Petrichor (Encore)

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“Hi, I'm Katherine Nikolai, and if you're looking for something gentle to listen to, that”

isn't news or true crime or self-improvement, I made this for you. What's from the village of nothing much is like easy listening, but for fiction, cozy, warm, calm stories about ordinary moments that feel a little magical. They're grounding, soothing, and quietly uplifting, without being cheesy. Relaxing, without putting you to sleep, and just dreamy enough to remind you that they're

still sweetness in everyday life. Make for your commute while you're tidying up, or when you want a little escape, that feels simple and good.

“Search for stories from the village of nothing much, wherever you listen.”

To bedtime 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 Wittersheim. We are bringing you an on-core episode tonight, meaning that this story originally aired

at some point in the past. It could have been recorded with different equipment and 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-brast and

sweet dreams. I have a tried and true method for quidding down your brain, and easing you into sleep. I'll tell you a bedtime story with simple and soothing, and I'll tell it twice, going a little slower on the second read through.

“All you have to do is listen, let your mind fallable on with the shape of the story, and”

the sound of my voice, and before you know it, you'll be waking up tomorrow, feeling rested and ready for another day.

If you wake in the middle of the night, you could always listen again, or just think

back through any bits of the story that you can remember. Over time you will create a go-to response that will make falling asleep and returning to sleep easier and easier. Our story tonight is called Petra Core. And it's a story about things getting greener as the spring rain falls.

It's also about a record player with a favorite album on the turntable, deer, dozing in the grass, and making a habit of enjoying yourself. Now, turn everything off, slide down into your sheets, and get your favorite pillow in just the right spot. The day is over, I'll be here watching over with my voice, so you can really let go.

Take a deep breath in through your nose, let it out your mouth, nice, one more, breathe in, out, good, petra Core, from the window in the highest room of my house.

It always did at this time of year.

“The snow and ice melting in rivers far north of here, fed it, and often it overflowed its”

banks and made a little pond around the roots of the maple and Elm trees where migrating ducks stopped for a float. I could just see them if I squinted, and I imagine their feet kicking through the cold water,

as they groomed their feathers with their beaks.

It was raining, and it had been for a day or two.

“And even in the dim light, you could see the landscape changing, almost by the hour.”

Everything was turning green. There were daffodils, and hostas coming up in clumps around the trees, and there was sort of an emerald sheen, like a color filter on a photograph wherever you looked.

It was buds on branches and the first blades of grass.

There was a path worn through the woods, a deer trail, barely a foot wide, where generations

“of bucks and does and fawns had walked as they crossed from one place to another.”

I often saw a wrangle of does clustered on a dry patch in the afternoon. Some would sleep while others ate lazily, or just rested and gazed into the distance. I called them my ladies who lunch, and looked out for them every day, and felt sort of honored that they came to my yard for their hour and hour. There was rain, but no wind, which meant that the drops were falling straight down, and

I eased the old window open a few inches. The air that rolled in was cool, but brought with it the pure sweet smell of spring rain. Gosh, there really is nothing like that smell. Here the winter, all those frozen still days, then the melt, and days of drying winds and warmer air, and then this rain.

It was like a perfectly formulated recipe to evoke the most pleasing scent, and I liked thinking that my ancestors would have smelled the same thing after their own long winters. Some things are universal. Some things you can count on, and this was one of them. My steps back from the window, and looked around the room. It was only early afternoon, but the room was full of shadows.

I had a row of candles on a desk, and I struck a match, and lit them one by one, and set them around the room, till the space felt cozy and welcoming.

Now, I needed music.

“I flipped through the records on my shelf.”

I'd had the same album on my turntable for the last two weeks.

Some are time music that felt like driving around with your windows down, and long evenings where the sun didn't set till very late. It had been perfect, while everyone was out riding bikes and planting their flowers. But now I needed something a little softer, less ambitious, maybe a little soulful.

I reached for the albums that my folks listened to when I was a kid.

Singer songwriters, whose music I had heard on car trips to the cottage, and that had played in the kitchen while dinner was cooked. I chipped one of the records out of its sleeve, and carefully caught it by it's edges. I set it on the turntable and turned it on.

“I remember, as a kid, when we'd upgraded our stereo, and suddenly had a record player that”

at the flick of a switch would lift the arm and set the needle on the record.

We'd all watched it in action the first time.

Wow, by such audimenticity. I must have reached more than once to help it into place, probably wanting to feel the force behind the motor, wondering how it worked, because I've been told to keep my hands to myself enough times, but even now, I had an impulse to put them in my pockets and step back.

“I smiled at the urge, as the first guitar chords played from the speakers.”

We hummed along, sometimes slipping into song with the woman on the record. I knew all the words. Now I had music to go along with the scent of spring rain, the glow of the candles. That else could make this moment really enjoyable. It was something I was practising lately, reminding myself that I was meant to enjoy my life.

I'd been quite good for many years, but making other people comfortable, helping others to enjoy. When there was nothing wrong with that, to see my loved ones at ease, pleased by a meal I'd made, or feeling at home in the space I created. It was all its own kind of satisfaction, but I'd forgotten about me along the way.

And now, I was in the business of reminding myself daily, to make a priority of the things I enjoyed. So I stood a minute, in my little room, at the top of the house, and closed my eyes, and sort of scanned through my body, looking for an answer as to what I wanted next.

I remembered turning the last page of a book the night before, closing it with a sigh

and sliding it onto my bedside table, wondering which of the books from my 2B Red Stack would come next.

“So that's what I wanted, to start a new book, to get lost in a new story.”

I went over to my book shelves, and squatted down to look at the spines in my stack. I was frugal about some things, but not books. I bought them generously, shared them, gifted them, borrowed them, kept them too long without any guilt. I like to know as little about a book as possible before I started it.

I didn't want to know any of the twists or turns until I was actually taking them. So I relied on my bookseller, my librarian, and friends.

“If one of them said, "I think you would like, I cut them off right there."”

I just said, "Yes, please. It rarely failed me." So as I picked up each book and turned it over in my hands, I was going uninstinct, reacting to the title, to the cover art, the font, and the way that it felt. There was one with a cover, the color of poppies.

Title of that sounded like an idiom I had always known, but just never actually heard.

“And the solid weight of many hours of reading in it.”

I carried it to the shades long by the window and climbed in. The room was a little cool with the fresh air coming in. So I tossed a throw over my legs and settled back as comfortable and happy as I could be. I took a slow breath and let it out, when started with chapter 1. Petricor from the window in the highest room of my house. I could look down into the gully

where the river was running fast and high.

It always did with this time of year.

The snow and ice melting in rivers far north of here fed it. It overflowed its banks and made a little pond around the roots of the maple. And Elm trees, where my grading ducks stopped for a float. I could just see them if I squinted. And I imagined their feet kicking through the cold water, as they groomed their feathers with

their beaks. It was raining and it had been for a day or two.

The thing was turning green.

“There were daffodils and hostas coming up in clumps around the trees.”

Then there was a sort of emerald sheen, like a color filter on a photograph, wherever you looked.

It was buds and branches on the first blades of grass.

There was a path worn through the woods, a deer trail, barely a foot wide, or generations of bucks and does and fawns had walked as they crossed from one place to another.

“I often saw a wrangle of does clustered on a dry patch in the afternoon.”

Some would sleep while others ate lazily, or just rested, gazed into the distance.

I called them my ladies who lunch and looked out for them every day. I felt sort of honored that they came to my yard for their art and art. There was rain but no wind, which meant the drops were falling straight down, and I eased

the old window up a few inches.

“The air that rolled in was cool, but brought with it the pure sweet smell of spring rain.”

Gosh, there really is nothing like that smell. After the winter, all those frozen still days, then the melt, and a few days of drying winds and a warmer air, and then the rain, it was like a perfectly formulated recipe to evoke the most pleasing scent, and I liked thinking that my ancestors would have smelled the same thing after their own long winters.

Some things are universal. Things you can count on, and this was one of them. I stepped back from the window and looked around the room. It was only early after noon, but the room was full of shadows. I had a row of candles on a desk, and I struck a match and lit them one by one.

And set them around the room till the space felt cozy and welcoming.

Now, I needed music.

“I flipped through the records on my shelf.”

I'd had the same album on my turntable for the last two weeks.

Some were time music that felt like driving around with your windows down, and long evenings, or the sun didn't sat till very late, and that had been perfect while everyone was out riding bikes and planting their flowers.

“But now I needed something a little softer, less ambitious, maybe a little soulful.”

And I reached for the albums that my folks listened to, when I was a kid. Singer songwriters, whose music I had heard on car trips to the cottage, and that had played in the kitchen while dinner was cooked. I tipped one of the records out of its sleeve, and carefully caught it by its edges. I set it on the turntable, and turned it on.

“I remember as a kid when we'd upgraded our stereo, and suddenly had a record player that”

at the flick of a switch would lift the arm and set the needle on the record.

I'd all watched it in action the first time, wowed by such audimenticity.

I must have reached more than once to help it into place, probably wanting to feel the force behind the motor, wondering how it worked. Because I've been told to keep my hands to myself enough times that even now my had an impulse to put them in my pockets and step back.

I smiled at the urge as the first guitar cords played from the speakers.

I hummed along, sometimes slipping into song with a woman on the record. When I knew all the words, now I had music to go along with the scent of the spring rain, but glow of the candles. What else could make this moment really enjoyable? It was something I was practicing lately, reminding myself that I was meant to enjoy my life.

I'd been quite good for many years, at making other people comfortable, helping others to enjoy, and there was nothing wrong with that. To see my loved ones at ease, pleased by a meal I'd made, or feeling at home, and the space

It was its own kind of satisfaction, but I'd forgotten about me along the way.

“And now, I was in the business of reminding myself daily, to make a priority of the things”

I enjoyed. So I stood a minute in my little room at the top of the house, and closed my eyes, and sort

of scanned through my body, looking for an answer as to what I wanted next, what would

feel good? I remembered turning the last page of a book the night before, closing it with a sigh, and sliding it onto my bedside table, wondering which of the books from my 2B Red Stack would come next.

“So that's what I wanted to start a new book to get lost in a new story.”

I went over to my book shelves, and squatted down to look at the spines in my stack. I was frugal about some things, but not books. I bought them generously, shared them, gifted them, borrowed them, kept them too long without any guilt. I like to know as little about a book as possible before I started it.

I didn't want to know any of the twists or turns until I was actually taking them. So I relied on my bookseller, my librarian, and friends.

“If one of them said, "I think you would like," I cut them off, right there, and just”

said, "Yes, please." It rarely failed me, so as I picked up each book and turned it over in my hands. I was going uninstinct, reacting to the title, to the cover art, the font, and the way that it felt. There was one with the cover, the color of poppies, a title that sounded like an idiom I

had always known, but just never actually heard.

On the solid weight of many hours of reading in it, I carried it to the shades long by the window and climbed in. The room was a little cool, with the fresh air coming in. So I tossed a throw over my legs, and settled back as comfortable and happy as I could