A Month of Sundays (Encore)
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Hi friends. Want every episode ad-free? Tap the link in our show notes to subscribe. If you're on Apple Podcasts, just hit subscribe on our show page. Easy and it helps keep the show going. Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Everyone, in which nothing much happens. You feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Katherine Nicolai. I write and read a

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, a mind that is gently focused rather than wandering is not only more likely to slip into sleep, it is naturally happier and calmer.

So think of this as a way to train your brain for bed, but also for a better day tomorrow. Just by listening to the sound of my voice and following along with the general shape of our story will activate your task positive network and you will sleep. I'll tell the story twice and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you're new to this, come with some patience.

You'll want to use the stories regularly for at least a couple weeks to get the best results. Our story tonight is called A Month of Sundays, and it's a story about finding a way to make time for rest and enjoyment. It's also about a tin box of recipe cards, a neatly made bed with the corner folded down, ants and idioms, porch swings and school buses.

and the delight of one of the best days of the week. Lights out campers. Snuggle down into your bed and get as cozy and relaxed as you can. Wiggle one foot into the cool corner of your sheets. Relax your jaw. Soften any place where you are still holding. Whatever today was like is what today was like. And now we're here.

Draw a deep breath in through your nose and sigh from your mouth. Nice. Let's do one more. Breathe in and out. Good. A month of Sundays. There was a favorite phrase of one of my aunts, something I'd hear her say as she gossiped with her sisters while they sprawled across the sofa at my grandparents' house, as in,

He couldn't win me over in a month of Sundays or at the table for some holiday dinner. She'd lean toward me and say, pass me that dish of grandma's potatoes. I haven't had them in a month of Sundays. I thought of her whenever I heard it and sometimes said it as a way to invoke her

to bring her confidence and joie de vivre into what I was doing or talking about. For a while, like with many idioms I heard as a child, I didn't completely or correctly grasp its meaning. I tended to take those turns of phrase literally. So when someone talked about beating about the bush, I worried about the bush.

When I heard in an old black-and-white cops-and-robbers movie that somebody had better start talking turkey, I was excited for the upcoming turkey cameo and wondered if the ones I'd seen from the car window on a long drive through the country spoke human as well. So likewise, I thought at some point in time I'd flip the page on the calendar

and come across the Sunday month, a whole month of Sundays. I'd even asked about it. When was it happening? My mom had smiled and explained that it was just a saying, a way to say a very long time. A month of Sundays meant enough weeks for 30 or even 31 Sundays to pass. I think I'd nodded.

and gone away still pretty confused and a bit disappointed. Confused that anyone would pick that way to say a long time, and disappointed that there wasn't waiting for me a whole month when every day would be a Sunday. As a grown-up, I can't say that I've ever been able to clear a whole month to spend each day doing as I pleased.

Resting, reading, baking, gardening, napping. But sometimes it's possible to fit an extra Sunday in here and there. Some days my to-do list would get set aside. It would keep for a day. And I would declare it a Sunday. Middle of the week? Didn't matter. It was just Sunday yesterday? I didn't care.

It could be Sunday, if I said so. Like today. There was a rumor going around that it was actually Tuesday, but I'd crossed that out on the calendar and written over it in thick green marker, Sunday. So, clearly, the rumor mill can't be trusted. The day had started a bit gloomy, overcast and gray. It had rained the night before.

and the sidewalks were still wet. On Sundays, I usually have a slow start, so I poured a cup of coffee, took a blanket from the back of the sofa, and stepped out onto the front porch. I'd spent the previous weekend setting up the furniture out there, wiping down the slats in the swing and chairs, sweeping out the corners, and plumping up the cushions and pillows.

after letting them freshen in the sunshine for a few hours. It was a bit chilly on the porch as I settled on the swing and tossed the blanket over my legs. It's a skill to drink hot coffee on a porch swing, but I was an old hand. It was all about getting settled first, then reaching for your cup from the side table, and not trying to swing too vigorously.

until half the cup was gone. The school bus passed as I sipped. They only had another week or so of school before they let out for the summer. The bus driver waved at me, and I could see in her face that she was counting down the days, as much as the kids were. The sun began to creep out, and I watched as the shadows the trees threw grew crisper, their lines starker.

It seemed like we'd gone from a few budded trees to full leaf everywhere. Overnight, the birdsong grew louder as they got their dose of sunlight, and by the time my cup was empty, it seemed like a different day than the one I'd woken up in. I went inside, letting the screen door bang behind me, and climbed the stairs to my bedroom. I opened the windows.

and let the fresh air in. The bed was rumpled after a good night's sleep, and I turned toward it and pulled back the duvet. I always appreciate coming back to a maid bed, so most days I at least straighten the blankets. But since it was a Sunday, and I had all the time in the world, I could do the job properly. I smoothed the sheets.

retucking them so they were taut and neat. Then each pillow got shaken, flipped and shaken again, and placed, just so, on the bed. And the duvet, also plumped and shaken, went on, and I folded back the corner where I would slide in tonight, or maybe this afternoon, for a nap. It was something my mom always did.

when she helped me make my bed when I was little. Turning that corner down made the bed feel so inviting, so cozy and welcoming. I was already looking forward to getting back in. Next Sunday activity, I wanted to bake something. In the kitchen, I thumbed through cookbooks and the handwritten cards in my recipe box. What to make?

I closed my eyes and rested my hand on my belly. What did I want? What was I craving? Oh, carrot cake. I smiled with my eyes still closed. It sometimes seemed silly to make a cake just for me. It wasn't anyone's birthday or holiday. But then I remembered it was a Sunday, and I hadn't had carrot cake in a month of those.

So I flipped through the cards in the tin till I found a passed-down recipe written in faded pencil. Of course, it had come from that dear aunt. I pushed the window open a crack over the sink and smelled lilacs on the breeze. The sun was bright, the day was young, and I'd be finishing it with a generous wedge of cake and a maid bed with the corner turned down.

I smiled into the breeze. I was happy. A month of Sundays. It was a favorite phrase of one of my aunts. Something I'd hear her say as she gossiped with her sisters while they sprawled across the sofa at my grandparents' house. As in, he couldn't win me over in a month of Sundays. Or at the table for some holiday dinner.

She'd lean toward me and say, pass me that dish of grandma's potatoes. I haven't had them in a month of Sundays. I thought of her whenever I heard it, and sometimes said it as a way to invoke her, to bring her confidence and joie de vivre into what I was doing or talking about. For a while, like with many idioms I heard as a child,

I didn't completely or correctly grasp the meaning. I tended to take those turns of phrase literally. So when someone talked about beating about the bush, I worried about the bush. When I heard in an old black and white cops and robbers movie that somebody had better start talking turkey, I was excited.

for the upcoming turkey cameo, and wondered if the ones I'd seen from the car window on a long drive through the country spoke human as well. So likewise, I thought, at some point, I'd flip the page on the calendar and come across the Sunday month, a whole month of Sundays. I'd even asked about it. When was it happening?

My mom had smiled and explained that it was just a saying, a way to say a very long time. A month of Sundays meant enough weeks for 30 or even 31 Sundays to pass. I think I'd nodded and gone away still pretty confused and a bit disappointed.

Confused that anyone would pick that way to say a long time. And disappointed that there wasn't, waiting for me, a whole month when every day would be a Sunday. As a grown-up, I can't say that I've ever been able to clear a whole month. To spend each day doing as I pleased. Resting. Reading.

baking, gardening, napping. But sometimes it's possible to fit an extra Sunday in here and there. Some days my to-do list would get set aside. It would keep for a day, and I'd declare it a Sunday. Middle of the week? Didn't matter. It was just Sunday yesterday? I didn't care. It could be Sunday if I said so.

The day had started a bit gloomy, overcast and gray. It had rained the night before, and the sidewalks were still wet. On Sundays, I usually have a slow start, so I poured a cup of coffee, took a blanket from the back of the sofa, and stepped out onto the front porch. I'd spent the previous weekend setting up the furniture out here.

wiping down the slats in the swing and chairs, sweeping out the corners and plumping up the cushions and pillows after letting them freshen in the sunshine for a few hours. It was a bit chilly on the porch as I settled on the swing and tossed the blanket over my legs. It's a skill to drink hot coffee on a porch swing, but I was an old hand.

It was all about getting settled first, then reaching for your cup from the side table, and not trying to swing too vigorously until half of it was gone. The school bus passed as I sipped. They only had another week or so of school before they let out for the summer. The bus driver waved at me, and I could see in her face...

that she was counting down the days as much as the kids were. The sun began to creep out, and I watched as the shadows the trees threw grew crisper, their lines starker. It seemed like we'd gone from a few budded trees to full leaf everywhere overnight. The birdsong grew louder as they got their dose of sunlight, and by the time my cup was empty...

It seemed like a different day than the one I'd woken up in. I went inside, letting the screen door bang behind me. I climbed the stairs to my bedroom. I opened the windows and let the fresh air in. The bed was rumpled after a good night's sleep, and I turned toward it and pulled back the duvet. I always appreciate coming back to a maid bed.

So most days, I at least straightened the blankets. But since it was a Sunday, and I had all the time in the world, I could do the job properly. I smoothed the sheets, re-tucking them so that they were taut and neat. Then each pillow got shaken out, flipped, and shaken again, and placed just so on the bed.

Then the duvet, also plumped and shaken. I spread it out and folded back the corner where I would slide in tonight, or maybe this afternoon for a nap. It was something my mom always did when she helped me make my bed when I was little. Turning that corner down made the bed feel so inviting.

so cozy and welcoming. I was already looking forward to getting back in. Next Sunday activity, I wanted to bake something. In the kitchen, I thumbed through cookbooks and the handwritten cards in my recipe box. What to make? I closed my eyes and rested my hand on my belly. What did I want?

What was I craving? Carrot. I smiled with my eyes still closed. It sometimes seemed silly to make a cake just for me. It wasn't a birthday or a holiday. But then I remembered it was a Sunday and I hadn't had carrot cake in a month of those.

So I flipped through the cards in the tin till I found a passed-down recipe written in faded pencil. Of course, it had come from that same deer ant. I pushed the window open a crack over the sink and smelled lilacs on the breeze. The sun was bright, the day was young, and I'd be finishing it

with a generous wedge of cake and a maid bed with the corner turned down. I smiled into the breeze. I was happy. Sweet dreams.