April 18, 2024 • 22 mins
Our story tonight is called A Block From Home, and it’s a story about the feeling of coming home after a long day and finding a quiet place to rest. It’s also about the feeling of being on your own time and having the space to do something or to do nothing at all.
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Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
Speaker 1 (00:01):
Welcome to bedtime stories for grown ups, in which nothing
much happens, you feel good, and then you fall asleep.
I'm Catherine Nikolay. I write and read all the stories
(00:21):
you hear and nothing much happens. Audio Engineering is by
Bob Wittersheim. My book, also called Nothing Much Happens, is
available wherever books are sold. Thank you for your support.
(00:42):
Let me say something about how to use this podcast.
I'm going to tell you a story to help you
relax and drop off into sleep. I'll tell it twice,
and I'll go a little bit slower the second time through.
(01:02):
The story is like a landing pad for your mind,
a soft place for it to rest. If you find
yourself still awake at the end of the first or
the second telling, don't worry. That's a good rule of
thumb in general. When you're trying to fall asleep, don't worry. Relax.
(01:29):
Take your mind back to the beginning of the story
and walk yourself through the details that you remember, especially
any bit that felt particularly cozy. You're training your brain
and body to wind down, and the more often you
do it, the faster you will fall asleep. So have
(01:52):
a bit of patience at the beginning. Our story tonight
is called A Block from Home, and it's a story
about the feeling of coming home after a long day
and finding a quiet place to rest. It's also about
the feeling of being on your own time and having
(02:14):
the space to do something or to do nothing at all.
Now it's time to turn off the light, put away
whatever you were working on or playing with, and snuggle
yourself down into the most comfortable position you can find.
(02:39):
You might have an ideal sleep position that's tried and true,
get into it. All of this helps to signal to
your brain. But it's time to close up shop. Let's
take a slow breath in through the nose, a soft
(03:02):
sigh out of the mouth, one more like that, in
and out. Good. A block from home that had been
(03:26):
raining since the night before, and there were puddles in
the street. The sky was gray and low. It was
a September afternoon, and it was cool and with a
breeze that smelled like autumn. I'd stopped to block away
(03:49):
from my house under the yawning of a greengrocer and
pulled the collar of my raincoat a bit higher against
my cheek. The smell of pears made me turn my
head away from the window of the coffee shop on
the next corner, where I had been watching a few
(04:13):
people sipping from cups and reading newspapers or talking with friends.
The pears were small and green, but a little soft,
with a bruise or two that showed they were ready
to be eaten. I asked for two, and also for
(04:36):
some almonds that the grocer twisted into a piece of
brown paper for me. After I tucked my treats into
the pocket of my raincoat, I drew my hood back
up over my head. Acrossed the street, I was almost home.
(05:01):
The row of brown stones stood shoulder to shoulder. They
were all the same building, really, just repeated over and over,
and with a few differences in the facades. Some had courtyards,
some had gardens and gates, and some had old trees
(05:27):
growing up through the cracked pavements. All of them had
wide steps and stoops, though no one was sitting out
on them on a day like to day. Mine had
a tall, wrought iron gate and fence that closed off
(05:49):
my slightly overgrown garden from the street. I stopped at
the gate and looked for a moment up and down
the street. There were a few others making their way
through the rain with heads down or tucked into umbrellas.
(06:14):
My gate has just one key, and it was in
the house. That was how I liked it. I didn't
need a key. I reached up for the heavy gate handle.
I let my thumb brush across a tiny print reader
(06:34):
that was programmed only to my thumb print. No one
could follow me in here. It took less than a second.
I heard a tiny click in the lock mechanism and
pulled the gate open. It locked smoothly behind me, and
(07:00):
I hurried through the garden and up to my front door.
I'd had enough of the rain. My front door worked
in much the same way as my gait, but required
a full palm print to open. I wrapped my hand
(07:21):
around the knob and it unlocked, and I stepped in.
I sighed. I had always enjoyed the feeling of closing
(07:43):
the door behind me at the end of the day,
knowing I didn't need to leave the house again for
the night. Turning back to the door, I smiled at
the row of locks. They were a metaphor. The door
(08:05):
was secure and didn't need them, but I liked to
turn them one at a time. Just the same, twisting
the dead bolt, sliding the chain fastening the latch. Take
(08:29):
that world, I said. The rain was drumming against the
window now, and I only looked out at the storm
as it had now become a proper storm for a
moment before pulling the thick velvet curtain across. I could
(08:57):
feel my body becoming heavier with each step. I was
just a few minutes away from dropping into a sweet,
long nap, and I knew it. I kicked off my
boots and hung my raincoat on the coat rack on
(09:22):
my way to the library. Passing through the kitchen, I
pressed the button on the electric kettle with half an
idea of having a cup of tea. Likely i'd be
asleep before it boiled. The library had a deep sofa
(09:47):
that was long enough to stretch out on, and a
couple of throws and pillows. There were proper reading lamps
set here and there, but I left them off. The
string of fairy lights glowing around the tops of the
(10:09):
bookshelves was perfect. I set my pairs and almonds on
a table beside the sofa and lay down. I looked
out at the books for a few minutes, with a
few snow globes and mementoes tucked in. The kettle was
(10:35):
making a soft sound, and the rain and thunder were
muffled and far away. My eyes were closing. I heard
the soft pad of kitty paws, then a moment of
stillness as she prepared to jump, and she landed on
(11:01):
my knees. I twisted on to my side and she
slid into the space behind my legs. I pulled a
blanket up over us, laid my face on a soft
old pillow, and closed my eyes. We slept a block
(11:32):
from home. It had been raining since the night before,
and there were puddles in the street. The sky was
gray and low. It was a September afternoon, and it
(11:56):
was cool, with a breeze that smelled like aute. I
had stopped a block away from my house under the
awning of a green grocer and pulled the collar of
(12:17):
my raincoat a bit higher against my cheek. The smell
of pears made me turn my head away from the
window of the coffee shop on the next corner, where
(12:40):
I'd been watching a few people sipping from cups and
reading newspapers or talking with friends. The pears were small
and green, but a little soft and with a bruise
(13:00):
or two that showed they were ready to be eaten.
I asked for two, and also for some almonds that
the grocer twisted into a piece of brown paper for me.
(13:23):
After I tucked my treats into the pocket of my raincoat,
I drew my hood back up over my head and
crossed the street. I was almost home. The row of
(13:44):
brownstones stood shoulder to shoulder. They were all the same building, really,
repeated over and over, and with a few differences in
the facades. Some had court yards, some had gardens and gates,
(14:16):
and some had old trees growing up through the cracked pavements.
All of them had wide steps and stoops, though no
one was sitting out on them on a day like
to day. Mine had a tall, wrought iron gate and
(14:44):
fence that closed off my slightly overgrown garden from the street.
I stopped at the gate and looked for a moment,
and down the street there were a few others making
(15:08):
their way through the rain, with heads down or tucked
into umbrellas. My gate has just one key, and it
was in the house. That was how I liked it.
(15:37):
I didn't need a key. I reached up for the
heavy gate handle and let my thumb brush across a
tiny print reader that was programmed only to my thumb print.
(16:02):
No one could follow me in here. It took less
than a second. I heard a tiny click in the
lock mechanism and pulled the gate open. It locked smoothly
(16:27):
behind me, and I hurried through the garden and up
to my front door. I'd had enough of the rain.
My front door worked in much the same way as
(16:52):
my gait, but required a full palm print to open.
I wrapped my hand around the knob and it unlocked,
and I stepped in. I sighed, I had always enjoyed
(17:25):
the feeling of closing the door behind me at the
end of the day, knowing I didn't need to leave
the house again for the night. Turning back to the door,
(17:48):
I smiled at the row of locks. They were a metaphor.
The door was secure and didn't need them, but I
liked to turn them one at a time, just the same,
(18:13):
twisting the dead bolt, sliding the chain fastening the latch.
Take that world, I said. The rain was drumming against
(18:35):
the window now, and I only looked out at the
storm as it had now become a proper storm for
a moment before pulling the thick velvet curtain across. I
(19:03):
could feel my body becoming heavier with each step. I
was just a few minutes away from dropping into a sweet,
long nap, and I knew it. I kicked off my
(19:28):
boots and hung my raincoat on the coat rack on
my way to the library. Passing through the kitchen, I
pressed the button on the electric kettle with half an
idea of having a cup of tea. Likely I'd be
(19:54):
asleep before it boiled. The library had a deep sofa
that was long enough to stretch out on, and a
couple of throes and pillows. There were proper reading lamps
(20:17):
set here and there, but I left them off. The
string of fairy lights glowing around the tops of the
book shelves was perfect. I set my pears and almonds
on a table beside the sofa and lay down. I
(20:44):
looked out at the books for a few moments, with
a few snow globes and mementoes tucked in. The kettle
was making us offt sound and the rain and thunder
were muffled and far away. My eyes were closing. I
(21:13):
heard the soft pad of kitty paws, then a moment
of stillness as she prepared to jump, and she landed
on my knees. I twisted onto my side and she
(21:33):
slid into the space behind my legs. I pulled a
blanket up over us, laid my face on a soft
old pillow, and closed my eyes. We slept sweet treat es.
Welcome to bedtime stories for grown ups, in which nothing
much happens, you feel good, and then you fall asleep.
I'm Catherine Nikolay. I write and read all the stories
(00:21):
you hear and nothing much happens. Audio Engineering is by
Bob Wittersheim. My book, also called Nothing Much Happens, is
available wherever books are sold. Thank you for your support.
(00:42):
Let me say something about how to use this podcast.
I'm going to tell you a story to help you
relax and drop off into sleep. I'll tell it twice,
and I'll go a little bit slower the second time through.
(01:02):
The story is like a landing pad for your mind,
a soft place for it to rest. If you find
yourself still awake at the end of the first or
the second telling, don't worry. That's a good rule of
thumb in general. When you're trying to fall asleep, don't worry. Relax.
(01:29):
Take your mind back to the beginning of the story
and walk yourself through the details that you remember, especially
any bit that felt particularly cozy. You're training your brain
and body to wind down, and the more often you
do it, the faster you will fall asleep. So have
(01:52):
a bit of patience at the beginning. Our story tonight
is called A Block from Home, and it's a story
about the feeling of coming home after a long day
and finding a quiet place to rest. It's also about
the feeling of being on your own time and having
(02:14):
the space to do something or to do nothing at all.
Now it's time to turn off the light, put away
whatever you were working on or playing with, and snuggle
yourself down into the most comfortable position you can find.
(02:39):
You might have an ideal sleep position that's tried and true,
get into it. All of this helps to signal to
your brain. But it's time to close up shop. Let's
take a slow breath in through the nose, a soft
(03:02):
sigh out of the mouth, one more like that, in
and out. Good. A block from home that had been
(03:26):
raining since the night before, and there were puddles in
the street. The sky was gray and low. It was
a September afternoon, and it was cool and with a
breeze that smelled like autumn. I'd stopped to block away
(03:49):
from my house under the yawning of a greengrocer and
pulled the collar of my raincoat a bit higher against
my cheek. The smell of pears made me turn my
head away from the window of the coffee shop on
the next corner, where I had been watching a few
(04:13):
people sipping from cups and reading newspapers or talking with friends.
The pears were small and green, but a little soft,
with a bruise or two that showed they were ready
to be eaten. I asked for two, and also for
(04:36):
some almonds that the grocer twisted into a piece of
brown paper for me. After I tucked my treats into
the pocket of my raincoat, I drew my hood back
up over my head. Acrossed the street, I was almost home.
(05:01):
The row of brown stones stood shoulder to shoulder. They
were all the same building, really, just repeated over and over,
and with a few differences in the facades. Some had courtyards,
some had gardens and gates, and some had old trees
(05:27):
growing up through the cracked pavements. All of them had
wide steps and stoops, though no one was sitting out
on them on a day like to day. Mine had
a tall, wrought iron gate and fence that closed off
(05:49):
my slightly overgrown garden from the street. I stopped at
the gate and looked for a moment up and down
the street. There were a few others making their way
through the rain with heads down or tucked into umbrellas.
(06:14):
My gate has just one key, and it was in
the house. That was how I liked it. I didn't
need a key. I reached up for the heavy gate handle.
I let my thumb brush across a tiny print reader
(06:34):
that was programmed only to my thumb print. No one
could follow me in here. It took less than a second.
I heard a tiny click in the lock mechanism and
pulled the gate open. It locked smoothly behind me, and
(07:00):
I hurried through the garden and up to my front door.
I'd had enough of the rain. My front door worked
in much the same way as my gait, but required
a full palm print to open. I wrapped my hand
(07:21):
around the knob and it unlocked, and I stepped in.
I sighed. I had always enjoyed the feeling of closing
(07:43):
the door behind me at the end of the day,
knowing I didn't need to leave the house again for
the night. Turning back to the door, I smiled at
the row of locks. They were a metaphor. The door
(08:05):
was secure and didn't need them, but I liked to
turn them one at a time. Just the same, twisting
the dead bolt, sliding the chain fastening the latch. Take
(08:29):
that world, I said. The rain was drumming against the
window now, and I only looked out at the storm
as it had now become a proper storm for a
moment before pulling the thick velvet curtain across. I could
(08:57):
feel my body becoming heavier with each step. I was
just a few minutes away from dropping into a sweet,
long nap, and I knew it. I kicked off my
boots and hung my raincoat on the coat rack on
(09:22):
my way to the library. Passing through the kitchen, I
pressed the button on the electric kettle with half an
idea of having a cup of tea. Likely i'd be
asleep before it boiled. The library had a deep sofa
(09:47):
that was long enough to stretch out on, and a
couple of throws and pillows. There were proper reading lamps
set here and there, but I left them off. The
string of fairy lights glowing around the tops of the
(10:09):
bookshelves was perfect. I set my pairs and almonds on
a table beside the sofa and lay down. I looked
out at the books for a few minutes, with a
few snow globes and mementoes tucked in. The kettle was
(10:35):
making a soft sound, and the rain and thunder were
muffled and far away. My eyes were closing. I heard
the soft pad of kitty paws, then a moment of
stillness as she prepared to jump, and she landed on
(11:01):
my knees. I twisted on to my side and she
slid into the space behind my legs. I pulled a
blanket up over us, laid my face on a soft
old pillow, and closed my eyes. We slept a block
(11:32):
from home. It had been raining since the night before,
and there were puddles in the street. The sky was
gray and low. It was a September afternoon, and it
(11:56):
was cool, with a breeze that smelled like aute. I
had stopped a block away from my house under the
awning of a green grocer and pulled the collar of
(12:17):
my raincoat a bit higher against my cheek. The smell
of pears made me turn my head away from the
window of the coffee shop on the next corner, where
(12:40):
I'd been watching a few people sipping from cups and
reading newspapers or talking with friends. The pears were small
and green, but a little soft and with a bruise
(13:00):
or two that showed they were ready to be eaten.
I asked for two, and also for some almonds that
the grocer twisted into a piece of brown paper for me.
(13:23):
After I tucked my treats into the pocket of my raincoat,
I drew my hood back up over my head and
crossed the street. I was almost home. The row of
(13:44):
brownstones stood shoulder to shoulder. They were all the same building, really,
repeated over and over, and with a few differences in
the facades. Some had court yards, some had gardens and gates,
(14:16):
and some had old trees growing up through the cracked pavements.
All of them had wide steps and stoops, though no
one was sitting out on them on a day like
to day. Mine had a tall, wrought iron gate and
(14:44):
fence that closed off my slightly overgrown garden from the street.
I stopped at the gate and looked for a moment,
and down the street there were a few others making
(15:08):
their way through the rain, with heads down or tucked
into umbrellas. My gate has just one key, and it
was in the house. That was how I liked it.
(15:37):
I didn't need a key. I reached up for the
heavy gate handle and let my thumb brush across a
tiny print reader that was programmed only to my thumb print.
(16:02):
No one could follow me in here. It took less
than a second. I heard a tiny click in the
lock mechanism and pulled the gate open. It locked smoothly
(16:27):
behind me, and I hurried through the garden and up
to my front door. I'd had enough of the rain.
My front door worked in much the same way as
(16:52):
my gait, but required a full palm print to open.
I wrapped my hand around the knob and it unlocked,
and I stepped in. I sighed, I had always enjoyed
(17:25):
the feeling of closing the door behind me at the
end of the day, knowing I didn't need to leave
the house again for the night. Turning back to the door,
(17:48):
I smiled at the row of locks. They were a metaphor.
The door was secure and didn't need them, but I
liked to turn them one at a time, just the same,
(18:13):
twisting the dead bolt, sliding the chain fastening the latch.
Take that world, I said. The rain was drumming against
(18:35):
the window now, and I only looked out at the
storm as it had now become a proper storm for
a moment before pulling the thick velvet curtain across. I
(19:03):
could feel my body becoming heavier with each step. I
was just a few minutes away from dropping into a sweet,
long nap, and I knew it. I kicked off my
(19:28):
boots and hung my raincoat on the coat rack on
my way to the library. Passing through the kitchen, I
pressed the button on the electric kettle with half an
idea of having a cup of tea. Likely I'd be
(19:54):
asleep before it boiled. The library had a deep sofa
that was long enough to stretch out on, and a
couple of throes and pillows. There were proper reading lamps
(20:17):
set here and there, but I left them off. The
string of fairy lights glowing around the tops of the
book shelves was perfect. I set my pears and almonds
on a table beside the sofa and lay down. I
(20:44):
looked out at the books for a few moments, with
a few snow globes and mementoes tucked in. The kettle
was making us offt sound and the rain and thunder
were muffled and far away. My eyes were closing. I
(21:13):
heard the soft pad of kitty paws, then a moment
of stillness as she prepared to jump, and she landed
on my knees. I twisted onto my side and she
(21:33):
slid into the space behind my legs. I pulled a
blanket up over us, laid my face on a soft
old pillow, and closed my eyes. We slept sweet treat es.
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