The Porch Steps (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.

We've got a few treasures left in our Wind Down collection.

and we're sending them off with love and a deep discount.

Both the weighted pillow and our wind-down box are now 50% off.

Think of it as the perfect way to set up your autumn bedtime routine.

Go to nothingmuchhappens.com.

Now,

falling asleep becomes so much easier when you have a place to rest your mind.

And if that place can be comforting and enjoyable,

well, good sleep hygiene is easy.

So that's what I have for you.

A place to put your restless mind where it will be engaged instead of wandering and you will sleep.

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

If you wake later in the night, turn the story right back on,

and you'll be asleep again within seconds.

Our story tonight is called The Porch Steps

and it's a story about tending to a satisfying chore on a cool day.

It's also about acorns scattered on the sidewalk,

the scent of a wood fire on a cool night,

a daydream about the wind,

and stepping back to take in a job well done.

It's time.

Snuggle down, my dears,

and put away anything you've been looking at or working on.

Get as comfortable as you can.

Let it sink in that the day is done.

You are in bed,

safe and with nothing to do but sleep.

I'll be a sort of guardian,

watching over and protecting you with my voice.

Draw a deep breath in through your nose

and sigh from your mouth.

again,

all the way in,

flush it out.

Good

the porch steps

The leaves were turning,

but had not yet begun to fall.

Well, there were a few gathered around the fence posts

and scattered over the lawn.

But when I looked up,

I saw thousands upon thousands

still waving in the branches above.

And there were plenty of trees that were resolutely green,

their time

having not yet come.

I like that.

When I look out on a line of trees

and spot many that haven't begun to turn yet,

it means there is still so much autumn beauty ahead.

I even have my favorite spots,

favorite trees that I go out of my way to visit every October.

Their colors

so spectacular

that their locations are marked on the treasure map in my mind.

My own street was lovely.

Bright red maples,

ruddy brown oaks,

and yellow sycamores and aspens.

Across the street was a still green hickory tree,

with a Virginia creeper climbing its branches.

The vine wove around the trunk, and up and around the boughs,

and its leaves were already deep red.

Together they gave the effect of a tree

whose hair color needed some touching up

a bushy green mop

lined with ruby roots.

I admired it from my front porch as I rolled up the sleeves of my flannel shirt.

The day was cool and overcast,

but with no rain predicted.

A perfect day to take care of a chore I'd been meaning to get to for a while now.

My front steps needed a fresh coat of paint,

and in the cool autumn air,

without a hint of humidity,

the paint would dry quickly,

and my pumpkins could be back in place before sundown.

I started by sweeping my whole porch.

I didn't want random bits of mulch and helicopter seeds blowing into my paint job.

So I took my broom

and started in the far corner.

I swept under the porch swing,

stopping to pick up the rug

and shaking it out over the railing.

I watched as a few twigs and blades of grass caught in the wind.

They drifted, making the breeze suddenly visible.

And I daydreamed for a moment

about what it might look like

if every flurry of air and zephyr

were

a color,

each a different color.

If we could watch them swirl and blend and blow.

I wondered what a blizzard might look like

if the bluster itself

were deep blue or sparkling silver.

I thought I might pick up my watercolours later

and try to bring it to life.

I left the rug hanging and went back to sweeping.

I worked up a pile,

being sure to dig into the cracks between the floorboards

and to skim the cobwebs from under the bottom railing.

Then I swept the dust and debris down the steps themselves

and kept brushing away

until the boards were bare and clean.

I swept down the front walk,

gathering a few leaves as I went,

until I could push my little pile

into the street.

In this neighborhood, big trucks came by every couple of weeks

and picked up leaves.

My neighbor's young daughter was thrilled by the trucks,

and she and her dad

would stand out in the yard,

watching

as the leaves were sucked up by a giant hose,

the little girl shrieking

and clapping.

It was convenient

and for her quite entertaining.

But I had grown up in a farmhouse at the end of a gravel road

and missed the smell of burning leaves that had been raked into a ditch.

With the city pickup,

it was better.

The leaves would be mulched,

and in the spring,

anyone could go to the lot out by the train depot

and take home some of the mulch.

Still,

I thought I might have a fire in the fireplace tonight

with the good seasoned apple wood I had in the garage

and then come out here and sit on the porch in the cold night air

and smell the mix of smoke and autumn spice

back at the porch

I readied my paintbrush

taking it out of its sleeve

and fanning the bristles against my fingers.

Why does that feel so good?

I brushed it over my palm,

feeling the flat, even tips of the lined-up filaments.

Then tucked the brush into my back pocket

and squatted down down to open the paint can.

When I was a kid

and we were starting a new painting project,

I always tagged along to the hardware store.

I liked to watch the paint be made up.

Now,

I think it's all done by a computer.

But back then there was a system which,

while it was likely less exact and the paint didn't always match perfectly,

was much more interesting to watch.

There were tall metal devices

where the person behind the counter would line dials up to get the right amount of each pigment

and then press a lever to release it all into the can.

On the surface of the paint, you'd just see a dot of blue or red or yellow floating in the thicker white

and think,

well, that'll never be the color we picked.

But after it had gone into the shaker and come out again,

some would be spread out onto the sample card and show that,

sure enough, the peachy pink was peachy pink.

I smiled, remembering those days as I wedged a paint can opener

into the seam of the lid and pried it open.

The porch was a deep, dark blue,

and the steps would match.

The color reminded me of the sky, just at gloaming,

or a lake on a cloudy day.

I found it a homey,

welcoming color.

And whenever I turned onto my street

and spotted my porch, framed with birch trees and hydrangeas,

I always felt so happy to be home.

I decided to paint from top to bottom,

thinking I could spend some time

tidying up the garage while waiting for it to dry.

I sat myself down on a lower step

and dipped my brush in the deep navy paint.

It was satisfying work

to watch the color soak up into the wood,

to spread it cleanly and evenly into place.

Step by step,

I worked my way down to the front walk.

And when I finished, I balanced the brush across the mouth of the can

and stepped back to take in my progress.

The top step was already a bit lighter.

The paint was drying quickly

and would need a second coat.

Till then, I'd fiddle around in the garage and back gardens.

Acorns were falling on the sidewalk,

and my neighbor and his daughter

were adding to the fairy garden around the roots of the cottonwood in their yard.

At the corner, a cat was stretched out on a garden bench.

And in downtown, orange twinkle lights were being strung around the lamp posts.

Across the village,

folks were welcoming the fall.

The porch steps.

The leaves were turning,

but had not yet begun to fall.

Well,

there were a few

gathered around the fence posts

and scattered over the lawn.

But when I looked up,

I saw thousands upon thousands

still waving in the branches above.

And there were plenty of trees that were resolutely green,

their time having not yet come.

I like that.

When I look out on a line of trees

and spot many

that

haven't begun to turn yet,

it means there is still

so much autumn beauty ahead.

I even have my favorite spots,

favorite trees

that I go out of my way to visit every October.

Their colors

so spectacular

that their locations are marked

on the treasure map in my mind.

My own street was lovely.

Bright red maples,

ruddy brown oaks, and yellow sycamores and aspens.

Across the street was a still green hickory tree,

with a Virginia creeper climbing its branches.

The vine wove around the trunk, and up and around boughs,

and its leaves were

already deep red.

Together they gave the effect of a tree whose hair color needed some touching up,

a bushy green mop

lined with ruby roots.

I admired it from my front porch

as I rolled up the sleeves of my flannel shirt.

The day was cool

and overcast,

but with no rain predicted.

A perfect day to take care of a chore I'd been meaning to get to

for a while now.

My front porch steps needed a fresh coat of paint,

and in the cool autumn air,

without a hint of humidity,

the paint would dry quickly,

and my pumpkins could be back in place

before sundown.

I started by sweeping my my whole porch.

I didn't want random bits of mulch and helicopter seeds blowing into my paint job.

So I took my broom

and started in the far corner.

I swept under the porch swing,

stopping to pick up the rug

and shaking it out over the railing.

I watched a few twigs

and blades of grass be caught in the wind.

They drifted,

making the breeze suddenly visible.

And I daydreamed for a moment

about what it might look like

if every flurry of air and zephyr were a color,

each a different color.

If we could watch them swirl and blend and blow.

I wondered at

what a blizzard might look like

if the bluster itself were deep blue or sparkling silver.

I thought I might pick up my watercolours later

and try to bring it to life.

I left the rug hanging and went back to sweeping.

I worked up a pile,

being sure to dig into the cracks between the floorboards

and to skim the cobwebs from under the bottom railing.

Then

I swept the dust and debris down the steps themselves

and kept brushing away

until the boards were bare and clean.

I swept down the front walk,

gathering a few leaves as I went,

until I could push my little pile into the street.

In this neighborhood,

big trucks came by every couple of weeks

and picked up the leaves.

My neighbor's daughter

was thrilled by the trucks,

and she and her dad

would stand out in the yard,

watching as the leaves were sucked up by a giant hose,

the little girl shrieking

and clapping.

It was convenient, and for her quite entertaining.

But I had grown up in a farmhouse

at the end of a gravel road

and missed the smell of burning leaves that had been raked into a ditch.

With the city pickup,

it was better.

The leaves would be mulched,

and in the spring,

anyone could go to the lot

out by the train depot

and take home some of the mulch.

Still,

I thought I might have a fire in the fireplace tonight

with the good seasoned apple wood I had in the garage,

and then come out here

and sit on the porch

in the cold night air

and smell the mix of smoke

and autumn spice.

Back at the porch steps,

I readied my paintbrush,

taking it out of its sleeve and fanning the bristles against my fingers.

Why does that feel

so good?

I brushed it over my palm,

feeling the flat, even tips of the lined-up filaments,

then tucked the brush into my back pocket

and squatted down to open the paint can.

When I was a kid

and we were starting a new painting project,

I always tagged along to the hardware store.

I liked to watch the paint be made up.

Now I think

it's all done by a computer.

But back then, there was a system

which,

while it was likely less exact

and the paint

always match perfectly,

it was much more interesting to watch.

There were tall metal devices

where the person behind the counter

would line dials up

to get the right amount of each pigment

and then press a lever to release it all into the can.

On the surface of the paint,

you'd just see a dot of blue or red or yellow

floating in the thick white and think,

well, that will never be the color we picked.

But after it had gone into the shaker

and come out again,

Some would be spread out onto the sample card

and show that,

sure enough,

the peachy pink was

peachy pink.

I smiled, remembering those days

as I wedged a paint can opener into the seam of the lid

and pried it open.

The porch was a deep, dark blue,

and the steps would match.

The color reminded me of the sky just at gloaming,

or a lake on a cloudy day.

I found it a homey, welcoming color.

And whenever I turned onto my street

and spotted my porch

framed with birch trees and hydrangeas,

I always felt so happy to be home.

I decided to paint from top to bottom,

thinking I could spend some time

tidying up the garage while waiting for it to dry.

I sat myself down on a lower step

and dipped my brush in the deep navy paint.

It was satisfying work

to watch the color soak up into the wood,

to spread it evenly and cleanly into place.

Step by step,

I worked my way down to the front walk,

and when I finished, I balanced the brush across the mouth of the can

and stepped back

to take in my progress.

The top step was already a bit lighter.

The paint was drying quickly and would need a second coat.

Till then,

I'd fiddle around in the garage and back garden.

Acorns were falling on the sidewalk,

and my neighbor and his daughter were adding to the fairy garden

around the roots of the cottonwood in their yard.

At the corner, a cat was stretched out on a garden bench,

and in downtown, orange twinkle lights

were being strung around the lamp posts.

Across the village, folks were welcoming the fall.

Sweet dreams.