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.

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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.

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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 to day 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 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 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 on to the deck

and 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 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

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 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 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 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 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,

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 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 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 Heming 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

where 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 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 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.