Slightly More Happens - July Journeys

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“Looking to strengthen your health and well-being, tune into the Dr. Tina show.”

One of Apple Podcast's top alternative health shows, with Dr. Tina Moore, a naturopathic physician and chiropractor. Take cover topics like metabolic health, chronic diseases, pain management, and more, with expert interviews and solo episodes. It's a no-nonsense science-backed approach to empower you to improve your health and resilience.

New episodes every Thursday, produced by Dr. Peter Sin, and Wellness Loud. Welcome to a special, longer episode of Bad Time Stories for everyone, in which slightly more happens, you feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Catherine Nikolai, I write and read all the stories you hear on nothing much happens.

“Audio Engineering is by Bob Wittersheim.”

We give to a different charity each week, and this week we are giving to Amma Center of Michigan, helping people meet each of their five basic needs, food, shelter, education, health care, and livelihood, wherever and whenever possible. Learn more about them in our show notes. Here is your monthly dose of extra nothing much, in which we give you a two to three story

episode on the free feed, or a five to six story episode over on the premium feed. In fact, on the premium feed, we regularly publish episodes that are over nine hours long, and we're always adding more. So if that sounds helpful or joyful to you, for just 10 cents a day, you can join. Learn more at nothing much happens.com.

Just as with our regular episodes, these stories are simply a soft place to occupy your mind, to keep it steady, and allow you to drift asleep.

As always, I'll tell the stories twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through.

If you wake later in the night, don't hesitate to just start the mall over again. Our stories tonight treat us to many sunny moments in and around the end. Their stories about a stately home, at the end of a long drive, a lake, shimmering, is row boats glide across it, coffee cake, and names in a ledger, and a place to rest, and enjoy some of the sweetest days of summer.

“I think most of us have gotten pretty good at spotting green washing.”

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you, and better for the planet.

Go to naturesunshine.com today, and use the code nothing much for 20% off your first order,

plus free shipping. That's code nothing much for 20% off your first order at naturesunshine.com. Now settle in and be at ease. The day was what it was, and now we are here, with nothing to do, or plans to make. Just deep, or store it in, sleep.

Take a deep breath in through your nose, let it out your mouth, nice, one more, breathe in,

The trees across the lake were decked with thousands of waving green leaves.

“The tadpoles I've been watching at the water's edge, had grown through their awkward”

adolescence, and were now hopping through the high grasses, and their croaking was loud enough to hear from the porch at night. The days got hot by 10 or 11, and the hammocks in the shady side yard filled up after lunch.

The end was booked up, and I'd had to hang the no vacancy sign at the end of our long drive.

Many of our guests were returnees, and some had come when they were children, long before the ends were innovation.

“I loved watching a car roll down the circle drive to stop at our front door.”

The occupants stepping out to stretch their limbs after a long drive, and smile up at our beautiful old house, excited to settle in for their stay. Most folks came in late on a Sunday to stay for the week, and why woke up early on

Monday mornings, and pushed open the window in my third floor room, to see clear skies

in the calm blue lake. I would feel a burst of gettingness in my stomach for them.

“Their vacation was just beginning, and it would be a beautiful week at the end.”

People don't realize often, but you can borrow another person's joy. Share it around, and it still doesn't run out. After all, we often borrow each other's anger, and worry, so I'm not there excitement. And today was a perfect day for giddy vacation joy, warm, and with that lush summer feeling, as soon as the sun came up.

We did a breakfast service for 7-9, though we usually had the coffee hot and ready in a big silver samovar in the hall, by 630 for any early risers. We weren't a big hotel. When we fired on all cylinders, we had nine guest rooms, and our small staff, and managed it all very well.

We like to think that not being big gave us a chance to tend to the details, with even more care. So in the mornings, Ralph Chef was setting up the coffee, and baking their signature cinnamon crunch coffee cakes. I set the tables on the screened-in porch, with a level of precision, but I took pride in.

I had crisp, white, tablecloths that came from the launders with sharp iron creases in them, and I tossed them out over the tables, one by one. We had a huge collection of China that I'd been buying from a state sales for years.

And I laid out plates and napkins, and cups turned over in their saucers.

“I set out salt and pepper shakers, and beakers of chilled water, and glasses, and lastly,”

a simple bud vase, with a single stem of whatever was blooming in our flower garden. When the tables were set, I walked through the long hall toward the front office, we got a half dozen copies of the local paper delivered each morning, and I collected them from the front step. I liked to fan them out beside the Sam of R, for guests to pick up and read with breakfast.

As I passed through the hall, I could hear some folks sneakily coming down the stairs, and I ducked into the office, to press the call button.

“Our old house had once been a private residence, fancy enough to have these call buttons.”

And I sometimes imagined the lady of the house, sitting in her parlor, ringing for tea. And I began to renovate the inn, and had found the remnants of the ancient system in the walls. I'd been determined to get at least some of them working again. I didn't want them for the guests' use, but for ours. I had one behind the front desk that rang down in the kitchen, and I pressed the toe

of my shoe down over it.

I was letting Chef know that our first diners were sitting down, and I always laughed when

I did this.

“Chef had their ducks in a row better than I ever did, and I liked to imagine them.”

Standing in front of a counter full of pastries, and freshly cut fruit. Their apron pristine, when the work surface already clean. Just shaking their head, and waiting for me to come pick up the plates. It was our joke. Breakfast went smoothly, and as our guests headed out to sit in the lounge chairs by the

water. Or borrow bikes from the shed. I helped our housekeeper clean and make up beds. Once most of our guests stayed for a full week, it meant there wasn't much to do at the front desk.

When I could flip through the rooms, changing the water and the flower vases. Running the sweeper over the old and slightly thread bare rocks, an opening windows to flip the air in. When the house was in order, I stepped out to one of the outbuildings, and pride opened a big pale bird feed.

I caught up a galvanized scoop, and filled it with safflower seeds, and white prosso milled. I carried it out to the feeders, hung from the oak tree, outside the library window. And as carefully as I could, filled them all up.

When I'd become the endkeeper here, the first after years of the house sitting empty.

It had quite a lot of work ahead of me to bring this place back to life.

There's been a long week in which we'd found a leak in one of the second floor bathrooms.

“And more broken windows in the attic than we'd imagined.”

I'd been worn out, and worried, and come out here for a breath of fresh air. I'd sat down beneath this oak, and leaned my head back against the trunk. And among the branches, I'd spotted a bird feeder, very old, and hand-made, and long empty of seed.

But on the feedrail was a tall, blue-jay.

He sat, as if waiting patiently for me to fill the feeder.

“I'd felt like a gentle, nudge toward patience to keep going.”

Even after things have sat empty for a long time, but he can still come back to life. They aren't forgotten. I'd saved that feeder, repainted it, and hung it with new wire.

And keeping it full was a way to say, "Thank you," for that moment of encouragement.

With the scoop now empty in my hand, I strolled around the side of the end, and found chef in their garden, pooling radishes from the dirt, and checking on the oak plants,

“which were just starting to appear from their flowers.”

I could hear kids splashing in the water, low voices, and drowsy conversation, and could smell the lake from the Hawthorne tree still in blue. Here's to patience, I thought. Summer at the end, part two, I heard the crunch of tires on gravel, coming from the circle drive at the front of the end.

I still had the bird's seat scoop in my hand from refilling the feeders, as I rounded the edge of the house. We weren't expecting any new guests today, so I wondered who might be stopping by. Occasionally, folks from the neighboring streets came to have a cup of coffee on the porch, and share a bit of local gossip.

But they usually showed up on foot, or rode their bicycles. I spotted a dusty pick-up, coming up the drive, and I smiled as I recognized it. We bought a lot of our produce from nearby farmers, whatever chef couldn't grow in our vegetable patch, and there was one farm. They were famous all through the county for their giant vegetables.

They won the blue ribbon, at the fair, nearly every year, for their enormous pumpkins, and bolder sized cabbages. They hadn't placed an order for anything recently, but sometimes they just drove up with their truck bed full of goodies to see if there was anything we needed. As the trucks stopped at the front door, and I peered into the bed, I knew we'd be taking

some today.

"Water melon season has begun."

“I can see that, I laughed, looking down at the giant fruit, piled among blankets, to keep”

them from breaking open. Besides the watermelon, there were a few cantaloupes. And I thought of the cantaloupe ice cream, chef had made last year, a delicious and creamy it had been, with nothing but the pure flavor of the fruit.

Chef had served it in perfect quenelles on our fancy patterned china plates, but I'd eaten

the last bites straight from the container at midnight, in my slippers, while the whole ends left.

“Chef must have heard the truck as well, and they came around to inspect the fruit.”

We were at full capacity for the foreseeable future, and we talked about what to buy, what we might serve.

The days were hot, and platters of chilled watermelon, set out by the beach chairs would

always hit the spot. But Chef also would make a salad with the fruit, with mint, and lime, and smoked almonds. We had a breakfast service each morning, and we did platters of sandwiches and salads

“at lunchtime, and set out some nuts and olives with drinks in the afternoon.”

By then our small staff had already put in a full days work, so our guests drove into town to find their dinners. Still, every now and then, Chef was inspired to make a special supper. Make on the summer solstice, or on a night when we were predicted to have clear skies, and an abundance of shooting stars.

When eating on our porch by the lake would be irresistible, or just when there was a confluence of excellent fresh things to cook, and gastronomic inspiration. We began to pick out melons. I added a few canylopes with a hopeful smile, and from the cab, the farmer brought out baskets of asparagus, and spring onions, rainbow charred, and the season

's first ears of corn. I could see the gears turning in Chef's head, and thought, "Why might be in store for a treat after all?" The farmer helped us carry everything down into the kitchens, and we worked out the cost, which was somewhat lessened when we added several jars of chefs spicy, pickled, watermelon

rind that had been put up the year before, with the same farms melons. Once the produce was all laid out on the counters, we talked through some ideas. It was nearly lunchtime, and Chef had made sandwiches, as soon as breakfast was done. We took them from the fridge, and I set the neatly cut triangles out on pretty platters, so that the guests could serve themselves.

There was a big dish of cucumber salad topped with pickled red onions, and Chef said

I carried the platters and dishes up to a long table, laid with a white cloth on the screened

in porch.

“I fussed with the napkins and stacks of plates and bowls, and went back down for more.”

There was a tray of warm, soft flatbreads, topped with slices of yellow tomatoes, and garlic spread, and crafts of lemonade, and a viscous iced tea. Lastly, I laid out the watermelon, and pushed the screen door open.

I rang the bell that hung from the porch eaves to let our guests down by the water know

that lunch was served. Some sprang up from their towels and lounge chairs, and headed up the grassy hill straight away.

“Others were deep into naps or novels, were just starting their first lap in the lake.”

We'd keep the platters full, till everyone was fed and happy.

I like to watch the guests come in and survey the table, and excitedly pick up a plate and

begin to fill it. We had a loosely enforced rule that if you were in a bathing suit, especially if you had just gotten out of the water, you'd carry your meal to one of the shady picnic tables outside. And on a day like today, merely everyone chose to eat alfresco.

“I kept an eye on our diners, bringing out pictures of water to some of the tables, carrying”

in the dishes as the emptied. As our lunch service was ending, I felt my stomach rumbled, and I realized it was time for my own repost. Sometimes the staff met for family meal, in the late morning, early afternoon, spending on how busy we were.

If it was a day when the whole inn would turn over from one group of guests to another, we'd often just fill a plate whenever we could. Today our schedule had been displaced by that truck rumbling up the drive, and when I got back down into the kitchens, I found that chef and our housekeeper had already lunched, and were sipping tiny cups of espresso to finish their meal.

They laughed when they caught my expression, hungry, and pouting. I fixed you a plate, don't worry, such chef, and lifted a plaid towel to show me one piled with all my favorites. I pulled up a chair, and drew the plate toward me, a chef passed over some silverware with a napkin. The kitchen was cool, and smelled already of whatever special supper

would be tonight. I spread the napkin over my lap, and let out a contented sigh. The summer was busy, but in all the best ways. Summer, at the end, part three, I had an hour all to myself. Every afternoon s gifted me a little time to go for a bike ride, or drive into town and

the third floor, where the breeze was cool.

“Today, I had a book that I'd stayed up late reading the night before.”

It had taken all my discipline to finally put it down and turn out the light. And it had been calling to me since then, sitting tucked under the counter at the front desk. I remembered reading this way when I was a child, being pulled into books so deeply

that I could barely stand to come up for air at meal times.

But as a grown-up that happened less and less, maybe younger brains are just more given to disappearing into other worlds.

“So when I found a book that I couldn't put down, well, what a gift.”

And I made it last as long as I could. So all morning, while I tended to my in-keeping duties, serving breakfast on the porch,

helping to make up beds, and fill the bird feeders, I've been thinking about it.

Thinking about finding a shady spot to settle down in and read a few more chapters, but the day had been busy. We'd been visited by one of our local farmers, bought fresh produce from the open bed of

“our truck, and laid out lunch for our guests on the back porch.”

Then I'd eaten a plate of sandwiches and cucumber salad, down in the cool kitchen, while chef shuffled pots and pans around on the stove. Chef was a firm believer in the importance of finishing most any meal with the small cup of sweet, strong espresso. But by the time I'd pushed my plate back, the mocha pot had gone lukewarm.

I volunteered to drink it as it was, but Chef took it from the counter, saying they would make me a fresh pot. I watched them take a large container from the freezer, and add the tepid coffee to it. My recognized that perfect on a hot afternoon, chef would serve up espresso granita, a sweet whipped cream, the top scattered with fresh coffee grounds, or dotted with a couple chocolate

cover to espresso beans. I sealed up the container, and slid it back into the deep freeze, and set about washing out the pot, and refilling it for me. While I waited for it to perk, we talked about the menu for dinner. Old zucchini, pasta with our homemade pesto, and watermelon salad.

Chef was still talking about which dishes to use, and when we'd ring the dinner bell. But my mind was wandering back to my book. It was one of those books that I'd seen a few times over the years.

I'd definitely seen guests read it, hungrily, like I was.

“But it wasn't one of those titles that's on every bestseller list.”

Sometimes when too many people tell me to read something, I just can't.

It's too much pressure, and by the time I finally get to it, I have a bunch of expectations.

And they interfere with me being able to just enjoy. So when I found this book in a guest room, after their stay, set on the dresser beside a note, saying, "Couldn't put it down. Please share with anyone a need of a good book." I thought, "Well, I'm a need of that," and slipped it into my pocket.

“Still, it had sat for weeks in my room, till I'd finished a few other novels I'd been dipping”

in the note of.

It had been waiting for me, so patient, and quiet, and all the time holding a story, I felt

like it was written just for me. It made me wonder about the other books in my stack. I might not yet have read my favorite book. I might not read it for another ten years. I didn't that exciting.

“Chef set my cup of espresso down in front of me and leaned their elbows on the counter.”

Drink up, and co-do whatever it is you're thinking about. I chuckled, and did, as they said, coffee was sweet and delicious, and did feel like it put a period at the end of my meal. I was sated, and ready for my book. Chef waved me out of the kitchen, and I ran up the stairs to the landing.

I had it down the long hallway that ran the length of the house, reports were sung, and the polished wood paneling shown in the afternoon light. In the front office, I checked for messages, and happily, there weren't any. No one needed me just now. I took the book from under the counter, and tucked it into the crook of my elbow.

I thought about where I wanted to read. I stepped to the window, and pushed aside the thin curtain. Bright sunlight was shining down through the leaves. The hammocks were probably full by now, and the lawn chairs by the water didn't have shade.

It wasn't that I minded running into gas while I read, but sometimes I just liked a bit of privacy to just not be noticed for a bit. Then I remembered the sleeping porch.

It was up on the second floor, a small screened-in veranda, with a glider, and a few wicker

chairs, with all the lovely spots to sit and relax around the in. It was often forgotten by our guests, and I had a feeling it would be empty now. I carried my book up the great winding staircase, and down the hall to the porch.

The in was full of smells when I'd started renovating it.

“Most of them, very nice, the scent of old wood, books, and curdling wallpaper.”

But with all the work we'd done, most rooms had lost those bits of atmosphere, which sometimes made me a little nostalgic. But this porch had barely been touched.

We'd replaced the screens where they'd rotted away, and brought down the chairs from the

attic, cleaning, and polishing, and adding new cushions.

“Once the space was swept out and set up, we'd left it.”

And it held the scent of nearly 150 summers. The dry wood of the screen frames, and the cool stone floors. Caught the sunlight in the morning, but, by design, in the afternoons, it sat on the shaded side of the house, and the temperature was perfect. I settled on to the glider, and tucked my feet underneath me, and I had an hour, at least,

“maybe more before anyone was likely to need anything.”

I opened my book. Summer, at the end, full summer, was upon us. The trees, across the lake, were decked with thousands of waving green leaves. The tadpoles I'd been watching at the water's edge had grown through their awkward adolescence, and were now hopping through the high grasses, and their croaking was loud enough to hear

from the porch at night. The end was booked up, and I'd had to hang the no vacancy sign at the end of a long drive. Many of our guests were re-turnies, and some had come when they were children long before the end's renovation. I loved watching a car roll down the circle drive to stop at our front door.

The occupants, tumbling out, to stretch their limbs after a long drive, smile up at our beautiful old house, excited to settle in for their stay. Most folks come in late on a Sunday, to stay for the week, and when I woke up on Monday

mornings, and pushed open the window in my third floor room, to see clear skies and the

calm, blue leg, I would feel a burst of gettingness in my stomach for them. Their vacation was just beginning, and it would be a beautiful week at the end. No don't realize often, but you can borrow another person's joy, share it around, and

After all, we often borrow each other's anger, and worry, so why not their excitement?

“And today was a perfect day for giddy vacation joy.”

It was warm, and with that lush summer feeling, as soon as the sun came up. We did a breakfast service from seven till nine, though we usually had the coffee hot and ready, and a big silver semivar in the hall, by 630 for any early risers.

We weren't a big hotel, when we fired on all cylinders, we had nine guest rooms, and

our small staff managed it all very well.

“I like to think that not being big, gave us a chance to tend to the details, with even more”

care. So in the mornings, while chef was setting up the coffee, and baking their signature

cinnamon crunch coffee cakes, I set the tables on the screened-in porch with a level of precision

that I took pride in. I had crisp, white tablecloths from the laundryers, with sharp iron creases in them, and

“I tossed them out over the tables, one by one.”

We had a huge collection of China that I'd been buying from the state sales for years. And while we might only have a few pieces in each pattern, we matched them up where we could, and I laid out plates, and napkins, and cups turned over in their saucers. I set out salt and pepper shakers, and beakers of chilled water, and glasses, and lastly a simple but vase with a single stem of whatever was blooming in our flower garden.

When the tables were sat, I walked through the long hall toward the front office. We got a half dozen copies of the local paper delivered each morning, and I collected them from the front step. I liked to fan them out beside the Sam of R, for guests to pick up, and read with breakfast. As I passed through the hall, I could hear some folks sleepily coming down the stairs,

and I ducked into the office to press the call button. Our old house had once been a private residence, fancy enough to have these call buttons, and I sometimes imagined the lady of the house sitting in her parlor, ringing for tea. When I'd begun to renovate the inn, and had found the remnants of the ancient system in the walls. I'd been determined to get at least some of them working again.

I had one behind the front desk that rang down in the kitchen, and I pressed the toe of my

shoe down over it.

“I was letting Chef know that our first diners were sitting down, and I always laughed when”

I did this.

Chef had their ducks in a row better than I ever did, and I liked to imagine them.

Standing in front of a counter, full of pastries, and freshly cut fruit. Their apron pristine, and the work surface already cleaned, just shaking their head, and waiting for me to come pick up the plates. It was our joke.

“Breakfast went smoothly, and as our guests headed out to sit in the lounge chairs by the”

water, where borrow bikes from the shed. I helped our housekeeper clean and make up beds. Since most of our guests stayed for a full week, it meant there wasn't much to do at the front desk, and I could flip through the rooms, changing the water in the flower vases, running the sweeper over the old and slightly thread bare rugs, and opening windows to let the

“air in. When the house was in order, I stepped out to one of the out buildings, and”

pride opened a big pale of bird feed. We caught up a galvanized scoop, and filled it with safflower seeds, and white, pro-so-milet. I carried it out to the feeders hung from the oak tree, outside the library window, and as carefully as I could, filled them all up.

When I'd become the endkeeper here, the first after years of the house sitting empty,

I'd had quite a lot of work ahead of me to bring this place back to life. One day I'd been cleaning in the kitchen for hours. It had been a long week in which we found a leak in one of the second floor bathrooms, and more broken windows in the attic than we'd imagined. I'd been worn out and worried, and come out here for a breath of fresh air. I'd sat down beneath this oak, and leaned my head back against the trunk, and among the

branches, I'd spotted a bird feeder, very old and hand-made, and long empty of seed. But, on the feed rail was a tall, blue-jay. He sat, as if waiting patiently for me to fill the feeder. He felt like a gentle nudge toward patience, to keep going.

forgotten. I'd saved that feeder, repainted it, and hung it with new wire, and keeping it

“full was a way to say thank you for that moment of encouragement.”

As the scoop now empty in my hand, I strolled around the side of the end, and found chef in their garden, pulling radishes from the dirt, checking on the eggplants, which were

just starting to appear from their flowers. I could hear kids splashing in the water, low voices,

and drowsy conversation, and I could smell the lake, and the hawthorn trees still in blue.

“Just to patience, I thought. Summer at the end, part two.”

I heard the crunch of tires on gravel, coming from the circle drive at the front of the end.

I still had the bird's seed scoop in my hand, from refilling the feeders, as I rounded the edge

of the house. We weren't expecting any new guests today, so I wondered who might be stopping by. Occasionally, folks from the neighboring streets came to have a cup of coffee on the porch,

“and share a bit of local gossip, but they usually showed up on foot, or rode their bicycles.”

I spotted a dusty pickup truck coming up the drive, and I smiled as I recognized it. We bought a lot of our produce from nearby farmers, whatever chef couldn't grow in our vegetable patch, and there was one farm. They were famous all through the county, for their giant vegetables. They won the blue ribbon at the fair, nearly every year, for their enormous pumpkins, and bolder sized cabbages.

We hadn't placed an order for anything recently, but sometimes they just drove up with their truck bed full of goodies. To see if there was anything we needed. As the truck stopped at the front door, and I peered into the bed, I knew we'd be taking some today. A woman in worn jeans, and a flannel shirt, stepped out of the cab, and smilingly said, "Watermelon season has begun. I can see that I laughed, looking down at the giant fruit,

piled among blankets, to keep them from breaking open." Besides the watermelon, there were a few cantaloupes.

for delicious and creamy, it had been, with nothing but the pure flavor of the fruit.

“Chef had served it in perfect quenals, on our fancy, patterned china plates,”

but I'd eaten the last bites, straight from the container, at midnight, and my slippers, while the hole in slapped. Chef must have heard the truck as well, and they came around to inspect the fruit.

We were at full capacity for the foreseeable future, and we talked about what to buy,

what we might serve, the days were hot, and platters of chilled watermelon,

“set out by the beach chairs, would always hit the spot.”

But Chef also would make a salad with a fruit, with mint leaves and lime and smoked almonds. We had a breakfast service each morning, then we did platters of sandwiches and salads at lunchtime, and set out some nuts and olives with drinks in the afternoon.

“By then our small staff had already put in a full days work,”

so her guests drove into town to find their dinners. Still, every now and then, Chef was inspired to make a special supper. Like on the summer solstice, or on a night when we were predicted to have clear skies, and an abundance of shooting stars. When eating on our porch by the lake, would be irresistible, or just when there was a confluence of excellent fresh things to cook,

and gastronomic inspiration. We began to pick out melons. I had a few cantalopes with a hopeful smile, and from the cab, the farmer brought out baskets of asparagus and spring onions,

rainbow charred, and the season's first ears of sweet corn.

I could see the gears turning in Chef's head. And thought we might be in store for a treat, after all. The farmer helped us carry everything down into the kitchens, and we worked out the cost, which was somewhat lessened. When we added several jars of chefs, spicy, pickled, watermelon rind, that had been put up the year before,

with the same farms melons. Once the produce was all laid out on the counters, we talked through some ideas. It was nearly lunchtime, and Chef had made sandwiches as soon as breakfast was done.

So the guests could serve themselves. There was a big dish of cucumber salad,

“topped with pickled red onions, and Chef said about slicing a couple of the watermelons”

to go along with it. I carried the platters' dishes up to a long table, laid with a white cloth on the screened in porch. We fussed with the napkins and stacks of plates and bowls,

and went back down for more. There was a tray of warm, soft flatbreads,

topped with slices of yellow tomatoes, and garlic spread, and crafts of lemonade,

“and had biscuits tea. Lastly, I laid out the watermelon and pushed the screen door open.”

I rang the bell, but hung from the porch eaves, to let our guests down by the water know that lunch was served. Some sprang up from their towels and lounge chairs and headed up the grassy hill straight away.

Others were deep into novels or naps. We're just starting their first laps in the lake.

We'd keep the platters' fall to everyone was fed and happy.

“We'd like to watch the guests come in and survey the table,”

and excitedly pick up a plate and begin to fill it. We had a loosely enforced rule that if you were in a bathing suit, especially if you had just gotten out of the water. You'd carry your meal to one of the shady picnic tables outside. Another day like today, nearly everyone chose to eat alfresco. We kept an eye on our diners, bringing out pictures of water to some of the tables,

and carrying in the dishes as they emptied. As our lunch service was ending, I felt my stomach rumbled, and I realized it was time for my own repast. Sometimes the staff met for family meal in the late morning or early afternoon, depending on how busy we were. If it was a day when the whole inn would turn over from one group of guests to another, we'd often just fill the plate whenever we could.

The day our schedule had been displaced by that truck rumbling up the drive, and when I got back down into the kitchens, I found that chef and their housekeeper had already lunched, and were sipping tiny cups of espresso to finish their meal. They laughed when they caught my expression, hungry, and bowing. I fixed you a plate, don't worry, said chef, and lifted a plaid kitchen towel to show me one

piled with all my favorites. I pulled up a chair, drew the plate toward me, the chef passed over

our special supper would be tonight. I spread the napkin over my lap, and let out a contented sigh.

“The summer was busy, but in all the best ways.”

Summer, at the end, part three, I had about an hour to myself. Most afternoon's gifted me, a little time, to go for a bike ride, a drive into town, and browse the shops, or sometimes to fall asleep, with my bedroom windows open,

“high on the third floor where the breeze was cool. Today, I had a book that I'd stayed up late”

reading the night before, and had taken all my discipline to finally put it down and turn out the

light, and it had been calling to me since then, sitting tucked under the counter at the front desk. I remembered reading this way when I was a child, being pulled into books so deeply,

“that I could barely stand to come up for air at meal times.”

But as a grown-up, that happened less and less. Maybe younger brains are just more given to

disappearing into other worlds. So, when I found a book that I couldn't put down, well, what I gift, and I made it last as long as I could. So all morning, while I tended to my in-keeping duties, serving breakfast on the porch, helping to make up beds, filling the bird feeders. I'd been thinking about it, thinking about finding a shady spot to settle down,

and read a few more chapters, but the day had been busy. We'd been visited by one of our local farmers, but produce from the open bed of her truck, and laid out lunch for our guests on the back porch, then I'd eaten a plate of sandwiches and cucumber salad, down in the cool kitchen, while chef shuffled pots and pans around on the stove.

Chef was a firm believer in the importance of finishing most any meal with a small cup of sweet, strong espresso. But by the time I pushed my plate back, the moca pot had gone lukewarm.

but chef took it from the counter, saying they would make me a fresh pot.

“I watched them take a large container from the freezer,”

and add the tepid coffee to it. Oh, my recognized that, perfect, on a hot afternoon, chef would serve up espresso granita with sweet whipped cream, the top scattered with fresh coffee grounds, or dotted with a couple chocolate covered espresso beans.

They sealed up the container and slid it back into the deep freeze,

and said about washing out the pot and refilling it for me.

“While I waited for it to perk, we talked about the menu for dinner,”

grilled zucchini, pasta with our own homemade pesto, and watermelon salad. Chef was still talking about which dishes to use, and when we'd rang the dinner bell. But my mind was wandering back to the book. It was one of those books that I'd seen a few times over the years. Maybe it had even been in the window of the bookshop.

“I've definitely seen guests rated, hungrily like I was.”

But it wasn't one of those titles. That's on every best seller list. Sometimes when too many people tell me to read something, I just can't.

It's too much pressure. And by the time I finally get to it,

I have a bunch of expectations, and they interfere with me being able to just enjoy. So when I found this book in a guest's room after their stay, set on the dresser beside a note saying, "Couldn't put it down. Please share with anyone in need of a good book." I thought, "Well, I'm in need of that." And slipped it into my pocket.

Still, it had sat for weeks in my room, till I'd finished a few other novels. I'd been dipping in an out of. It had been waiting for me. So patient, and quiet, and all the time, holding a story, I felt like it was written just for me. It made me wonder about the other books in my stack.

I might not yet have read my favorite book. I might not read it for another 10 years, and isn't that exciting. Chef set down my cup of espresso in front of me and leaned their elbows on the counter. Drink up and go do whatever it is you're thinking about.

Coffee was sweet and delicious, and did feel like it put a period at the end of my meal.

I was seated and ready for my book.

“Chef waved me out of the kitchen, and I ran up the stairs to the landing.”

I headed down the long hallway that ran the length of the house.

My portrait song, and the polished wood paneling, shown in the afternoon light.

In the front office, I checked for messages, and happily, there weren't any. No one needed me just now.

“I took the book from under the counter, and tucked it into the crook of my elbow.”

I thought about where I wanted to read. I stepped to the window, and pushed aside the bin curtain. Right sunlight was shining down through the leaves. The hammocks were probably full by now, and the lawn chairs by the water didn't have shade.

“It wasn't that I minded running into gas while I read.”

But sometimes I liked a bit of privacy, just to not be noticed for a bit. Then I remembered the sleeping porch.

It was up on the second floor, a small screened-in veranda with a glider, and a few wicker chairs.

With all the lovely spots to sit and relax around the end. It was often forgotten by our guests, and I had a feeling it would be empty now. I carried my book up the great winding staircase down the hall to the porch. Just as I'd hoped, it was empty, and I pulled open the door and stepped out. The end was full of smells when I'd started renovating it.

Most of them very nice. The scent of old wood, books, and curling wallpaper. But with all the work we'd done, most rooms had lost those bits of atmosphere, which sometimes made me a little nostalgic. But this porch had barely been touched. We'd replaced the screens where they'd rotted away and brought down the chairs from the attic, cleaning and polishing, adding new cushions. Once the space was swept out and set up,

we'd left it, and it held the scent of nearly 150 summers.

caught the sunlight in the morning, but by design and the afternoons.

“It sat on the shaded side of the house, and the temperature was perfect.”

We settled down to the glider, and tucked my feet underneath me.

I had an hour, at least, maybe more, before anyone was likely to need anything. I opened my book. Sweet dreams.