June 16, 2018 • 16 mins
Our story tonight is called “Summer Nights” and it’s a story about a day at the lake with friends, a huge summer feast, and sweet night air. It’s also about the feeling of realizing when something is good and being happy about it.
So get cozy and ready to sleep.
This episode mentions alcohol.
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See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.
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Transcript
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.
All stories are written and read by me, Katherine Nikolay,
with audio engineering by Bob Witterersheim. Let me explain a
(00:25):
bit about how to use this podcast. Just like when
you were a child being tucked in for bed, you're
going to hear a story to send you off to dreamland.
It's a simple story, without much action, but full of
relaxing detail. The story is meant to be a soft
(00:49):
landing place for your mind, so that instead of circling
through the same thoughts you've been stuck in all day,
you can rest it in a sweet, peaceful place. I'll
tell our story twice, and I'll go a bit slower
the second time through. If you find yourself still awake
(01:12):
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. Take
your mind back to the beginning of the story and
walk yourself back through the details that you can remember,
(01:38):
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 a bit of patience at the beginning, and if
you find yourself awake again later in the night, just
(02:00):
think back through the story again and you'll go right
back to sleep. Now it's time to turn off the
light and to put away anything you've been playing with
or looking at. Take some time to cozy your body
down into your preferred sleeping position, get the right pillow
(02:25):
in the right spot, and let everything relax. In time,
all of this becomes a signal for your brain, and
the signal says it's time for sleep. Now. Let's take
a deep breath in through the nose and then a
(02:48):
soft sigh out of the mouth. Good, do that one
more time, Breathe in and out. Our story to night
(03:09):
is called Summer Nights, and it's a story about a
day at the lake with friends, a huge summer feast,
and sweet night air. It's also about the feeling of
realizing when something is good and being happy about it.
(03:32):
Summer Nights we swam all day. We ran down the dock,
our wet feet slapping on the sun bleached boards, and
made sloppy dives and cannon balls into the lake. We
tooled around on paddle boards and kayaks. We floated lazily
(03:55):
on inner tubes, fingers trailing in the water. We talked,
We sang along to the radio and told jokes and
cracked each other up. Then we pulled ourselves up into
lounge chairs, jams, straw hats over our faces, stretched out
(04:16):
and fell asleep in the hot summer sun. When we woke,
we raided the coolers for cold drinks, eight chips and salsa,
jumped back in the lake and dripped water over our
magazines and paperback books. When the sun had tipped into
(04:37):
the afternoon sky, we pulled shorts and tank tops over
our swimsuits and patted into the house to make a
big summer feast of a dinner. The gardens were overflowing,
and the farmer's market stalls had been too tempting to
resist that week, so the house was full of summer
vegetables and fresh fruits. We handed two dozen ears of
(05:01):
corn to a few of our group, who carried them
to the back porch to shuck off the fresh leaves
into brown paper bags. We lit the barbecue and laid
out thick slices of seasoned egg plant and squash, and
tiny new potatoes. We marinated portobella mushrooms and added them
sizzling to the grille. I had an Italian grandma who
(05:28):
taught me that when vegetables were in the peak of
their season, as all of our hall were, to show
them simply with good olive oil, garlic, a bit of
sea salt, and an herb or two. We had buckets
of fresh tiny tomatoes from the garden, and I made
them into an insalata di pomo d'Oro per Gramma's recipe,
(05:52):
with lots of fresh basil torn in. As the vegetables
were coming off the grille, I cut thick slices of
farm bread two loaves at least, rubbed them all over
with fresh garlic, drizzled olive oil, and sprinkled salt and pepper,
and set them out on the grill to crisp. As
(06:15):
we were all coming to the table, I laid huge
trays of the brusquetta topped with Grandma's tomatoes in the center.
Here were the grilled vegetables, the fresh salads, the hot
sweet corn, and plates of fresh guacamole, homemade hummus, and
salsas and herby pestos. We talked over each other, reached
(06:41):
for dishes, past them, ate off each other's plates, poured
cold water into cups, dug beer out of the cooler,
and bottles of rose and prosecco, and ate, and ate,
and ate. We stayed at the table talking as the
sun started to sink down behind the trees. Pushed our
(07:02):
plates back and lit citranilla candles to ward off summer bugs.
Someone brought out bowls of fresh berries and a hot
cobbler from the oven. No, we cried, no more, we can't,
but we found a way. We carried our plates into
the house, and some kind soul started washing dishes. Someone
(07:26):
started to dry. We turned up the radio and sang
as we tidied and wiped down the counters. I snuck
to my room and pulled on an old pair of
lounge pants and a warm, soft hoodie. My skin was
sun kissed and chilled, and the fresh clothes felt so good.
(07:48):
I washed my face and put on some lip balm,
and found my flip flops and headed back out. Now
there was a fire and all the chairs had been
pulled up. We propped our feet up and looked at
the stars that were just starting to show. Fireflies were
blinking in the trees, and a breeze brought the smell
(08:11):
of the water into our noses. There is a feeling
on summer nights when you look up at the sky
and suddenly remember how old the universe is, how big
it is, and how small and simple you are. It
is always a comfort to me to remember that I
(08:33):
am small, and so may as well take some joy
where I find it, and set aside my worries and grudges.
I looked around at the faces of my friends, the
firelight shining in their eyes, laughing and talking and making
memories together. I felt simple contentment and gratitude to be
(08:58):
where I was with them. I leaned my head back
against the old Adirondack chair and took a deep breath
of summer night air. Tonight I would sleep deep and peaceful.
(09:22):
Summer nights. We swam all day. We ran down the dock,
our wet feet slapping on the sun bleached boards, and
made sloppy dives and cannon balls into the lake. We
(09:43):
tooled around on paddle boards and kayaks. We floated lazily
on inner tubes, fingers trailing in the water, We talked,
We sang along to the radio and told jokes and
cracked each other up. Then we pulled ourselves up into
(10:05):
lounge chairs, jammed straw hats over our faces, stretched out,
and fell asleep in the hot summer sun. When we woke,
we raided the coolers for cold drinks, eight chips and salsa,
jumped back in the lake, and dripped water over our
(10:29):
magazines and paperback books. When the sun had tipped into
the afternoon sky, we pulled shorts and tink tops over
our swimsuits and patted into the house to make a
big summer feast of a dinner. The gardens were overflowing,
(10:52):
and the farmer's market stalls had been too tempting to
resist that week, so the house was full of some
vegetables and fresh fruits. We handed two dozen ears of
corn to a few of our group, who carried them
out to the back porch to shuck the fresh leaves
(11:13):
off into brown paper bags. We lit the barbecue and
laid out thick slices of seasoned egg plant and squash
and tiny new potatoes. We marinated portobello mushrooms and added
them sizzling to the grille. I had an Italian grandma
(11:35):
who taught me that when vegetables were in the peak
of their season, as all of our hall were, to
show them simply with good olive oil, garlic, a bit
of sea salt, and an herb or two. We had
buckets of fresh tiny tomatoes from the garden, and I
(11:56):
made them into an insalata di pomo d'Oro Pegramma's recipe,
with lots of fresh basil torn in. As the vegetables
were coming off the grill, I cut thick slices of
farm bread two loaves at least, rubbed them all over
(12:17):
with fresh garlic, drizzled olive oil, and sprinkled salt and pepper,
and set them on the grill to crisp. As we
were all coming to the table, I laid huge trays
of the brusquetta topped with Grandma's tomatoes in the center.
(12:39):
Here were the grilled vegetables, the fresh salads, the hot
sweet corn, and plates of fresh guacamole, home made hummus
and salsas, and herby pestos. We talked over each other,
reached for dishes, passed them ate off each other's plates,
(13:03):
poured cold water into cups, dug beer out of the cooler,
and bottles of rose and prosecco, and ate, and ate
and ate. We stayed at the table talking as the
sun started to sink down behind the trees. Pushed our
plates back and lit the tronella candles to ward off
(13:25):
summer bugs. Some one brought out bowls of fresh berries
and a hot cobbler from the oven. No, we cried,
no more, we can't, but we found a way. We
(13:46):
carried our plates into the house, and some kind soul
started washing dishes. Someone started to dry. We turned up
the radio and sang as we tidied and down the counters.
I snucked in my room and pulled on an old
pair of lounge pants and a warm, soft hoodie. My
(14:12):
skin was sun kissed and chilled, and the fresh clothes
felt so good. I washed my face, put on some
lip balm, and found my flip flops and headed back out.
Now there was a fire and all the chairs had
(14:33):
been pulled up around it. We propped our feet up
and looked at the stars that were just starting to show.
Fireflies were blinking in the trees, and a breeze brought
the smell of water into our noses. There is a
(14:54):
feeling on summer nights when you look up at the
sky and suddenly remember how old the universe is, how
big it is, and how small and simple you are.
It is always a comfort to me to remember that
(15:15):
I am small, and so may as well take some
joy where I find it, and set aside my worries
and grudges. I looked around at the faces of my friends,
the firelight shining in their eyes, laughing and talking and
making memories together. I felt simple contentment and gratitude to
(15:43):
be where I was and with them. I leaned my
head back against the old Adirondack chair and took a
deep breath of summer night air. To night I would sleep,
deep and peaceful, sweet dreams
Welcome to bedtime stories for grown ups in which nothing
much happens, you feel good, and then you fall asleep.
All stories are written and read by me, Katherine Nikolay,
with audio engineering by Bob Witterersheim. Let me explain a
(00:25):
bit about how to use this podcast. Just like when
you were a child being tucked in for bed, you're
going to hear a story to send you off to dreamland.
It's a simple story, without much action, but full of
relaxing detail. The story is meant to be a soft
(00:49):
landing place for your mind, so that instead of circling
through the same thoughts you've been stuck in all day,
you can rest it in a sweet, peaceful place. I'll
tell our story twice, and I'll go a bit slower
the second time through. If you find yourself still awake
(01:12):
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. Take
your mind back to the beginning of the story and
walk yourself back through the details that you can remember,
(01:38):
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 a bit of patience at the beginning, and if
you find yourself awake again later in the night, just
(02:00):
think back through the story again and you'll go right
back to sleep. Now it's time to turn off the
light and to put away anything you've been playing with
or looking at. Take some time to cozy your body
down into your preferred sleeping position, get the right pillow
(02:25):
in the right spot, and let everything relax. In time,
all of this becomes a signal for your brain, and
the signal says it's time for sleep. Now. Let's take
a deep breath in through the nose and then a
(02:48):
soft sigh out of the mouth. Good, do that one
more time, Breathe in and out. Our story to night
(03:09):
is called Summer Nights, and it's a story about a
day at the lake with friends, a huge summer feast,
and sweet night air. It's also about the feeling of
realizing when something is good and being happy about it.
(03:32):
Summer Nights we swam all day. We ran down the dock,
our wet feet slapping on the sun bleached boards, and
made sloppy dives and cannon balls into the lake. We
tooled around on paddle boards and kayaks. We floated lazily
(03:55):
on inner tubes, fingers trailing in the water. We talked,
We sang along to the radio and told jokes and
cracked each other up. Then we pulled ourselves up into
lounge chairs, jams, straw hats over our faces, stretched out
(04:16):
and fell asleep in the hot summer sun. When we woke,
we raided the coolers for cold drinks, eight chips and salsa,
jumped back in the lake and dripped water over our
magazines and paperback books. When the sun had tipped into
(04:37):
the afternoon sky, we pulled shorts and tank tops over
our swimsuits and patted into the house to make a
big summer feast of a dinner. The gardens were overflowing,
and the farmer's market stalls had been too tempting to
resist that week, so the house was full of summer
vegetables and fresh fruits. We handed two dozen ears of
(05:01):
corn to a few of our group, who carried them
to the back porch to shuck off the fresh leaves
into brown paper bags. We lit the barbecue and laid
out thick slices of seasoned egg plant and squash, and
tiny new potatoes. We marinated portobella mushrooms and added them
sizzling to the grille. I had an Italian grandma who
(05:28):
taught me that when vegetables were in the peak of
their season, as all of our hall were, to show
them simply with good olive oil, garlic, a bit of
sea salt, and an herb or two. We had buckets
of fresh tiny tomatoes from the garden, and I made
them into an insalata di pomo d'Oro per Gramma's recipe,
(05:52):
with lots of fresh basil torn in. As the vegetables
were coming off the grille, I cut thick slices of
farm bread two loaves at least, rubbed them all over
with fresh garlic, drizzled olive oil, and sprinkled salt and pepper,
and set them out on the grill to crisp. As
(06:15):
we were all coming to the table, I laid huge
trays of the brusquetta topped with Grandma's tomatoes in the center.
Here were the grilled vegetables, the fresh salads, the hot
sweet corn, and plates of fresh guacamole, homemade hummus, and
salsas and herby pestos. We talked over each other, reached
(06:41):
for dishes, past them, ate off each other's plates, poured
cold water into cups, dug beer out of the cooler,
and bottles of rose and prosecco, and ate, and ate,
and ate. We stayed at the table talking as the
sun started to sink down behind the trees. Pushed our
(07:02):
plates back and lit citranilla candles to ward off summer bugs.
Someone brought out bowls of fresh berries and a hot
cobbler from the oven. No, we cried, no more, we can't,
but we found a way. We carried our plates into
the house, and some kind soul started washing dishes. Someone
(07:26):
started to dry. We turned up the radio and sang
as we tidied and wiped down the counters. I snuck
to my room and pulled on an old pair of
lounge pants and a warm, soft hoodie. My skin was
sun kissed and chilled, and the fresh clothes felt so good.
(07:48):
I washed my face and put on some lip balm,
and found my flip flops and headed back out. Now
there was a fire and all the chairs had been
pulled up. We propped our feet up and looked at
the stars that were just starting to show. Fireflies were
blinking in the trees, and a breeze brought the smell
(08:11):
of the water into our noses. There is a feeling
on summer nights when you look up at the sky
and suddenly remember how old the universe is, how big
it is, and how small and simple you are. It
is always a comfort to me to remember that I
(08:33):
am small, and so may as well take some joy
where I find it, and set aside my worries and grudges.
I looked around at the faces of my friends, the
firelight shining in their eyes, laughing and talking and making
memories together. I felt simple contentment and gratitude to be
(08:58):
where I was with them. I leaned my head back
against the old Adirondack chair and took a deep breath
of summer night air. Tonight I would sleep deep and peaceful.
(09:22):
Summer nights. We swam all day. We ran down the dock,
our wet feet slapping on the sun bleached boards, and
made sloppy dives and cannon balls into the lake. We
(09:43):
tooled around on paddle boards and kayaks. We floated lazily
on inner tubes, fingers trailing in the water, We talked,
We sang along to the radio and told jokes and
cracked each other up. Then we pulled ourselves up into
(10:05):
lounge chairs, jammed straw hats over our faces, stretched out,
and fell asleep in the hot summer sun. When we woke,
we raided the coolers for cold drinks, eight chips and salsa,
jumped back in the lake, and dripped water over our
(10:29):
magazines and paperback books. When the sun had tipped into
the afternoon sky, we pulled shorts and tink tops over
our swimsuits and patted into the house to make a
big summer feast of a dinner. The gardens were overflowing,
(10:52):
and the farmer's market stalls had been too tempting to
resist that week, so the house was full of some
vegetables and fresh fruits. We handed two dozen ears of
corn to a few of our group, who carried them
out to the back porch to shuck the fresh leaves
(11:13):
off into brown paper bags. We lit the barbecue and
laid out thick slices of seasoned egg plant and squash
and tiny new potatoes. We marinated portobello mushrooms and added
them sizzling to the grille. I had an Italian grandma
(11:35):
who taught me that when vegetables were in the peak
of their season, as all of our hall were, to
show them simply with good olive oil, garlic, a bit
of sea salt, and an herb or two. We had
buckets of fresh tiny tomatoes from the garden, and I
(11:56):
made them into an insalata di pomo d'Oro Pegramma's recipe,
with lots of fresh basil torn in. As the vegetables
were coming off the grill, I cut thick slices of
farm bread two loaves at least, rubbed them all over
(12:17):
with fresh garlic, drizzled olive oil, and sprinkled salt and pepper,
and set them on the grill to crisp. As we
were all coming to the table, I laid huge trays
of the brusquetta topped with Grandma's tomatoes in the center.
(12:39):
Here were the grilled vegetables, the fresh salads, the hot
sweet corn, and plates of fresh guacamole, home made hummus
and salsas, and herby pestos. We talked over each other,
reached for dishes, passed them ate off each other's plates,
(13:03):
poured cold water into cups, dug beer out of the cooler,
and bottles of rose and prosecco, and ate, and ate
and ate. We stayed at the table talking as the
sun started to sink down behind the trees. Pushed our
plates back and lit the tronella candles to ward off
(13:25):
summer bugs. Some one brought out bowls of fresh berries
and a hot cobbler from the oven. No, we cried,
no more, we can't, but we found a way. We
(13:46):
carried our plates into the house, and some kind soul
started washing dishes. Someone started to dry. We turned up
the radio and sang as we tidied and down the counters.
I snucked in my room and pulled on an old
pair of lounge pants and a warm, soft hoodie. My
(14:12):
skin was sun kissed and chilled, and the fresh clothes
felt so good. I washed my face, put on some
lip balm, and found my flip flops and headed back out.
Now there was a fire and all the chairs had
(14:33):
been pulled up around it. We propped our feet up
and looked at the stars that were just starting to show.
Fireflies were blinking in the trees, and a breeze brought
the smell of water into our noses. There is a
(14:54):
feeling on summer nights when you look up at the
sky and suddenly remember how old the universe is, how
big it is, and how small and simple you are.
It is always a comfort to me to remember that
(15:15):
I am small, and so may as well take some
joy where I find it, and set aside my worries
and grudges. I looked around at the faces of my friends,
the firelight shining in their eyes, laughing and talking and
making memories together. I felt simple contentment and gratitude to
(15:43):
be where I was and with them. I leaned my
head back against the old Adirondack chair and took a
deep breath of summer night air. To night I would sleep,
deep and peaceful, sweet dreams
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