The Tulip Farm (Encore)

all while supporting the show you love.

Subscribe now.

“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. Perfect 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.

“I've been thinking more lately about the quality of the water I'm drinking every day, because”

even when it looks clear, it doesn't always mean it is.

In fact, most tap water contains things like chlorine, lead, and even microplastics, and standard filters just don't always remove them. That's why I started using Aquatru. I've had one on my counter for two years now, and if I could reasonably pack it in my luggage to take it with me when I travel, I would.

It's a countertop purifier with a four-stage reverse osmosis system that removes 84 contaminants, so you're getting water that is actually clean and better tasting. I'd like that it's simple, there's no plumbing or installation, you just set it on the counter and use it. It's been featured in places like business insider and popular science, and most customers

say their water tastes cleaner and fresher. Go to Aquatru.com now, for 20% off your purifier, using promo code, nothing much. Aquatru even comes with a 30-day best tasting water guarantee. That's Aquatru.com, a qu-a-t-r-u.com, promo code, n-o-t-h-i-n-g-m-u-c-h. Welcome to Bedtime Stories for everyone, in which nothing much happens.

You feel good, and then you fall asleep, I'm Catherine Nikolai, my right and read all the stories you hear on nothing much happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Woodersheim. 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 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-brast and

sweet dreams. Now, I have a story to tell you, and the story is a place to rest your mind, especially at night, our minds can feel so busy and overloaded, like an overwhelmed clock, just by following along with my voice and the general shape of the story, your mind can pass simply unwind, and soon you'll be ticking along at your own natural pace, sleeping deeply,

and waking up feeling rested and relaxed. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower on the second read through. If you wake in the middle of the night, and feel your mind winding back up, you could

“listen again, or just think your way through any part of the story you remember, or even”

any soothing memory. It will shift networks in your brain, and help you to drop right back off. This, like most anything, gets better with practice, so be patient if you are new to it.

day, among beds of flowers.

“It's also about a gift, left it dawn, red-winged blackbirds, and soft moments that take”

your breath away. Now, it's time to turn off the light, and put away anything you are looking at, settle into your favorite sleeping position, and feel how good it is just to be safe and quiet in bed. You have done enough for today.

It's time to rest. Get deep breath in through your nose, let it out your mouth, nice, one more breath in, and out, good, the Tool of Farm, out past the apple orchards, and cider mills, where we went to get lost in corn mazes, and by paper bags of fresh hot donuts, in the crisp days of autumn, was a tulip farm.

It was something I'd driven past a hundred times without realizing what it was. Then today, I'd seen a hand painted sign of a red tulip on a yellow background, with an arrow pointing away. The sign said they were open to the public, and folks were welcome to come and pick their own.

The tulip had reminded me suddenly, of a day, a dozen years before.

It had been the first day of May, and I'd opened my front door to find a simple, wicker

basket hanging from the outside knob. It was overflowing with bright red tulips, and foil wrapped sweets, and tiny delicate stems of lilies of the valley.

“I remember lifting the basket right up to my face to smell the good, sweet scent of the”

flowers. Then wondering how, and why they'd been picked for me, yet had taken me a day to unwind the mystery, I carried everything back inside, and rooted through my cabinets for a bunch of tiny jars, and bud vases. I put each flower in its own container to make them go as far as possible.

Then spread them out through the house on windowsills and side tables, and a teeny ledge in the hall that seemed to have been built just for this. I went back to the basket, and carefully gathered all the candies, and slid them into my jacket pocket, then stepped back out of the front door, and off down the street.

“I don't remember now where I'd been going.”

Maybe I had a class to take, or a shift to work at the valley downtown, but along the way, every now and then, I'd slip a candy from my pocket, unwrap it, and drop it into my mouth. There were some, wrapped to look like strawberries, and I remembered that my grandmother had

always had the same ones on a shelf at her sitting room.

produce the little collection of sweets, and cut glass jars.

“It was the kind of sitting room, no one actually sat in.”

A map meant there were always interesting things to find in the drawers and cupboards.

I used to take a few candies from the jars, pulled down a heavy book with pictures of butterflies, and birds, and animals from all over the world, and tuck myself into the space behind the couch, to slowly turn the pages, until the sweets ran out, wherever I'd been off to that day, I must have run into friends, and soon found out I wasn't the only one

“to have been visited by the spring fairy overnight.”

Three or four of us had found baskets, all with flowers and candy. We'd spent some time on a park bench in the sunshine, trying to guess who our benefactor was.

Finally, we'd spotted another friend coming toward us down the path, and we'd called out,

asking if she'd found a surprise on her doorstep.

“"No, she shrugged. I was busy leaving them, for all of you."”

May day, she told us, was sometimes celebrated this way, with gifts of springflowers, and candies, or baked goods.

Thinking back on that May day, the kindness of a gift given when no one was looking, and

the memories that the sweets had brought back, made me turn into the gravel lot at the tulip farm. Stepping out of my car, I was greeted by the wilting call of the song Sparrow, a bird whose return, along with that of the red-wing black bird, and the orange-breasted house-finch, marked the arrival of spring. The sky was a soft, pale blue, with a few feathery clouds, shifting in the breeze.

Two lips don't have a strong smell. They aren't like those lilies of the valley, or hyacinth. It smells so powerfully like sweet water and greenery, but still, there was a light scent in the air, like citrus and honey and cut grass. I followed a dirt trail toward the fields, glad I'd worn sturdy shoes instead of flipflops, and as it turned to pass behind a barn, the tulip fields came into view.

I thought I'd been ready for that, but I wasn't. Actual goose bumps stood out on my arms, and I stopped, stock still, to give all my attention to what I was seeing, stretching out for acres in front of me, and broad, flat, even rectangles, were bright patches in 50 colors or more.

slowly scanned all the way to the right, and marveled that tulips could come in so many shades.

“When I'd had my fill of looking, and began to walk again, I spotted a man,”

in dust the overalls, with a broad, brimned hat. He waved me over,

and as I got closer, he said, "I like watching people's faces as they first see the fields.

Have you been here before?" I told him I hadn't, and felt lucky to be. He fitted me out with a pair of gloves, some small garden shears, and a long, deep basket I could carry over one arm.

“He gave me a folded paper map, with the names of the different varieties of flowers.”

And their locations, and sent me off together as many as I was inclined to cut.

I thought I might just wander, and be led by my eyes and instincts. But looking at the card, I found some of the names, so intriguing, that I decided to aim for some specific plots, some were classic and shape and color. Called things like Christmas marvel, or Ruby Red, or Diana.

“Others were streaked with color, in bold lines that looked like brush strokes,”

they were Rembrandt's, and Davenport's, and Maryland's. Some had double blossoms, or fringed petals, or very thin veins of color, that you could only see when you leaned down close, into my basket, when stems of the queen of night, gold and apple dawn, and Remland. I picked enough for a few Mayday baskets, and to fill my own vase at home.

Before I walked back to the barn, to pay for my flowers, and turn over my tools. I stopped and sat at a bench, under a tall, sick, and more tree, whose leaves were just budding out, so that the branches looked coated in a light green haze, I thought of the baskets, I would put together with my tools, of stopping at the candy store, across from the movie theater,

and filling a bag with sweet pinwheels, and tart lemon drops, and strawberry bond bonds, I'd sneak out early tomorrow morning, and leave them at a few front doors. I thought that their faces, and finding them, might look something like mine did,

when I'd first seen the tulip fields, surprise, it's spring,

the tulip farm, out past the apple orchards, and cider mills,

in the crisp days of autumn, was a tulip farm.

“It was something I'd driven past a hundred times, without realizing what it was.”

Then today, I'd seen a hand painted sign of a red tulip on a yellow background, with an arrow pointing the way, the sign said they were open to the public, and folks were welcome to come and pick their own. The tulip had reminded me suddenly, of a day a dozen years before,

it had been the first day of May, and I'd opened my front door,

to find a simple, wicker basket hanging from the outside knob. It was overflowing with bright red tulips, and foil wrapped sweets, and tiny, delicate stems of lilies of the valley.

“I remember lifting the basket right up to my face to smell the good sweet scent of the flowers,”

then wondering how and why they'd been picked for me. It had taken me a day to unwind the mystery. I've carried everything back inside and rooted through my cabinets for a bunch of tiny jars and bud faces. I put each flower in its own container to make them go as far as possible and spread them out through the house on windowsills and side tables

and a teeny ledge in the hall, but seemed to have been built just for this. I went back to the basket and carefully gathered all the candies and slid them into my jacket pocket. Then stepped back out of the front door and off down the street.

“I don't remember now where I'd been going.”

Maybe I had a class to take or a shift to work at the valley downtown, but along the way, every now and then, I'd slip a candy from my pocket, unwrap it and drop it into my mouth. There were some wrapped to look like strawberries

and I'd remembered that my grandmother had always had the same ones

on a shelf in her sitting room. I'd laughed when I'd tasted the familiar flavor. Remembering sneaking into that room to peruse the little collection of sweets

no one actually sat in.

“And that meant there were always interesting things to find in the drawers and cupboards.”

I used to take a few candies from the jars

pulled down the heavy book with pictures of butterflies and birds and animals from all over the world and tuck myself into the space behind the couch to slowly turn the pages until the sweets ran out. Wherever I'd been off to that day, I must have run into friends

“and soon found out I wasn't the only one to have been visited by the spring fairy overnight.”

Three or four of us had found baskets all with flowers and candy. And we'd spent some time on a park bench in the sunshine. Trying to guess who our benefactor was.

Finally, we'd spotted another friend coming toward us.

And we'd called out asking if she'd found a surprise on her doorstep.

“No, she shrugged. I was busy leaving them for all of you.”

Mayday, she told us, was sometimes celebrated this way with gifts of spring flowers and candies or baked goods.

Thinking back on that Mayday, the kindness of a gift given

when no one was looking and the memories that the sweets had brought back. Had made me turn into the gravel lot with the tulip farm. Stepping out of my car, I was greeted by the little thing call of the song Sparrow. A bird whose return, along with that of the red-wing blackbird, and the orange-breasted house-finch, marked the arrival of spring.

The sky was a soft, pale blue, with a few feathery clouds, shifting in the breeze. Two lips don't have a strong smell. They aren't like those lilies of the valley or hyacinth. That smell so powerfully, like sweet water and greenery,

but still, there was a light scent in the air, like citrus and honey and cut grass. I followed a dirt trail toward the fields. Glad I'd worn sturdy shoes instead of flip-flops. And as it turned to pass behind a barn, the tulip fields came into view. I thought I'd been ready for that.

Actual goose bumps stood out on my arms.

“And I stopped, stuck still, to give all my attention to what I was seeing.”

Stretching out for acres in front of me. In broad, flat, even rectangles, were bright patches and 50 colors or more. Like a panoramic picture.

I turned my head to see the farthest field to the left.

Then slowly scanned all the way to the right.

“And marveled that tulips could come and so many shades.”

When I'd had my fill of looking and began to walk again, I spotted a man in dusty overalls with a broad, brimned hat. He waved me over, and as I got closer, he said,

I like watching people's faces as they first see the fields.

Have you been here before?

“I told him that I hadn't, and felt lucky to be.”

He fitted me out with a pair of gloves, some small garden chairs, and a long, deep basket. I could carry over one arm. He gave me a folded paper map with the names of the different varieties of flowers and their locations.

Then sent me off, together as many as I was inclined to cut. I thought I might just wander and be led by my eyes and instincts. But looking at the map, I found some of the names so intriguing that I decided to aim for some specific spots. Some tulips were classic and shape, I'm color.

Called things like Christmas marvel or Ruby Red or Diana. Others were streaked with color in bold lines that look like brushstrokes. There were Rembrandt's and Daven ports and Maryland's. Some had double blossoms, or fringed petals, or very thin veins of color,

that you could only see when you leaned down close, into my basket, went stems of the queen of night, golden apple dawn, and dreamland. I picked enough for a few Mayday baskets,

Before I walked back to the barn,

“to pay for my flowers, and turn over my tools.”

I stopped and sat on a bench,

under a tall sick and more tree, whose leaves were just budding out,

“so that the branches looked coated in a light green haze,”

I thought of the baskets I would put together with my tulips, of stopping at the candy store across from the movie theater, and filling a bag with sweet pinwheels,

“tart lemon drops, and strawberry bond bonds,”

I'd sneak out early tomorrow morning and leave them at a few front doors. I thought that their faces and finding them, might look something like mine did,

when I'd first seen the tulip fields,

surprise, it's spring, sweet dreams.