way.

And I am inspired to move,

to get out into the gardens or up to the mill,

or just

out into the world

with some enthusiasm

that I didn't have

when the snow was falling.

So, after that last sip of coffee,

I brushed the crumbs from my fingertips

and got ready for a trip to the mill.

I could see it from the porch, far out in the field.

On a good day,

it was only a ten-minute walk,

but I needed a few things to make the trek first.

In the back hall of the house, I pulled on my Wellington boots,

guessing that the path to the mill would still be a little muddy.

I buttoned up a sweater,

as the breeze in the field was often stronger than here at the house, and set out.

I trekked out past the gardens,

the birds singing around me.

As I wandered past the fruit trees and compost pile,

I found myself drawing deep, deep breaths,

storing the fresh green scents deep in my cells.

The path had been well worn

long before we were the keepers of the mill,

and I followed it around a grove of oaks

and up a gentle rise.

From there, it ran like a lane

between rows of cherry trees.

And I'd always had a feeling when walking through

this particular section of the path

that carts and buggies must have used it long ago.

I wondered how different the view was as they crested the hill.

Probably

not that different from mine.

The mill had been here then, too.

It was a tower mill,

meaning that the construction of stone and mortar at the bottom

and red brick at the top

made a tall tower where the sails could turn.

There was a door on the ground floor

and a few windows

that we'd added window boxes to.

I'd plant some flowers in them in the next few weeks.

Pansies, maybe, or geraniums, if I thought the frosts were really over.

I pushed through the door

and took in the room around me.

The daylight was cutting through the windows,

lighting up the small circular space.

Stone stairs curled around the perimeter,

rising up to to the second and third floor.

There were a few workbenches and tools to repair the works as needed.

But the majority of the space

was taken up by the giant millstone

and the gears that turned it.

The stone

was actually two stones,

one that was stationary,

and the other that turned to grind the grain.

Carved from burr stone,

they were giant and powerful,

and had made countless bags of flour over the years.

The scent of ground grain lingered,

along with the warm smell of old wood.

When we moved into the farm,

we found the mill had been a bit neglected.

Nothing that couldn't be repaired,

but some work to set it all back to rights was needed.

We called on some of our neighbors, asking for help.

And in return, the mill would be open to all of them to grind their wheat into flour.

And they came out to help.

Many who'd never grown wheat before

began to plant some

just to learn more about the process.

to be able to have their own bags of flour to keep in the pantry.

It took a year or two to get all the kinks worked out,

but now it ran pretty smoothly.

We'd even had a few visits from school groups,

kids coming to walk the long path

and watch the millstones turn,

and eat cookies made with the flower.

We figured we were just continuing the legacy

of this old building,

which had undoubtedly fed neighbors all over the county

when it was in its first bloom.

I climbed the stairs up into the second floor,

where a giant funnel held the grain during grinding time.

I kept going all the way up to the top.

We had a chain hoist system

to draw the bags of weed up

to be poured into the chutes.

I looked out the window on the top floor.

The thirty-foot sails were turning in front of me,

and I could see the house

and the spot on the porch where I'd eaten my breakfast this morning.

I liked this part of the season,

the start of something new.

I was sure we'd meet new neighbors, welcome new classes of schoolchildren,

and try new recipes with our homegrown ingredients.

At the Tower Mill,

some mills run on water,

a giant wheel turned by by the flow of a river.

And those have their own kind of magic.

Watching the wheel turn,

especially if you have seen one start

from a stopped position

as a delight.

A sluice gate is lifted

somewhere on higher ground

and water comes rushing down a canal

to fill the bucket sections along the diameter of the wheel.

Once three or four are full,

the weight of the water pulls the wheel forward

and it begins to turn

until it is spinning powerfully

and driving a mechanical process.

That might be milling your flour

or making pulp for your paper.

It is ingenious engineering,

a marvel considering it's thousands of years old.

Yes, I have a soft spot for watermills.

But watch a windmill

on a breezy day

and see if you don't get carried away

in a daydream.

Ours is out on a high stretch of newly green grass,

catching the spring wind and its long sails.

Ours is old,

hundreds of years old,

and still

in solid working order.

Most every morning,

now that the snow has melted,

I walk out to check on her.

And today is no different.

It was bright and truly warm today.

Not the kind of warm that

is only warm if you stand in the sun and out of the wind.

No, it was

just actually

warm.

So I'd drunk my coffee

and eaten my cinnamon raisin toast spread with peanut butter

out on the back porch.

The birds were singing arias

all around the old farmhouse

and hopping in the flower beds,

finding twigs

and dried stems to make into nests.

Those first few mornings of the spring

when I can breakfast in the out of doors again.

I always think

I'll never miss another chance to do so.

The fresh air makes the coffee taste so much better.

The food satisfies in a different way.

And I am inspired to move.

To get out into the gardens,

or up to the mill,

or just out

into the world,

with an enthusiasm that I just didn't have

when the snow was falling.

So after that last sip of coffee,

I brushed the crumbs from my fingertips

and got ready for a trip to the mill.

I could see it from the porch,

far out in the field.

On a good day, it was only a ten-minute walk away.

But I needed a few things to make the trek first.

In the back hall of the house,

I pulled on my Willington boots,

guessing that the path to the mill

would still be a little muddy.

I buttoned up a sweater,

as the breeze in the field

was often stronger than here at the house,

and set out.

I trekked out past the gardens,

the birds singing around me as I wandered past the fruit trees and compost pile.

I found myself drawing deep,

deep breaths,

storing the fresh green scents

deep in my cells.

The path had been

well worn

long before we were the keepers of the mill.

And I followed it around a grove of oaks

and up a gentle rise.

From there

it ran like a lane

between rows of cherry trees for a hundred yards on either side.

And I'd always had a feeling

when walking through

this particular section of the path

that carts and buggies must have used it long ago.

I wondered how different the view was

as they'd crested the hill.

Probably not that different from mine.

The mill had been here then too.

It was a tower mill.

Meaning that the construction of stone and mortar at the bottom

and red brick at the top

made a tall tower where the sails could turn.

There was a door on the ground floor

and a few windows that we'd added window boxes to.

I'd plant some flowers in them in the next week.

Pansies maybe,

or geraniums,

if I thought the frosts were really over.

I pushed through the door and took in the room around me.

The daylight was cutting through the windows,

lighting up the small circular space.

Stone stairs curled around the perimeter,

rising up to the second and third floor.

There were a few workbenches and tools to repair the works as needed.

But the majority of the space

was taken up by the giant millstone

and the gears that turned it.

The stone

was actually two stones,

one that was stationary

and the other that turned to grind the grain.

Carved from burr stone,

They were giant

and powerful

and had made countless bags of flour over the years.

The scent of ground grain lingered,

along with the warm smell of old wood.

When we'd moved into the farm,

we found the mill had been a bit neglected.

Nothing that

couldn't be repaired.

But some work

to set it all back to rights was needed.

We called on some of our neighbors, asking for help.

And in return,

the mill would be open to all of them

to grind their wheat into flour.

And they came out to help.

Many who'd never grown wheat before

began to plant some

just to get to learn more

about the process.

To be able to have their own bags of flour

to keep in the pantry.

It took a year or two

to get all the kinks worked out.

But now

it ran pretty smoothly.

We'd even had a few visits from school groups,

kids coming to walk the long path

and watch the millstones turn

and eat cookies made with the flower.

We figured we were just continuing

the legacy of

this old building,

which had undoubtedly fed neighbors all over the county

when it was in its first bloom.

I climbed the stairs up into the second floor

where a giant funnel held the grain during grinding time

and kept going

all the way up to the top.

We had a chain hoist system

to draw the bags of wheat up here to be poured into the chutes.

I looked out the window on the top floor.

The thirty-foot sails were turning in front of me,

and I could see the house and the spot on the porch

where I'd eaten my breakfast this morning.

I liked this part of the new season.

The start of something new.

I was sure

we'd meet new neighbors,

welcome new classes of school children,

and try new recipes

with our homegrown ingredients.

sweet dreams.