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“To bed time stories, for everyone, in which nothing much happens, you feel good, and then,”
you fall asleep, I'm Katherine Nikolai, I write and read all the stories you hear on nothing much happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Woodersheim. We give to a different charity each week, and this week, we are giving to marine mammal care
center, inspiring ocean conservation, germarine mammal rescue, and rehabilitation, education,
and research, learn more about them in our show notes. In our virtual village of nothing much on our app, you can, of course, listen to all of our show's ad-free, as well as take yoga and meditation classes from me, dive into courses
“on journaling and mindful drawing, and just come to live events, hang out with your neighbors.”
I'd love to see you there. Saw it, nothing much happens.com. Your mind is a bit like a truck, with a brick on the gas pedal. It will keep going even if there is no one there to steer it. This podcast gives you a pleasant track to roll it on to a safe space to let it slowly run
out of gas and deliver you to dreamland. I'll read our story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake again in the night, don't hesitate to just push play, and you'll drop right back off.
“Our story tonight is called Off the Beaton Path, and it's a story about a bit of summer”
adventuring, and the delight of coming across something you never knew was there.
It's also about stocks of lavender, and a copper still in a field. Pinkies, and treehouses, and taking a road that leads somewhere new. One of my favorite little summer luxuries is climbing into bed at the end of the day and finding that the sheets are actually cool. That's one of the reasons I've become such a fan of quince.
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Now available in Canada too. It's q-u-i-n-c-e.com/nothingmatch for free shipping and 365 day returns, quince.com/nothingmatch. It's time. Lights out, devices down, get the right pillow in the right spot, and let everything relax. You are right where you're supposed to be, and there's nothing left to do, but rest.
Take a deep breath in through your nose, let it out your mouth. Nice, one more, breathe in, and out. Good, off the beaten path.
I've always been one to turn off the main roads, and go looking for some plac...
been before.
“Maybe I'm still looking to be surprised by something.”
To see some hidden ruin, rising out of a clump of trees, or to stumble across a waterfall
where I'd never known there to be one.
Mostly I find more woods, more fields, more old houses tumbling down on forgotten farmland, but even those things are pretty magical. Sometimes I spot an old treehouse, still holding its own in the branches of a tall tree. I like to think about who had climbed the planks, tacked into its bark, to shout out the rules of a new game, and play pretend from the tiny house above, and where they might
be today, and if sometimes, in the middle of a busy meeting, or while folding laundry
on a rainy day, they stop.
“To remember the way the wood felt under their fingers as they climbed.”
Today was a perfect day for exploring, with blue skies and a warm summer air coming in through the open car windows. I stopped at a shady intersection, and looked up and down the rotted dirt road in front of me. I picked a direction, and turned, bits of gravel skittering out from under my tires,
and the sloping land on either side, rising to show exposed roots of old hemlocks, and to show their labels.
“The roads were a bit rough, and hilly, and tended to be crisscrossed constantly by chipmunks”
and squirrels. So I went slowly, and stopped every now and then to get a better look into a field, or a grove of trees. I turned another corner, and stopped short, so a rafter of turkeys could pack and strut and flap their way across the road.
I kept driving, feeling a bit lost, and enjoying it. I had no place to be, so wherever I was was just right. The hills smoothed out into broader, flattening fields, and I saw a few silos in the distance. The road ran alongside a few busy farms. I could see tractors and thrasers moving over the land. Beyond the meadows of corn and wheat, I saw a field covered with a bright purple haze.
I tipped my face toward the window, and breathed in the sweet, herbal smell, a fresh growing lavender. Further down the road, I saw a drive that turned toward the purple fields, and at its entrance a sign saying they were open and happy to have visitors.
I'd never seen so many lavender plants in one place.
They covered the fields on either side of the drive, in neat, evenly spaced rows. They surrounded a small house and parking lot, and continued as far back as I could see into the acres beyond. I parked my car in their small lot, beside one or two others,
Left my windows down, with the hopes that the flowery scent in the air would ...
I just walked for a while through the rows of plants, stopping now and then,
“to press my hand into the shrubby stems, and feel their short green leaves, which looked a bit like”
rosemary. Their bright purple flowered heads left my skin, scented, with the clean and almost minty aroma. That, while being something like the soap on the shelf in my shower, was a thousand times more potent and astonishing. I thought that if I had been a healer,
living centuries before, and had stumbled upon these plants for the first time,
I would immediately have recognized them as medicine. I followed a gravel path that circled through the fields, and saw a few small structures, and cleared spaces to explore. They had a humble shop built from an old shed, with shelves lined with homemade soaps, and satchels filled with tiny purple grains,
“they had small bottles of potent essential oil, but the man behind the counter”
proudly told me they distilled themselves. They had glass jars of lavender water, to spray on linens and laundry, and candles beckled with green and purple flecks of the plant. I gathered a small collection of items, including a precious tiny bottle of the oil, and paid my dollars, which went into an old tin box under the counter. The man pointed further down the path, and invited me to keep wandering.
“I thanked him, and took him up on the offer. I found another shed.”
This one, with every inch of wall space, dedicated to drying lavender. It hung in overlapping bundles, with heads down and stems in the air. There were hundreds of bouquets, and the air inside was hot and thick with the scent. I stood and let it settle over me. My briefed it in, and felt calm, and relaxed.
I had never been in a spa, but smelled this good. And I thought about how old these techniques were,
and that sometimes modern luxuries just can't recreate what nature produces so prolifically. Outside the drying shed was a tall copper still, and beside it small gray-haired woman, who was attaching a coiled tube to the boiler. She smiled up at me, and asked if I knew how they turned their fields of lavender into the oil they sold in their shop. I said that I didn't, but was eager to learn.
She pulled off thick work gloves, and reached into a basket, to bring out the handful of fresh lavender stalks. She told me she'd cut them that morning, close to the flowerhead, without much stem,
As that produces the best quality oil.
how the kettle would be packed full of lavender, and steamed slowly, to extract the oil.
“She walked me around the still, and we squatted down together, to see where it would separate”
from the vapor, and be caught in a glass bottle. I guess she'd given this same talk, hundreds, if not thousands of times before,
but was still excited, and proud to share the secrets of her process with me.
She put her gloves back on, and went back to packing the belly of the copper kettle,
“with the flowers. She tilted her head toward the path, and asked if I'd found the labyrinth yet.”
I'd set out today to explore, expecting not to find much more than the usual fields and forests. Gassing I already knew all the secrets that these acres held. As I followed the path to the labyrinth, or whatever I might find next, I reminded myself how sweet it is to be surprised, how good to wander off the beaten path. Off the beaten path.
I've always been one, to turn off the main roads, and go looking for some place I've never been before.
Maybe I'm still looking to be surprised by something, to see some hidden ruin rising out of a clump of trees, more to stumble across a waterfall, where I'd never known there to be one. Mostly, I find more woods, more fields, more old houses, tumbling down on forgotten farmland. But even those things are pretty magical.
Sometimes I spot an old treehouse, still holding its own, in the branches of a tall tree. I like to think about who had climbed the planks, tacked into its bark, to shout out the rules of a new game. I play pretend from the tiny house above, on where they might be today. And if, sometimes, in the middle of a busy meeting, or while folding laundry on a rainy day,
“they stop to remember the way the wood felt under their fingers as they climbed.”
Today was a perfect day for exploring with blue skies and warm summer air coming in through the open car windows. I stopped at a shady intersection and looked up and down the rudded dirt road in front of me. I picked a direction and turned, bits of gravel, skittering out from under my tires, and the sloping land on either side, rising to show exposed roots of old himlox
Sugar maples.
intended to be crisscrossed constantly by chipmunks and squirrels.
“So I went slowly and stopped every now and then to get a better look into a field”
or grove of trees. I turned another corner and stopped short so a rafter of turkeys
could pack and strut and flap their way across the road.
I kept driving, feeling a bit lost and enjoying it. I had no place to be
“so wherever I was was just right. The hills smoothed out into broader, flattening fields”
and I saw a few silos in the distance. The road ran alongside a few busy farms. I could see tractors and thrasers moving over the land. Beyond the meadows of corn and wheat, I saw a field covered with a bright purple haze.
“I tipped my face toward the window and breathed in a sweet, herbal smell, a fresh growing lavender.”
Further down the road, I saw a drive that turned toward the purple fields and at its entrance a sign saying they were open and happy to have visitors.
I'd never seen so many lavender plants in one place.
They covered the fields on either side of the drive, in neat, evenly spaced rows. They surrounded a small house and parking lot and continued as far back as I could see into the acres beyond. I parked my car in their small lot beside one or two others and left my windows down with the hopes that the flowery scent in the air would settle into it. I just walked for a while through the rows of plants, stopping now and then to press my hand
into the shrubby stems and feel their short green leaves which looked a bit like rosemary. Their bright purple flowered heads left my skin scented with the clean almost minty aroma that while being something like the soap on the shelf in my shower was a thousand times more potent and astonishing. I thought that if I had been a healer living centuries before
Had stumbled upon these plants for the first time, I would immediately
have recognized them as medicine. I followed a gravel path that circled through the fields
and saw a few small structures and cleared spaces to explore. They had a humble shop built from an old shed with shelves lined with homemade soaps
“and satchels filled with tiny purple grains. They had small bottles of potent essential oil”
that the man behind the counter proudly told me they distilled themselves.
They had glass jars of lavender water to spray on linens and laundry and candles speckled with green and purple flax of the plant. I gathered a small collection of items including a precious tiny bottle of the oil
and paid my dollars which went into an old tin box under the counter.
The man pointed further down the path and invited me to keep wandering.
“I think Tim and took him up on his offer. I found another shed”
this one with every inch of wall space dedicated to drying lavender bit hung in overlapping bundles with heads down and stems in the air. There were hundreds of bouquets and the air inside was hot and thick with the scent. I stood and let it settle over me. I breathed it in and felt calm and relaxed.
“I had never been in a spa that smelled this good and I thought about how old these techniques were”
and that sometimes modern luxuries just can't recreate what nature produces so prolifically. Outside the drying shed was a tall copper still and beside it a small gray-haired woman who was attaching a coil tube to the boiler. She smiled up at me and asked if I knew how they turned their fields of lavender into the oil they sold in their shop. I said that I didn't but was eager to learn.
She pulled off thick work gloves and reached into a basket to bring out a handful of fresh lavender stocks. She told me she'd cut them that morning close to the flower head without much stem. As that produces the best quality oil. As she told me the story of distillation how the kettle would be packed full of lavender and steamed slowly to extract the oil.
She walked me around the still and we squatted down together
to see where it would separate from the vapor and be caught in a glass bottle.
“I guess she'd given this same talk hundreds if not thousands of times before”
but was still excited and proud to share the secrets of her process with me.
She put her gloves back on and went back to packing the belly of the copper kettle with the
“flowers. She tilted her head toward the path, and asked if I'd found the labyrinth yet.”
I'd set out today to explore, expecting not to find much more than the usual fields
and forests. Guessing I already knew all the secrets that these acres held
“as I followed the path to the labyrinth or whatever I might find next.”
I reminded myself how sweet it is to be surprised how good to wander off the beaten path. Sweet dreams.
