Autumn at the Inn, Part 2

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Welcome to bedtime stories for everyone

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

Our story tonight is called Autumn at the Inn, Part 2

and it's the second

in this series.

So you don't need to go back and listen to part one,

if,

I don't know, you might have slept through it.

Nothing much happened in it.

This is a story about a train ride through changing fields, an old station wagon packed full of pies,

a sketch of the moon on the pages of a journal, wind

and waves, and a week full of adventure ahead.

Now

snuggle down into your sheets and get as comfortable as you can.

The day is done.

It was what it was

and now it is over.

I'll be here reading and watching over

even after you've fallen asleep.

draw a deep breath in through your nose

and out through the mouth.

Nice.

One more inhale.

Let it go.

Good.

Autumn at the inn.

Part two

On the journey, I'd filled several pages of my journal.

I wrote about the land flying past the train window,

green and yellow fields of sunflowers,

and rolling farmland,

freshly plowed and dotted with haystacks.

I rode about a bevy of deer

sitting calmly under a weeping willow

As the wind of the passing train

Tossed drying leaves down on top of them

And I rode about the lady

who pushed the drinks cart

up and down the aisle,

who'd had a story to tell

at nearly every stop we made.

Did I know she'd been a pageant winner in her day?

I chuckled as she poured my coffee and said I didn't,

but I'd love to hear about it.

It had been long before

she'd sold encyclopedias door to door, but after she'd been mayor of that small town we'd passed

as we crossed the Trestle Bridge over the river.

I wondered if she wrote a whole new biography

each time she boarded and stocked her cart.

And if I rode long enough,

if I could become

her archivist,

tracking all the tales

and noting how they criss-crossed,

like the routes of the trains themselves.

Sometimes I rode about myself,

little

thoughts that didn't necessarily go anywhere, but felt good to express.

Bigger thoughts

that had been waiting for me

to have the time to look them in the eye.

I had a feeling that was behind the general wanderlust

that had spurred me to book a ticket

and a room at the inn.

I'd been spinning my wheels

and needed a way to help them grab the earth again

and propel me forward.

That and desperately craving a fresh apple cider

and a walk in the spicy air

under changing leaves on the harvest moon.

I'd been sketching that moon

onto the pages of my journal,

not noticing that the train was slowing

when my friend at the drinks cart

leaned in to tap me on the shoulder.

Your stop is next, dear.

Don't miss it.

Oh, I'd spluttered.

Um thanks.

I closed the book,

snapping the elastic closure into place,

and hurriedly pulled down my suitcase from the luggage rack.

I'd bought myself a new jacket for this trip

with a soft flannel lining

and a hood in case it rained.

I slid it on and zipped it up tight.

By the time the train chugged to a stop and the doors hissed open,

I was standing ready behind them,

ready for my autumn adventure.

I must have overpacked a bit

too many pumpkin orange sweaters and thick socks

because I could barely shift my suitcase down the first step.

A porter stepped over from the platform

grabbing it down in one hand

and helping me out with the other.

Oh

how much it means when someone is kind to you,

when someone helps you when you are traveling, when you are somewhere you have never been before.

He must have read it on my face

because after he waved off my thanks,

he asked if I needed help,

if I had a ride waiting for me.

I told him I was headed to the inn,

and that they'd said they would send someone to pick me up.

Did he know where their shuttle would be parked?

He smiled a bit as he nodded and guided me down the platform

to point the open, high-ceiling station to the street beyond.

Not really a shuttle.

We take turns, whoever is going out that way.

And today,

I'd say you hit the jackpot.

Look for a station wagon and a lady in an apron.

Wouldn't be surprised if she's got a good bit of flour on her.

I turned to look in the direction he pointed,

not sure I'd understood.

But when I turned back to him,

he was already down the platform,

lifting another case from the train.

Well,

it was supposed to be an adventure, wasn't it?

On the street, just like he'd said, I found a station wagon, an old one with those faux wooden panels on the sides, and vinyl bench seats in the front and back.

Standing at the open tailgate,

shifting cases and crates,

was, indeed, a woman in an apron

she smiled as I came around the car to her

and shook my hand in a friendly and yes flowery way

she looked down at my lone suitcase and said

oh good

I can fit that in the back seat

I thought I'd have to stack the pies and

I don't know how much you know about pies.

She lifted the lower gate, and it locked into place.

But they really shouldn't be stacked.

Of course not, I said.

It could crush the crust.

And that's the best part.

You get it, she nodded, and helped me load my case into the back seat.

Once we were buckled in,

she started up the old car

and we began to trundle down

what I guessed was the main street

of this little village.

There was an open bakery box on the seat between us,

and she insisted I help myself to a cookie.

I'd been craving

oatmeal raisin for ages,

and the box was full of them.

But they weren't just plain cookies.

They were sandwiched together around a generous spread of vanilla cream,

like a stepped-up version of the kind I'd eaten from a cellophane package after school as a kid.

They were absolutely delicious.

And for a few blocks, I was lost to anything but the flavor

and aroma of the treats.

The baker asked a few questions.

Was it my first time here?

How long was I staying?

And did I prefer apple crisp or apple turnovers?

I answered in order.

Yes, it was my first time,

a week or so,

and that I hoped I never had to make such a difficult decision.

She pointed out a few places I might want to visit while I was here.

Her bakery, of course.

A cafe

with outdoor tables grouped around standing heaters

that glowed orangey red in the cool air.

A stationery shop, if I filled up my journal

and needed a new one.

I need a new one no matter how many I have, I told her.

There was a bookshop, with a cozy reading nook,

built right into the front window,

and a park, with a newspaper kiosk at its entrance.

The farmer's market was bustling with shoppers and stalls,

and I could see that they had a whole section just for mums.

As we wound our way out of town,

I asked her what was taking her to the inn to-day.

She smiled and said

she was delivering all those pies for the exhibit,

and then helping chef with a round of pickled Brussels sprouts.

Now I was the one with the questions.

Exhibit?

Chef?

And most importantly, pickles?

We turned down the long drive to the inn,

just as I was voicing all of these.

But rather than answer,

she pointed past the beautiful old home where I would be spending the next week

to the sliver of lake

visible through the trees.

She began to crank her window down and I followed suit.

Fresh lake air rushed in

and I closed my eyes

letting it wash over me

I could hear wind high in the trees

and waves on the surface of the water.

My shoulders dropped

and my jaw relaxed,

though I hadn't even been aware I'd been clenching it.

No, I'd never been here before,

but somehow it felt familiar,

like I was coming home.

Autumn

at the Inn

Part 2

On the journey,

I'd filled several pages of my journal.

I wrote about the land

flying past the train window

green and yellow, fields of sunflowers,

and rolling farmland,

freshly plowed,

and dotted with haystacks.

I wrote about a bevy of deer

sitting calmly calmly under a weeping willow

as the wind of the passing train

tossed drying leaves down on top of them

I wrote about the lady who pushed the drinks cart

up and down the aisle

Who'd had a story to tell

at nearly every stop we made

Did I know

she had been a pageant winner

in her day?

I chuckled

as she poured my coffee

and said

I didn't,

but

I'd love to hear about it.

It had been long before

she sold encyclopedias door to door.

But after she'd been mayor

of the small town we'd passed

as we crossed that trestle bridge over the river.

I wondered if she wrote a whole new biography

each time she boarded and stocked her cart.

And if I rode long enough,

could I become her archivist?

Tracking all the tales

and noting how they criss-crossed

like the routes of the trains themselves.

Sometimes I wrote about myself

little thoughts

that didn't necessarily go anywhere,

bigger thoughts

that had been waiting for me

to have the time to look them in the eye.

I had a feeling

they were behind

the general wanderlust

that had spurred me to book a ticket

and a room at the inn.

I'd been spinning my wheels

and needed a way

to help them grab the earth again

and propel me forward

that and

desperately craving a fresh apple cider

and a walk

in the spicy air

under changing leaves

and the harvest moon.

I'd been sketching that moon

onto the pages of my journal,

not noticing that the train was slowing

when my friend at the drinks cart

leaned in

to tap me on the shoulder.

Your stop is next, dear.

Don't miss it.

Oh,

I'd spluttered.

Um thanks.

I closed the book,

snapping the elastic closure into place,

and hurriedly pulled my suitcase from the luggage rack.

I'd bought myself

a new jacket

just for this trip

with a soft flannel lining and a hood in case it rained.

I slid it on

and zipped it up tight.

By the time the train chugged to a stop

and the doors hissed open,

I was standing ready behind them,

ready

for my autumn adventure.

I must have overpacked a bit

too many pumpkin orange sweaters and thick socks

Because I could barely shift my suitcase

down the first step.

A porter stepped over from the platform,

grabbing it down in one hand

and helping me out with the other.

Oh,

how much it means when someone is kind to you,

when someone helps you, when you are traveling,

when you are somewhere you have never been before.

He must have read it on my face

because after after he waved off my thanks

he asked if I needed help,

if I had a ride waiting for me.

I told him I was headed to the inn

and that they'd said they would send someone to pick me up.

Did know where their shuttle would be parked?

He smiled a bit as he nodded

and guided me down the platform

to point

through the open,

high ceilinged station

to the street beyond.

Not really

a shuttle.

We just take turns, whoever is going out that way.

And to day,

I'd say you hit the jackpot.

Look for a station wagon and a lady in an apron.

Wouldn't be surprised if she's got a good bit of flour on her.

I turned to look in the direction he pointed,

not sure I had understood.

But when I turned back to him,

he was already down the platform,

lifting another case from the train.

Well,

it was supposed to be an adventure, wasn't it?

On the street,

just like he'd said,

I'd found a station wagon,

an old one

with those faux wooden panels on the sides,

and vinyl bench seats on the front and back.

Standing at the open tail gate,

shifting cases and crates,

was,

indeed,

a woman in an apron.

She smiled as I came around the car to her

and shook my hand

in a friendly,

yes, flowery way.

She looked down

at my lone suitcase

and said,

Oh good.

I can fit that in the back seat.

Thought I'd have to stack the pies

and

I don't know how much you know about pies.

She lifted the lowered gate and it locked into place.

But they really shouldn't be stacked.

Of course not, I said.

It could crush the crust,

and that's the best part.

You get it, she nodded,

and helped me load my case into the back seat.

Once we were buckled in,

she started up the old car,

and we began to trundle down

what I guessed was the main street of this little village.

There was an open bakery box on the seat between us,

and she insisted

I help myself

to a cookie.

I'd been craving oatmeal raisin for ages,

and the box was full of them.

But they weren't just plain cookies.

They were sandwiched together

around a generous spread

of vanilla cream,

like a stepped up version

of the kind I'd eaten

from a cellophane package

after school as a kid.

They were absolutely

delicious.

And for a few blocks

I was lost to anything

but the flavor

and aroma of the treats.

The baker asked a few questions.

Was it my first time here?

How long was I staying?

And did I prefer apple crisp

or apple turnovers?

I answered in order.

Yes, it was my first time,

a week or so,

and that I hoped I never had to make such a difficult decision.

She pointed out a few places I might want to visit while I was here.

Her bakery, of course.

A cafe

with outdoor tables grouped around standing heaters

that glowed orangey red

in the cool air.

A stationery shop

if I filled up my journal

and needed a new one,

I need a new one, no matter how many I have, I told her.

There was a bookshop

with a cozy reading nook

built right into the front window,

and a park,

with a newspaper kiosk at its entrance.

The farmers market

was bustling with shoppers and stalls,

and I could see that they had a whole section

just for mums.

As we wound our way out of town,

I asked her what was taking her to the inn today.

She smiled and said

she was delivering all those pies

for the exhibit,

and then helping chef

with a round of pickled Brussels sprouts.

Now I was the one with the questions.

Exhibit?

Chef?

And most importantly,

pickles?

We turned down the long drive to the inn,

just as I was voicing all of these.

But rather than answer,

she pointed past the beautiful old home

where I would be spending the next week

to the sliver of lake

visible through the trees.

She began to crank her window down

and I followed suit.

Fresh lake air

rushed in

and I closed my eyes,

letting it wash

all over me.

I could hear wind

high in the trees

and waves on the surface of the water.

My shoulders dropped,

and my jaw relaxed,

though I hadn't even been aware

I'd been clenching it.

No,

I'd never been here before,

but somehow

it all felt familiar,

like I was coming home.

Sweet dreams.