The Leaf House (Encore)

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If you already listen to me, then you know bedtime stories can be powerful tools for rest.

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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'm about to tell you a bedtime story.

It's simple, and not much happens in it.

And that is the idea.

The story is a soft place to rest your mind.

A simple and pleasant way to occupy it, so that it doesn't wander away and keep you up.

All you need to do is listen.

Just follow along with the sound of my voice and the simple details of the story.

And soon, very soon, you'll be deeply asleep.

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

If you wake in the middle of the night,

you could listen again

or just think your way back through any part of the story that you can remember.

We are training your brain to settle and rest.

And the more you do this, the better your sleep will get.

Our story tonight is called

The Leaf House.

And it's a story about an autumn day spent working in the yard.

It's also about a game remembered from childhood.

A spider's web spun on a chrysanthemum.

And different ways to think about home.

Now, it's time.

Turn off your light.

Snuggle your body down into your sheets and get as comfortable as you can.

Take a moment just to feel how good it is to be in bed,

to be

about to sleep.

If you tend to clench your jaw, place the tip of your tongue at the place where your upper teeth meet the gums on the inside.

This will help to keep it relaxed.

Let's take a deep breath in through the nose

and out through the mouth.

Nice.

Let's do that again.

Breathe in

and out.

Good.

The Leaf House.

On a back corner of the property,

built by the generation before,

was a small tool shed

that housed the lawnmower and the rakes and snow shovels,

but looked a bit like a child's playhouse.

It must have been built by someone who was as much artist as craftsperson,

because it clearly hadn't come as a kit

in which you slip tab B

into slot L.

It was made with planks of slightly mismatched wood

that had been skillfully put together like pieces in a jigsaw puzzle.

It had windows on either side of the single door,

with individual panes of glass

fitted into hand-smoothed glazing,

and a peaked roof with a decorative barge board of twisting curly cues.

In the spring,

I'd repainted it its usual shade of sunny yellow,

and in the summer I'd filled its small window boxes with bright pink impatience.

Yesterday I'd cleared them out,

setting a few small round pumpkins in their place,

and hung baskets of purple mums from hooks in the overhanging roof

when I stepped up to open its door today,

the sunlight caught on a thin strand of spider web

that stretched from the edge of the pot of flowers

down to the stem of one of the pumpkins.

I got lost

just looking at it for a moment,

marveling at the way the light bounced on the silk strand,

I thought of the resourceful spider,

finding these newly placed offerings,

and wasting no time in setting up house.

It was a cool morning, not cold,

but not far from it.

And as I pulled open the creaking shed door,

I could see my breath in the air

no matter I thought

soon enough I'd be warmed through with work

inside the shed I shifted aside the long-handled spades and trowels that had been center stage in the spring and summer

and dug out a rake for today's work.

I found a well-worn pair of garden gloves

and stepped out into the air to clap them together a few times, knocking out dirt and dust.

The trees were dropping leaves in a slow-motion, technicolor downpour.

They still had plenty left to drop,

and today was just a part of the autumn chores.

But I didn't mind a bit.

I was happy to have a job to do, and a sunny day to do it on.

Some work is hard to gauge.

You spend hours toiling,

and when you step back to look at what you've done,

find it difficult to mark any progress.

But this kind of work,

raking leaves, clearing flower beds,

I knew that when I put my tools away at the end of the day,

I could look across the yard

and see a job well done.

I carried my rake to a spot under a tall maple, whose leaves were a deep, rusty red.

I started to rake,

pulling layers of leaves this way and that,

and making tall dry piles

that smelled musky sweet and earthy as the sun shone on them.

I worked away, taking breaks now and then to press my hands into the small of my back and stretch, or to take a drink of water from a mason jar I'd set on the stone path in front of the shed.

I raked the leaves onto tarps

and pulled them over to spread onto my vegetable garden.

Later, I'd mulch them into the soil.

They'd break down over the next several months, making compost for next year's planting.

From the maple I worked my way over to the row of oak trees that stood along one side of the yard.

These leaves were narrow,

and most were a bright electric yellow,

though some were tipped with red,

and others were the pale, dry brown of craft paper and school lunch bags.

I thought of a game we'd played as children.

What had we called it?

I nodded into the memory as I gathered the leaves to me.

We'd called it Leaf House.

I'm sure we'd been assigned the chore of raking leaves,

but had turned it into a game,

which,

likely to my parents' consternation, hadn't cleared the yard at all,

but had merely spread the leaves more artistically over the grass.

We'd each stake a claim on some section of the yard and use our rakes to draw out a street that connected them.

Then we'd rake away, drawing out the shape of our houses.

Mine always had long corridors, with a dozen rooms leading off of them.

Here was the kitchen, and I'd scrape a pile of leaves together to be the table.

Here was the bedroom, and I'd rake a path around the bed.

After we'd finished staking out the spaces, we'd go visiting.

One of us would stand on the front doorstep of another's house and knock their hand against the bare air,

thumping their foot against the ground or calling out, knock, knock, knock.

Then the other would put down their book of leaves and wind their way to the front door, wondering loudly, who could that be?

At some point we'd scrap the designs and build something else.

A school, a grocery store, an amusement park,

the game requiring more imagination as it went, but we kept up just fine.

It most certainly ended with us all banding together to build the tallest pile of leaves we could manage,

then taking running jumps into them and scattering them back out in every direction.

My own piles were finally and mostly shifted over to the garden.

In another week or two, I'd have the whole thing to do all over again.

I took my rake and gloves back to the shed

and sat down on the stepping stones to drink a bit more water.

I thought of the little shed,

built to look like a tiny home,

of the spider setting up housekeeping among the mums and pumpkins,

and us, as kids, scraping away the leaves to make bedrooms and kitchens.

It's the first thing we play at, making homes,

then something we repeat over and over.

I leaned back on my hands and looked out over the cleared yard.

The grass, for now, was still green.

The leaves were spread out over the bare soil.

and I thought of the insects

who were probably right now

burrowing down under them.

The birds who'd been making V's in the sky as the day got colder,

and the deer out somewhere beyond my sight, readying for the winter.

All of us pulled by the same instinct,

All of us busy

making a home.

The leaf house

on a back corner of the property

built by the generation before

was a small tool shed

that housed the lawnmower

and the rakes

and snow shovels,

but looked a bit like a child's playhouse.

It must have been built by someone who was as much artist as craftperson

because it clearly hadn't come as a kit

in which you slip tab B

into slot L.

It was made with planks of slightly mismatched wood

that had been skillfully put together like pieces in a jigsaw puzzle.

It had windows on either side of the single door

with individual panes of glass

fitted into hand-smoothed glazing,

and a peaked roof

with a decorative barge board

of twisting curlicues.

In the spring I'd repainted it, its usual shade of sunny yellow,

and in the summer I'd filled its small window boxes with bright pink impatience.

Yesterday, I'd cleared them out,

setting a few small round pumpkins in their place,

and hung baskets of purple mums

from hooks in the overhanging roof.

When I stepped up to open its door today,

the sunlight caught on a thin strand of spider web

that stretched from the edge of the pot of flowers

down to the stem of one of the pumpkins.

I got lost

just

looking at it for a moment,

marveling at the way the light bounced on the silk strand.

I thought of the resourceful spider

finding these newly placed offerings

and wasting no time in setting up house.

It was a cool morning,

not cold, but

not far from it.

And as I pulled open the creaking shed door,

I could see my breath in the air.

No matter, I thought

soon enough, I'd be warmed through with work.

Inside the shed, I shifted aside the long-handled spades and trowels that had been center stage in the spring and summer,

and dug out a rake for today's work.

I found a well-worn pair of garden gloves

and stepped out into the air to clap them together a few times,

knocking out dirt and dust.

The trees were dropping leaves

in a slow-motion, technicolor downpour.

They still had plenty left to drop,

and to day was just a part of the autumn chores.

But I didn't mind a bit.

I was happy to have a job to do

and a sunny day to do it on.

Some work is hard to gauge.

You can spend hours toiling.

And when you step back to look at what you've done

find it difficult

to mark any progress

but this kind of work

raking leaves

clearing flower beds

I knew that when I put my tools away at the end of the day,

I could look across the yard

and see a job well done.

I carried my rake to a spot under a tall maple

whose leaves were a deep, rusty red.

I started to rake,

pulling layers of leaves this way and that,

and making tall dry piles

that smelled musky sweet

and earthy

as the sun shone on them.

I worked away,

taking breaks now and then

to press my hands into the small of my back

and stretch

or to take a drink of water from a mason jar I'd set on the stone path in front of the shed.

I raked the leaves onto tarps

and pulled them over to spread onto my vegetable garden.

Later, I'd mulch them into the soil.

They'd break down over the next several months,

making compost for next year's planting.

From the maple, I worked my way over to the row of oak trees that stood along one side of the yard.

These leaves were narrow,

and most were a bright electric yellow,

though some were tipped with red,

and others were the pale, dry brown of craft paper and school lunch bags.

I thought of a game we'd played as children.

What had we called it?

I nodded into the memory as I gathered the leaves to me.

We'd called it Leaf House.

I'm sure we'd been assigned the chore of raking leaves,

but had turned it into a game

which,

likely to my parents' consternation

hadn't cleared the yard at all

but had merely spread the leaves more artistically over the grass

we'd each stake a claim on some section of the yard

and use our rakes to draw out a street that connected them

Then we'd rake away,

drawing out the shape of our houses.

Mine always had long corridors

with a dozen rooms leading off them.

Here was the kitchen.

And I'd scrape a pile of leaves together to be the table.

Here was the bedroom,

and I'd rake a path around the bed.

After we'd finished staking out the spaces,

we'd go visiting.

One of us would stand on the front doorstep of another's house

and knock their hand against the bare air,

thumping their foot against the ground,

or calling out, knock, knock, knock.

Then the other would put down their book of leaves

and wind their way to the door, wondering loudly,

who could that be?

At some point we'd scrap the designs

and build something else.

A grocery store, a school,

an amusement park.

The game requiring more imagination as it went on.

But we kept up just fine.

It most certainly ended with all of us banding together

to build the tallest pile of leaves we could manage,

then taking running jumps into them

and scattering them back out in every direction.

My own piles were finally, and mostly, shifted over to the garden.

In another week or two,

I'd have the whole thing to do all over again.

I took my rake and gloves back to the shed

and sat down on the stepping stones

to drink a bit more water.

I thought of the little shed,

built to look like a tiny home,

of the spider setting up housekeeping among the mums and pumpkins

and us as kids

scraping away the leaves to make bedrooms and kitchens.

It's the first thing we play at

making homes.

Then something we repeat over and over.

I leaned back on my hands and looked out over the cleared yard.

The grass, for now,

was still green.

The leaves were spread out over the bare soil,

and I thought of the insects,

who were probably right now

burrowing down under them,

the birds who'd been making Vs in the sky

as the days got cooler,

and the deer,

out

somewhere beyond my sight,

readying for the winter.

All of us pulled by the same instinct,

all of us busy,

making a home,

sweet dreams.