Neighbor Mara Wilson reads Ship in a Bottle

Kathryn Nicolai (0:01)

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Welcome to Neighbors of Nothing Much, a bedtime story for everyone, in which nothing much happens. You feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Kathryn Nicolai. Our show tonight is edited with the help of Bob Wittersheim. I write all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Usually, I read them too, but today we have a special guest to tuck you in and read you to sleep, Mara Wilson. Mara Wilson is known for her childhood roles in Mrs. Doubtfire and Matilda. She is a writer, actor, and award-winning audiobook narrator. Her writing has appeared in The New York Times, The Guardian, Vanity Fair, and other outlets. And she is the author of Where Am I Now? True Stories of Girlhood and Accidental Fame and Good Girls Don't. Alongside her career in acting, writing, and narration, Mara is also passionate about raising awareness around mental health and chronic illness. And I am so grateful to have her as a neighbor in our village tonight.

Now, Mara has a story to tell you. It's a place to rest your mind. Like an upturned leaf resting on the surface of a river.

Just by listening, you'll allow your mind to settle and find sleep. She'll read the story twice, and she'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake in the night, don't hesitate to push play again, and allow yourself to drift right back to sleep.

Our story tonight is called Ship in a Bottle.

And it's a story about a crate of bequests ready to be unwrapped. It's also about the dark bark of oak trees after a storm, garden benches waiting to be sat on, and the ordinary magic of handmade things.

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Mara Wilson (4:12)

Ship in a Bottle Autumn had stretched itself about as far as it could go, and I was grateful for every extra moment. On my walk in this morning, along the gravel path from the parking lot up to the great house, I stopped to admire a few of the towering oaks and maples that were still in full color. It had stormed the night before, and their bark showed nearly black from the rain. The long straight line of their trunks pulled my eyes up to the bounty of bright yellow leaves above. Had they always been this tall? I felt like I had never really seen them before. They were like arrows that had been shot down into the soil with foliage as fletching, rather than feathers. And I imagined one of the old gods of mythology, drawing back a bow to send them to earth. Something about this place lent itself to fanciful thoughts. From the labyrinth out in the East Meadow, where I walked at lunchtime, to the solarium where I'd watched the Amorphophallus Titanum bloom for the first time in three years, to the map room on the third floor, filled with books that were written when my great-great grandparents were children. And glass display cases of the artifacts and unusual objects we collected. It was a rare place, this estate, and I hoped our visitors felt the magic of it the way that I did. It had been a family home when it was first built, with acres of gardens and forests around it. A stately home with turrets and wings, and a dumb waiter that had once brought tea trays up from the kitchen to the drawing room. When it had passed to a new generation, it was converted into a museum of sorts. We had collections of paintings and portraits, local histories and maps. The grounds had likewise been made public, and many people came every day to trek through the woods or quietly pace the labyrinth.