Sweet riverside dreams await.
As you drift to sleep with tonight's calm bedtime story for grown-ups,
You are listening to Summer's Last Breath,
A new story in a new sleep series called Down by the Riverside.
Should you find yourself yearning for nostalgia and small-town charm,
This sleepy journey will bring you to a historic village in the last golden hours of the season.
Amen.
Step into a riverside village on the first day of school.
When the last warmth of summer still lingers on the water and the morning air carries the first hint of change.
Spend the day with quirky villagers.
Engaging in old traditions,
Simple pleasures,
And the small moments that make a place feel like home.
This is your sleepy holiday,
A moment to wander,
Settle in,
And become part of this little town.
It's time to dream away.
Welcome to Michelle's Sanctuary.
I am Michelle and I hope my voice greets you like a longtime friend.
Let's settle into the night with a few relaxing breaths.
You come home to yourself first.
Inhale slowly and take your time.
Let the breath fill you the way morning light naturally fills a room.
When you're ready,
Sigh it out.
Long and slow the way wind moves across still water bending the surface.
Then letting it settle again.
As you breathe in,
The fragrant notes of the river magically fill the air.
Capturing your attention as visions of the village begin to stir.
Maybe you yawn before another sigh arrives.
Releasing anything from today that doesn't need to travel with you into sleep.
Let your breath grow slower now as I count us down from five.
Each number carries you further into rest.
Five.
The late summer wind moves across the river and caresses your forehead,
Smoothing the space between your brows,
Softening your eyes.
Releasing your jaw.
4 The Morning River Mist.
Hovers low over the water.
As it lives,
So does the weight in your neck and shoulders.
Dissolving into the pale morning air.
3.
.
.
The cool river-scented air.
Gently across your skin.
Let your arms,
Your hands,
Your chest,
Release completely into its quiet touch.
2.
The warmth of the river spreads through you,
Softening your belly,
Your hips,
Your legs,
Easing them heavy and loose.
Your spine settles and your back releases,
Fully supported.
One as the golden light.
Settles over the quiet village.
It travels from the crown of your head to the soles of your feet.
Your whole body lets go entirely.
It's time for our story to begin.
If you've ever been down by the riverside.
An image may stir right away.
The sound of small rocks skipping across the current.
The velvety mist of morning.
Every river carries its own perfume.
Muddied waters or flinty stones imbuing a familiarity always linked to that river village.
And no matter where or when this river thrives,
There's something familiar in every river town.
The water serves as a lifeblood carrying goods and stories.
Leaves or ice.
The river is a faithful provider.
That seems to always come back to life.
No matter how disregarded it may be at times.
It shows resilience like nothing else.
Patient.
It waits for the seasons to change.
Flowing effortlessly through time no matter the village.
No matter the town.
Generations pass through these same streets.
Whether paved or made of dirt or stone.
Souls have been born in these same houses,
Grown old on these same porches.
And the village has stayed witness to a river that absorbs every season.
Continuing to ebb and flow.
Arrive with me now to the village of Willow Grove.
Tucked along the bend of the river where the streets slope gently down toward the water from rising hills.
Old brick walls line the lanes.
The morning is just beginning to arrive.
And the cusp of autumn.
There is no season more comfortable here.
Although every season lends its own charm and chance for celebration.
Like many river towns.
Willow Grove has transformed over the centuries.
Lush wilderness,
To ice houses,
To mill town,
From industrial despair.
To vibrant vacation destinations.
All the while.
Retaining its enduring spirit.
Towns like this one change slowly.
And hold on to themselves anyway.
The same families still wave from the same street corners.
And the river simply stays in motion.
Indifferent and constant.
Beneath it all.
It is quite early.
But kind of early.
Where the light hasn't quite decided.
What color to be just yet.
The sky is somewhere between slate blue and rosy gray.
The first school buses groan awake somewhere at the edge of the village.
Engines idle and tink.
The cool morning air.
Children bored with a certain level.
Of enthusiasm.
And anticipation.
But downtown.
Children spill out of old historic Victorian homes with their backpacks and first day of school outfits.
Parents coax a photo or two out of the older ones as the youngest do their best to pose with a tense theatrical smile.
Couldn't look less natural if they tried.
In an annual custom.
Some kids are staged on the ivory gazebo.
The heart of the Riverside Park.
Balancing half-eaten toast and pop-tarts.
Their new sneakers slap against the wooden steps.
And the sun rises.
Over the undulating cobalt blue and silver river.
Sleepy and a little unwilling.
Hair still must from a hurried brush.
They assemble for a few quick snaps.
Before racing up the hill to school.
Along River Street.
Parents linger in doorways and bathrobes.
Coffee mugs in hand.
Waving.
Calling out reminders about lunches and jackets and having a good day.
The buses come in from the outskirts.
And roll slowly through the narrow streets.
Pausing at each corner.
Their brakes sighing softly at every stop.
And then.
All at once,
The last bus disappears around the bend.
The village falls into a sudden complete quiet.
With only the sound of the river and rustling willows filling the air.
You find yourself walking down toward the river.
Drawn by the golden light.
Spilling over the sparkling water.
Path is quiet beneath your feet.
Dew still clinging to the grass on either side.
The air carries coolness.
Whisper that fall is near.
Warmed only by the rising sun.
Golden retriever walks along the rocky beach.
Pulling with a strong desire.
To leap into the water.
She has all summer long.
Today is different.
Everyone is adapting to the new flow of a new routine.
The Ivory Gazebo.
Weight at the edge of the path.
Now quiet and left alone,
Offering the perfect place to perch yourself on the steps.
Softened by seasons of sun and rain.
You rest in the utter stillness.
The happenings and rush of minutes ago.
Suddenly feels a lifetime away.
The last of the morning mist.
Lifts slowly off the surface of the silky blue water.
The long tendrils of willow trees.
Dance beneath the crystal blue sky.
Sashaying like a hula skirt in constant motion.
Sailboat slowly makes its way downstream.
Navigated by another lucky soul like you.
May leisurely go about this perfect weather day.
The river is at its warmest.
Still holding on to the heat of summer.
Even as the air carries the first cool suggestion of the season turning.
Breeze moves across the water.
Rippling it in to soft shifting light.
Scattering the early Sun.
Into hundreds of small drifting diamonds.
Somewhere a fish breaks the surface.
Single concentric ripple.
Spreading outward.
Before smoothing away again.
You simply sit here for a while.
Watching the village and the river wake up together.
No hurry at all.
Letting the morning settle fully around you.
Before continuing on.
But eventually you rise.
And make your way toward the old mill.
Its brick facade rising up from the riverbank.
Sturdy and sun-warmed.
Creeping along one corner.
As though the building has agreed to share itself with a landscape.
Long ago.
This building hummed with machinery.
The long shifts of laborers.
Who came here morning after morning,
Year after year.
Souls that by the end of each day longed only to step back outside.
Feel the river air on their faces.
Remember who they were beyond the words.
You can almost picture them now.
Pausing at the door before heading onward.
The river a quiet promise.
Waiting just beyond the walls.
The mill has been transformed since then.
Sturdy brick and beams preserve.
Its rooms turned into lofty apartments.
Still carry the history and stories.
Every seam and joint.
This is where you are staying tonight.
Your temporary home away from home.
Exposed brick walls,
Original wooden beams overhead.
A small fireplace.
And floor-to-ceiling windows that frame the river and its spectacular views.
Floors are original too.
Restored but rusted.
Wide old planks that creak faintly underfoot.
Catching the light in a way.
Feels both worn and sparkling all at once.
You run a hand along the cool breath.
Feeling its presence.
As you make your way to the heart of the village.
You walk past shop fronts,
Just beginning to unlock their doors.
The stores have changed throughout time.
From luxury dress shops.
And five and dimes and shoes stores.
To what now remains as a general store,
A wine shop.
Bank,
A post office,
And a few offices.
There are a few restaurants as well.
The diner has lasted longer than any restaurant in town and for the past 40 years it's been known as Vicky's Luncheonette.
But even after all this time.
There are still a few older townspeople.
To be found gathering around their steamy coffee and runny eggs.
And over buttered toast.
Remembering when it used to be called Geraldine's.
Like many dwellings on Main Street.
The diner occupies the first floor.
Charming apartments exist in the two stories overhead.
Antique multi-paned windows with buttercream wooden grills.
Frame the quiet street.
Each day,
The luncheonette is only open for a handful of hours.
The closed sign never turned,
Much beyond the hour of two o'clock.
Your hand grasps the sun-warmed brass knob.
As you open the door.
And the hinges squeak.
The silver bell above the door.
Announces your arrival.
The smell of coffee and browning butter reaches you.
Before you're even fully inside.
And just faintly beneath it.
You detect the notes of violet and amber,
Aviki's signature perfume.
Fragrance so familiar in Willow Grove.
Residents will often smell it.
Before she enters the room.
Vicky's voice is as memorable as her fragrance.
She's dressed in a blue floral silk blouse and perfectly pressed navy slacks.
Her fingers dripping in gold jewelry as do her ears.
Her eyeshadow perfectly matches the fabric.
In another life.
She may have been Elizabeth Taylor by choice.
But in this life She is just as elegant as if she were on the silver screen.
Her presence is warm yet fierce.
And she never wears an apron.
As if even the eggs and melted butter would be afraid to splatter on her.
Her husband Larry.
Owns many of the apartments on Main Street.
And can be found every morning.
Tucked into a corner of the diner,
Working on a crossword puzzle.
He jokes it's his feeble attempt to keep up with Vicky's sharp mind.
Vicky is behind the chrome-rimmed counter.
Chatting with Charlie,
Who has plans to run for mayor.
Trading easy conversation with Vicki.
Is as much a draw to the diner.
As her fluffy stack of blueberry pancakes.
And richest dark roast coffee in the county.
While some may whisper about how dolled up she always appears.
The secret to Vicky's happiness is that she couldn't care less.
She lives life on her terms and can't spare a moment to worry about what anyone else thinks.
You slide into a booth near the window.
Teal vinyl seat cool beneath you.
And your coffee arrives in an ivory ceramic mug.
Thin chocolate brown line traced around its edge.
Worn smooth from years of hands just like yours.
Vicki got a deal on dishware 40 years ago.
With an attic full of enough.
To get her through another 40 years of accidental breaks and chipped saucers.
Music plays from the jukebox.
And with Vicky.
There's not a morning she would welcome.
Without a little Elvis.
In Otis Redding.
Plates clink somewhere behind the counter.
Below murmur familiar voices.
Rising and falling around you.
Everyone lingers.
Little longer here.
So long as they are out the door by two.
It's a social place.
And as you sip Vicky's signature brew.
And get lost in a satiating meal.
You feel a sense of community.
Like the river.
Is a glue that holds these storied towns together.
Eventually,
You finish your breakfast and rise back up.
Paying at an old analog cash register.
That clicks and dings as Vicky rings you up with her perfect long manicured nails.
Only a step outside.
The air is warm and soft and simply feels good.
The village is as busy as it will be today.
You'll never find a line at the post office or bank.
Except for a few days around the holidays.
And with every step.
You feel the invitation to slow down too.
Back toward the river.
We find a gathering that seems to happen here.
And most perfect weather mornings.
Crafty group of older townspeople.
Settled and folding chairs.
And at picnic tables near the water.
Watercolor paints and knitting needles.
And half-finished projects.
Spread out before them.
Sunlight glints of mason jars of brush water.
Stray spools of thread.
Joanne,
A retired teacher.
Gracefully glides a watercolor brush across the canvas.
Capturing the gazebo and sparkling river.
The wet,
Glossy paint.
Catches the light.
Betty works steadily on a scarf.
The yarn pooling in soft coils at her feet.
Needles clicking in a slow steady rhythm.
Quarry.
The youngest of the crew.
Presses a gray crayon across her coloring book.
She's just a year shy of her first day of school when the weather changes.
They'll gather at the firehouse or in Betty's riverfront sunroom.
Their arts will be donated and sold to raise money for benefits throughout the year.
They talk while they work.
Easy and familiar.
Kind of conversation.
Built from decades of shared history.
Watching each other's children grow and grandchildren arrive.
Weddings and funerals.
And every ordinary Tuesday in between.
The river moves quietly behind them.
Constant backdrop.
To the small,
Ordinary ritual.
Creating something together.
Season after season.
After you say your hellos.
You wander from here.
Without any particular destination in mind.
Simply letting the village unfold around you.
Historic homes lined the streets.
Their porches deep and shaded.
Dripping in ferns and ivy and wisteria.
Wicker chairs with plush cushions and throw pillows in summery botanical patterns.
Will soon be swapped out for autumnal accents.
Behind white picket fences.
Gardens spill over with the last blooms of summer.
And dowering sunflowers bow.
To the weight of their own heavy heads.
Green acorns scatter the slate gray stone sidewalks.
Squirrels scurry up ancient oak trees.
Will soon exchange their vibrant green for their fall hues.
Shops sit shoulder to shoulder along the main road.
Striped awnings tilted against the sun.
Firehouse stands with its doors open.
Sunlight pooling on the concrete floor inside.
Bouncing off the candy apple red truck.
As a duo of volunteer firefighters.
Polish it.
A community bulletin board.
Catches your eye near the corner.
Layered thick with flyers.
Announcements for a potluck,
A knitting circle,
A Saturday market.
And a trio of kittens looking for a new home.
Seasons of small-town life.
Pinned one on top of another.
Edges curling.
And a single cork board.
Eventually.
The road circles toward the water again.
Where Tommy's garage sits with its doors open to the river breeze.
The smell of motor oil.
Mixing with fresh-cut grass from the yard behind it.
Tools hang along one wall in careful rows.
A car rests half-finished on the list.
And a radio plays low beneath the clang of metal on metal.
Tommy,
Like Vicky,
Is someone that everyone in this village seems to know.
He waves you over without needing an introduction.
Wiping his hands on a rag.
Kind of warmth that comes naturally to him.
Trio of stray cats now call the garage home.
And curl around him as he says hello.
He barters more often than he charges,
People say.
Trading in oil change for a dinner invitation.
Or an afternoon of help hauling firewood.
He wishes you a good day.
You continue walking along the river toward Mansion Street.
A street with sprawling homes.
Many now turned into apartments.
The library sits at the top of the hill.
Overlooking the whole downtown.
With a wrap around porch.
And tall white Roman pillars.
The climb feels good.
Your legs ascend,
Warm from the effort.
The village slowly shrinking below you.
Until you can see the full curve of the river tracing its way past the rooftops.
The library is an old building.
Its shelves lined floor to ceiling.
Wooden floors that creak and groan beneath your steps.
That particular way.
Old wood always does.
Tall windows at the afternoon light spill in long golden rectangles.
Across the reading tables.
Dust motes dancing and sparkling in the air.
The air smells the way old libraries always do.
The sweet scent of loved pages.
And aged bindings.
The faint trace of the river still in the air.
Joined by the curling steam.
That rises from the librarian's cup of hibiscus tea.
Miss Stickney,
The librarian,
Has a head of wild curls.
Her glasses perched within her raven tresses.
She peruses a stack of illustrated books.
Preparing for the first after-school day program that begins today.
She turns her head to offer a smile.
Inviting you to make yourself at home.
Each room has a fireplace.
Intricate crown moldings and wainscoting.
Nautical ivory.
Blue silk wallpaper.
Capturing sailboats on the river.
Once one of the most regal homes in the village.
It was donated by a well-read matron over a century ago.
To be the village library.
You lose track of time here.
Browsing.
Without any real purpose.
Running your fingers along worn spines.
Settling eventually into a chair tucked in the corner.
The book you didn't plan on reading.
The afternoon slips away slowly.
The deep quiet of the library.
Wrapping around you like something soft.
The only sound.
The occasional turn of a feathery page.
When you finally step back outside.
The light has shifted into a deep shade of tangerine gold.
In the village below.
Has come alive again.
The school buses have come and gone.
To the edges of town.
Children spill out onto the sidewalks.
Backpacks bouncing.
Voice is rising.
In that particular late afternoon energy.
Some kids are exuberant.
Delightfully chattering about their day.
While a few are more solemn.
Give a thumbs down when asked how things went.
Parents and neighbors gather on porches and lawns.
Down at the river.
Tommy is still at his garage.
The craft gathering has winded down.
The warmth of summer still lingers in the air.
It once again.
You feel autumn's cool edge creeping in beneath it.
You make your way along the riverfront one more time.
A few people fish quietly from the bank.
Lines cast out into the slow-moving current drenched in sunset hues.
Dogs trot along the water's edge.
Noses down,
Tails high.
Small boats drift lazily past.
Children throw stones across the water.
Standing on a beach of old broken-down bricks from another time.
Before being called in for dinner.
Their laughter carries across the water.
The new routine reminding them.
How rare and precious their time with a river now is.
The water still holds its warmth.
Even as the air continues to cool.
Everything carries the feeling.
Of a season not quite ready to let go.
Holding on for just a little bit longer.
Promising more bright days ahead.
You make your way back to the mill.
Old brick facade.
Glowing in the molten orange gold light.
Double doors lead to wide wooden stairs.
Take you to the second floor.
You step into the lofty apartment.
With soaring ceilings.
Wide cream-hued pillars.
You step onto the doormat.
Willow pads to the door.
A snow leopard mane coon.
Her long wispy hair and whiskers.
Tickle you as she pushes all of her 30 pounds into your shins to welcome you home.
The exposed brick.
Glows warm in the late light.
Beams crossing overhead.
Worn smooth and feathery.
The old floors moan underfoot.
White plankton honey color.
The fireplace waits in the corner.
Unlit for now.
And beyond.
Floor to ceiling windows.
Hold the whole river inside them.
The water catching the day's swath.
Ruby,
Rose gold,
And amber.
You move into the open kitchen.
And put something simple together for dinner.
You prepare Willow's meal.
She meows at your feet.
Circling them to keep your attention.
You slide everything on to a wooden tray.
Along with a glass and something cool to drink.
Whole arrangement humble and satisfying.
Luxurious in its simplicity.
The tray balanced carefully in your hands.
Willow leads the way up a narrow stairwell toward the rooftop.
The same steps you imagine.
Mill workers once climbed.
The end of their long shifts.
Seeking a few minutes of sky and river air.
For heading home.
The door opens onto wooden boards.
Still warm from the day's sun.
And the whole village spreads out before you.
The Historic Homes firehouse.
Gazebo by the water.
The swaying willows.
The riverfront curving away into the distance.
Until it disappears around the bend.
You set the tray down on a low table near the edge.
And settle into an upholstered seat.
The sun lowers behind a silhouette of trees.
Shadows dancing across the park.
Some finger-like and slender.
Other white bands of blue-gray.
You eat slowly alongside your cat.
Watching the color shift over the water.
In no rush to finish a day.
That already went by so fast.
One by one.
Small lights begin to flicker.
The village below.
And by the time your glass is empty.
The gold has slipped away.
And the sky is an expanse.
Clementine,
Violet and blue.
By the time you are back in the cozy confines of your apartment.
The sky shifts fully into blue hour.
Breathe tender stretch.
Daylight and dark.
The brick walls still hold a little of the day's warmth.
The windows now frame a river.
Turning silver and deep navy.
You tidy up.
Coming down from the day.
Letting the stillness of the apartment settle around you.
Cool air drifts in through a window,
Cracked just slightly open.
Carrying faint sounds up from the riverfront below.
A distant voice.
Screen door closing.
The water moving steadily beneath it all.
The moon begins to rise over the river.
Laying a long,
Pale,
Opal path across the water.
Spends every day reflecting gold and silver.
And silver and gold.
Village lights glow warm against the deepening blue.
Historic homes settling into quiet,
One by one.
Porch lights clicking off.
Streets emptying out.
Till only the crickets and frogs remain.
You light a candle on the mantle.
Another on the windowsill.
Small flames catching in the glass.
Doubling themselves.
Against the darkening river beyond.
Their light moves warm and low across the bridge.
Softening every corner of the room.
Filling you with a sense of home.
Goes bone deep.
The bathroom waits at the end of the wide hall.
Tucked beneath a sloped beam that traces the old roofline.
A clawfoot tub sits beneath the window.
Willow nestles on a fuzzy gray bath mat.
Blending in completely.
You turn on the shower.
Letting the water run hot.
While steam begins to curl.
Gather along the midnight blue tile.
You grab a bar of soap wrapped in brown paper.
Picked up from a table at the Riverside Farmer's Market.
Gathers every Sunday,
The summer variant.
Smells of June's lavender.
Something woodier beneath it.
You step under the water.
Feeling its silky cascade over your shoulders.
The lavender rising in the steam.
Another note from Summer's last breath.
You dry off slowly.
Wrapped in a fluffy towel.
Pad barefoot back down the hall toward the bedroom.
You change into freshly laundered pajamas.
The linens on the bed are crisp and cool as you turn them down.
You slide beneath them.
Through the tall window beside the bed.
The river is a silky ribbon.
Dark and glinting.
Holding with little light.
Remains of the night.
Distant lighthouse to the south.
Leaves the faintest flash of white.
Something you'd never notice.
Without looking for it.
Wrapped in the quiet sleeping willow grove.
Slumber finds you sure kitty curls up at the base of the bed.
The last of the river light.
Gently from the windowsill.
Somewhere far below.
The current continues.
Long,
Unrushed journey toward morning.
Tides of sleep.
Invite you to follow along.
Full surrender.
Knowing all will be okay.
Rest comes easy in Willow Grove.
You welcome it fully.
Finding comfort.
Finding hope.
Finding bliss.
Finding sleep.
It's time to dream away.
