Out of the Cold (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 just by listening, we'll shift your brain from default mode, where it can wander endlessly, to task positive mode,

where sleep is natural and accessible,

and all you have to do is listen.

I'll tell the story twice,

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

If you wake later in the night, often just thinking back

through any part of the story that you can remember

or replaying a sweet memory will put you right back to sleep.

But if it doesn't,

don't hesitate. to turn an episode back on.

This is a kind of brain training and it takes some time to build up the response you want.

Our story tonight is called Out of the Cold

and it's a story about a windy day

and a place to warm up.

It's also about pine boughs,

an open wrought iron gate,

smoke rising from a chimney in the distance,

A black cat.

Cookies and tea.

And the good feeling of stepping into the warmth with a friend.

So switch off your light.

Slip down under your blankets.

And get as comfortable as you can.

Take a deep breath in through your nose

and sigh from your mouth.

Again, breathe in

and out.

Good.

Out of the cold.

I was bundled up,

but the wind was blowing this morning.

I'd heard it blow all night

as I was tucked into my bed.

My thick old quilt pressing me down into my mattress.

You know that feeling

when you are

very glad and grateful

to be safe and warm inside your house

when your bed feels like a sanctuary

and you can sense sleep about to pull you down

and you rub your feet together

like a dog wagging his tail

and the sound of the wind had only helped

Each time I'd come close to waking,

the whistle of it through the eaves of my old farmhouse

had sent me right back down

into my dreams.

But today,

even though I was properly bundled up against it,

it was making my morning walk a bit colder than I'd expected.

At least the sun was out,

bright and golden,

reflecting on the thick frost in the fields.

I was tromping down the dirt road,

breathing the cold morning air

through a layer of crocheted cotton,

my warmest winter scarf

And I could smell

only the absence of scent

Just as snow muffles sound

the cold muffles aroma

The landscape rolled out in front of me

Mown down fields

dotted with barns and farmhouses,

a frozen over pond

where two mallards waddled on the surface.

Even when it is cold,

something about a morning walk always sweetens my day.

It's like setting a table with your favorite dish and mug.

Every bite tastes a bit better.

So I kept going,

past the crossroads,

past the shuttered farm stand, where I bought tomatoes and sunflowers in the summer.

And past the giant willow,

which caused the whole road to jog

a bit to the right,

then correct to the left.

I appreciated

that little divergence

from the straight and narrow.

Glad that rather than cutting a tree down,

someone a hundred years ago

had just adjusted their path.

I came to a long drive

at the edge of the road

and noticed that the evergreen garlands were up at the entrance to the inn.

The drive was framed by a tall iron gate.

which always sat open

and on either side were regal stone plinths

topped with giant urns.

In the summer they overflowed with vines and flowers

but now were stuffed with pine boughs and holly branches and strung with lights.

The innkeeper had been busy.

I crossed the road,

eager to see

how far the decorations extended,

and saw the whole drive was lined with garlands and velvety red bows.

In the bright daylight,

I couldn't see any lights on the inn itself,

but I knew they were there

and looked forward to driving past it all season,

seeing the roof line and windows framed with light.

I squinted to look closer

and saw a bit of smoke rising out of the chimney

and decided to drop in

and see how she,

the innkeeper, was doing.

The inn closed for the season each autumn.

And though there had been a big Halloween party,

it had otherwise been very quiet over here.

They would open again

at the end of the year for the holidays,

be booked with guests over Christmas and New Year's,

and then spend another couple of months empty and hushed.

As a neighbor, I'd known her and her staff for years.

And knew that it worked well for all of them.

This rhythm of on again, off again.

I hoped a visit would be welcome and not an interruption of her solitude.

The inn sat on a large plot of land,

and the drive curved first one way

and then the other,

showing off the gardens

and tall trees.

I I noticed bird feeders hung in branches

and guessed this was one of the ways she kept busy over the winter.

Hospitality must be built into her bones.

When her guests were gone,

she took care of the birds.

As I got closer,

I started to glimpse the lake out past the house,

while the pond I'd spotted earlier was frozen over.

The lake was too big for that

this early in the season.

There was a rim of white at its edge.

But the water was still moving,

whipped up a bit by the wind,

and sparkling like diamonds in the sun.

The row of trees along one side of the house looked strange without their hammocks.

Though I'd been there myself

to help her put them away in September,

Chef's garden was tilled over.

Only a few

of the last hardy stems of kale and cabbage,

still glinting with frost.

I could hear music playing as I crossed the circle drive,

where guests unloaded their cars

and stepped to the front door.

That usually meant she was cleaning.

And when I pressed the doorbell

and heard the chimes ringing through the giant old place,

I wasn't surprised to see her poke her head out into the hall,

a scarf tied over her hair,

and a feather duster in her hand.

Sycamore,

her black cat,

shot down the long hall and bounced around the foyer like a pinball.

He was obviously excited to see a guest.

I pulled my scarf down

and waved a mittened hand.

And she smiled as she recognized me

and rushed forward to open the door.

Come in out of the cold, she urged

and ushered me through the entryway.

I hope you don't mind an impromptu visit, I said

as I unwound my scarf and pulled off my hat.

The inn was cozy and warm, and I could smell wood polish

and breakfast tea and lemon.

No, I'm so glad you stopped by.

I've got the kettle on

and Sy wants a break, anyway, she laughed.

I followed her down the hall to the library,

where a fire was going in the grate,

and the just-finished record was spinning on the turntable.

I stepped over to the window seat as she fixed a cup of tea for me,

and looked out past the yard and down to the lake.

Sycamore jumped up onto the seat

and rubbed his head against my hand.

I scratched between his ears and down his back.

It would be another long,

windy walk back home.

But I was so glad to stop in and see these friends,

to be asked in out of the cold,

to sit by the fire with tea and windmill cookies

and stories to catch up on

Out of the Cold

I was bundled up

But the wind was blowing this morning

I'd heard it blow all night

as I was tucked into my bed,

my thick old quilt

pressing me down

into my mattress.

You know that feeling

when you are very glad

and grateful

to be safe and warm inside your house

When your bed feels like a sanctuary

And you can sense sleep

About to pull you down

And you rub your feet together

like a dog wagging his tail

And the sound of the wind had only helped

Each time I'd come close to waking,

the whistle of it through the eaves of my old farmhouse

had sent me right back down

into my dreams.

But today,

Even though I was properly bundled up against it,

It was making my morning walk a bit colder than I'd expected.

At least the sun was out,

bright

and golden,

reflecting on the thick frost in the fields.

I was tromping down the dirt road,

breathing the cold morning air

through a layer of crocheted cotton,

my warmest winter scarf,

and I could smell

only the absence of scent.

Just as snow muffles sound,

the cold muffles aroma.

The landscape rolled in front of me,

moaned down fields,

dotted with barns and farmhouses,

a frozen over pond,

where two mallards waddled on the surface.

But even when it's cold,

something

about a morning walk

always

sweetens my day.

It's like setting a table with your favorite dish and mug.

Every bite tastes a bit better.

So

I kept going

past the crossroads,

past the shuttered farm stand,

where I bought tomatoes and sunflowers in the summer,

and past the giant willow,

which caused the whole road

to jog

a bit to the right

and then correct to the the left.

I appreciated that little divergence from the straight and narrow.

Glad that rather than cutting down a tree,

someone a hundred years ago

had just adjusted their path.

I came to a long drive at the edge of the road

and noticed that the evergreen garlands were up

at the entrance to the inn.

The drive was framed

by a tall iron gate

which always sat open

and on on either side

were regal stone plinths

topped with giant urns

In the summer

they overflowed with vines

and flowers

but now

were stuffed with pine boughs and holly branches

and strung with lights.

The innkeeper had been busy.

I crossed the road,

eager to see how far the decorations extended

and saw the whole drive was lined with garlands

and velvety red bows.

In the bright daylight, I couldn't see any lights on the inn itself.

But I knew they were there

and looked forward

to driving past it all season,

seeing the roof line and the windows

framed with light.

I squinted to look closer

and saw a bit of smoke rising out of the chimney

and decided to drop in

and see

how she,

the innkeeper, was doing.

The inn closed for the season each autumn.

And though there had been been a big Halloween party,

it had otherwise been very quiet over here.

They would open again at the end of the year for the holidays,

be booked with guests over Christmas and New Year's

and then spend another couple of months empty and hushed

as a neighbor

I'd known her and the staff for years

and knew that it worked well for all of them

this rhythm of

On again,

off again.

I hoped a a visit would be welcome

and not an interruption of her solitude.

The inn sat on a large plot of land

and the drive curved

first one way

and then the other.

showing off the gardens and tall trees.

I noticed bird feeders hung in branches

and guessed

this was one of the ways she kept busy over the winter.

Hospitality must be built into her bones.

When her guests were gone

she took care of the birds.

As I got closer,

I started to glimpse the lake

out past the house.

While the pond I'd spotted earlier had been frozen over.

The lake was too big for that,

this early in the season.

There was a rim of white at its edge though.

The water was still moving,

whipped up a bit by the wind

and sparkling like diamonds in the sun.

The row of trees along one side of the house looked strange without their hammocks,

though I'd been here myself

to help her put them away in September.

Chef's garden was tilled over

Only a few hardy stems of kale and cabbage,

still glinting with frost.

I could hear music playing

as I crossed the circle drive,

where guests unloaded their cars

and stepped to the front door.

Music usually meant she was cleaning

And when I pressed the doorbell

and heard the chimes ringing through

the giant old place,

I wasn't surprised to see her poke her head out into the hall,

a scarf over her hair,

and a feather duster

in her hand.

Sycamore,

her black cat,

shot down the hall

and bounced around the foyer

like a pinball.

He was obviously excited

to see a guest.

I pulled my scarf down

and waved a mittened hand.

And she smiled as she recognized me

and rushed forward to open the door.

Come in, out of the cold, she urged,

and ushered me through the entryway.

I hope you don't mind an impromptu visit, I said,

as I unwound my scarf and pulled off my hat.

The inn was cozy and warm,

and I could smell

wood polish

and breakfast tea and lemon.

No, I'm so glad you stopped by.

I've got the kettle on,

and Sy wants a break anyway.

I followed her down the hall

to the library

where a fire was going in the grate

and a just finished record

was spinning on the turntable.

I stepped over to the window seat

as she fixed a cup of tea for me

and looked out

past the yard

and down toward the lake.

Sycamore jumped up

onto the seat

and rubbed his head against my hand.

I scratched between his ears and down his back.

It would be

another

long,

windy walk back home.

But I was so glad

to stop in and see these friends,

to be asked in

out of the cold,

to sit by the fire

with tea and windmill cookies

and stories to catch up on.

Sweet dreams.