Get more Nothing Much Happens with bonus episodes, extra long stories and ad-free listening, all while supporting the show you love. Subscribe now. It's hard to concentrate when you're worried about your health. It can feel like there's a wall between you and the rest of the world, like you can't be fully present. Hello, Axa Health. How can I help? At Axa Health Insurance, we build our teams with people who care, so when you need us, we're here to support you. For cover that cares, search Axa Health Insurance. Pre-existing conditions are not covered. I started listening to Weather and Heights to help me fall asleep. The moment the narrator began, everything slowed. Whatever our souls are made of, isn't mine or the same. The moors, the stormy skies, the poetry of the story pulls me in and I just drift off. Life changes when you listen. Weather and Heights by Emily Bronte, now on Spotify. You know how lots of sleep aides feel like they're doing something to you? 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That's C-U-R-E-D, nutrition.com slash nothingmuch. Coupon code nothingmuch because you already know the value of rest. Dream just helps you find the deep part again. Welcome to bedtime stories for everyone in which nothing much happens. You feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Catherine Nicolai. 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. More 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, we'll 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, it 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. 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 to 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 roofline 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 Years, 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 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. 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 mitten 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 left. I appreciated that little divergence from the straight and narrow. Glad that rather than cutting down a tree, someone 100 years ago 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 roofline 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 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 Years. 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 to 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. Once 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 hearty 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 mitten 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. 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.
