First Mow of the Year (Encore)

They're grounding, soothing, and quietly uplifting without being cheesy, relaxing without putting you to sleep, and just dreamy enough to remind you that there's 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. Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Everyone, in which nothing much happens. You feel good. And then you fall asleep.

I'm Kathryn 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 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, after six years and more than a hundred and thirty million downloads, I've kinda cracked the code on how to help you sleep. I'll tell you a story. Nothing much happens in it. You just rest your mind on the words. Follow along with my voice, and soon you'll be waking up tomorrow feeling rested and refreshed.

I'll tell it twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake again in the night, you can turn the story right back on, you'll drop right back to sleep. And if you're new to this, be patient. This is brain training, and it may take some regular use to work reliably.

Our story tonight is called First Mow of the Year, and it's a story about a day of yard work as spring arrives in full. It's also about pine cones and ladybugs. A glass of water enjoyed on the porch step, the sun on the back of your neck. and the shared experiences that connect us.

I'm looking out from the kitchen window. I could see a day's worth of chores waiting for me. The weather had been warming for weeks now. and I'd been holding off on any mowing or cutting back, waiting for all the little critters and pollinators to wake up and have a few meals first. Seemed like to day might finally be the day for it. I turned back to the garage and gripped the handle. It took a swift turn, a little bend in my knees, and a strong push up on the door.

to send it gliding into place. I thought about getting an opener put on, but There was something about opening it by hand that I actually liked. It was a very specific movement. one that was buried deep in my muscle memory, from when I would hoist open the garage door for my grandpa, so he could get his tractor out. The rattly clatter of the old door moving on its track. The gust of scent from inside.

tools and dust and wood shavings, The way my wrists knew how far to turn, my knees how much to bend. And then inside the garage the neat pegboards hung with tools and the shiny tractor backed into place, and waiting for its next job. My own garage was not quite as neat as his had been. But still, there was a sort of order to the chaos. I stepped in and propped my hands on my hips. looking around at the tools and stacks of pots.

First things first, I thought, and reached for a pair of garden gloves. My thumb went right through a hole in the fabric, and I laughed. I recognizing the pair as one I'd bought years ago. when I tilled my first garden. They were cream with red dots that if you looked close enough were distinguishable as ladybugs. I took them off and tucked them into my back pocket, thinking that I could probably fix them up with a needle and thread and a jiffy. I found a second pair.

This one without any terribly large holes, and put them on.

I wheeled my mower out onto the sidewalk, and shook out a lawn bag beside it, From down the block I heard the stuttering start of someone else's mower. And cupped my hand over my eyes to shield out the sun and peer through the yards. A few gardens over my neighbour was mowing the first path through his grass.

When the grass was clear, I started my own mower, and pushed it down the length of the yard, It reminded me suddenly of my dad's green tennis shoes by the back door when I was a kid. They hadn't started off as green, but After a day behind the mower, they'd begun to colour with chlorophyll, and he'd given up on trying to keep them white. They'd just become his mowing shoes. I looked down at my own pair and smiled. There was something so small and simple

a shared experience of being a grown up with chores. But it made me really happy. This whole day did. I made slow, even rows with the mower. I'd raised the blade up a bit, so I was giving the grass only a subtle haircut. My mind got quiet as I mowed. the steadiness of my feet pacing along behind the wheels. The warm sun on the back of my neck. The slow, careful turn at the end of a row, lining up the wheels and starting again. Was it so different from walking a labyrinth?

Didn't feel that different. I'd had a teacher once who'd recommended a walking meditation. They'd suggested the best place for it was a grocery store. Just get a cart. And walk the aisles as slowly as you can. Notice each step. That was me now.

When the backyard was done, I shut down the mower and began to wheel it down the driveway, to start in the front. Just as a quiet thirst appeared in my throat, I noticed a tall glass of water set out for me on the step of the side door. Ah, it seemed like the perfect time for a break. I sat down on the step and lifted the cool glass to my lips. There were a few slices of cucumber floating among the ice cubes. And it tasted so refreshing and delicious. while I sipped.

I looked across the driveway at the house next door. They had two little boys, Well, not so little anymore. They were growing fast, but In my mind the youngest was still riding in the stroller, his big brother toddling beside, as their dads took them for a walk. But I knew he must now be several years into elementary school. The oldest probably in middle school. Their dog, a sweet golden retriever named Clover, was stretched out on her side, on the back patio in the sun.

And even from where I sat, I could see the slow rise and fall of her ribs as she breathed. My glass of water finished I set it down on the step, pushed back up onto my feet. I reached for the handlebar of the mower. In the front yard I repeated the step of patrolling the grass for fallen branches, and found one of Clover's frisbees among the Pacassandra. her I carried it to her fence and whistled for her.

She lifted her head to look at me. One ear flipped inside out, and her lips stuck on her teeth. I showed her the frisbee, and she jumped to her feet, ready for me to throw it. I sent it out toward the back edge of her yard, and she went tearing after it. She didn't catch it mid air. She wasn't that kind of dog, but She did dig it out from where it landed, near a lilac bush, and carried it back to her patio. with her tail happily wagging along the way.

Across the street another neighbor was fixing her mailbox. The flag had broken off over the winter. A new one, shiny and red, sat waiting on the grass as she worked away with the screwdriver. Just like the muscle memory of pushing open the garage door, of tugging at the pull cord of the mower. Of green tennis shoes, of sleeping in the sun, on a warm patio. I knew the feeling of wrestling with a slightly rusted screw.

I restarted the mower and began to pace through the front lawn, comforted by the moments my neighbors and I all had in common.

and looking out from the kitchen window, I could see a day's worth of chores waiting for me. The weather had been warming for weeks now, and I'd been holding off on any mowing, or cutting back. waiting for all the little critters and pollinators to wake up And have a few meals for the first time.

from when I would hoist open the garage door for my grandpa, so he could get his tractor out. the rattly clatter of the old door, moving on its track. The gust of scent from inside. Tools and dust and wood shavings. The way my wrists knew how far to turn, my knees how much to bend. And then inside the garage, neat pegboards hung with tools, and the shiny tractor backed into place. and waiting for its next job.

They'd suggested the best place for it was a grocery store.

I sent it out toward the back edge of her yard, and she went tearing after it.

comforted by the moments my neighbors and I had in common.