I'm always on the lookout for great settings for these sleep stories and you never know when you'll come across one. It has to be cozy, it has to be soothing, and it has to be interesting, but not so interesting that it keeps you awake. And finding that perfect setting, it's not as easy as you think. But last night I was watching a movie about a small town switchboard operator in the 1950s and I thought, aha, that's the perfect setting. A woman sitting alone in a quiet room at night, connecting phone calls, watching over a sleeping town. It's peaceful and just interesting enough to hold your attention while you drift off. So tonight we're combining a calming narrative with relaxation techniques that prepare your body for deep rest. By the end of this episode, your breathing will have slowed, your muscles will have released their tension, and sleep will feel as natural and easy as it's meant to be. But first, make absolutely sure you're somewhere safe for sleep. This episode is designed to relax you completely and guide you into deep rest. So please be in your comfortable bed and not anywhere you need to stay alert. And if you find these episodes helpful, I would be grateful if you would follow the show or leave a review. The challenge with sleep podcasts is that if I'm doing my job right, we'll be sound asleep when you should be rating the show. But if you think of it later, it would be very much appreciated. Now let's begin to notice how you're breathing. Don't try to change it just yet. Simply observe how you're breathing right now. Notice the gentle rise and fall of your chest, the natural rhythm of your breathing. And then let's start to deepen that breath very gradually. As you breathe in, feel your lungs expanding, filling completely with fresh, calm air. And as you exhale, let it flow out naturally. Like a gentle tide going out. Take one more deep breath in. Hold it for just a moment. And then release it with a soft sigh. And go ahead and just continue breathing deeply and slowly. Each inhale brings peaceful energy. Each exhale releases any tension you might be holding. As you maintain this gentle rhythm, feel your heartbeat gradually flowing, your blood pressure gently lowering. The weight of your body sinks deeper into your bed with each breath. Each exhale carrying you closer to that perfect state for sleep. Your mind becoming quieter, calmer. As we journey together to the small town of Cottonwood, where it's 11 p.m. on a Tuesday in October 1958. If you could rise high enough above the earth on this particular October night in 1958, you would see something that no longer exists. True darkness, not the orange glow that marks modern cities or the rivers of light that trace highways, but genuine darkness punctuated only by the small warm lights of human habitation scattered. Across the landscape like fallen stars, the sky itself blazes with stars in a way that most of us will never see. The Milky Way stretches across the heavens in a dense band of light. So bright, it almost seems like a cloud. There are no satellites yet crossing this sky. Though that will change within the year. Sputnik has already orbited overhead, invisible to the naked eye, but present in everyone's thoughts. But tonight, just stars and moon and the occasional meteor streaking across the darkness. From this height, Cottonwood looks almost toy-like in its perfection. The town has grown up around a single main street that runs east to west. Street lamps, the old kind with glass globes that cast warm yellow light, mark the main street, creating perfect circles of illumination. On the sidewalks below, the buildings are mostly two-story brick and wood construction from the 20s and 30s. Striped awnings shade the shop windows. Hand-painted signs identify each business. The hardware store with its red and white paint. The pharmacy with its green mortar and pestle. The five and dime, the post office, the diner. The cars parked along Main Street tell their own story about this particular time. The 1955 Chevrolet Bel Air, its chrome catching the moonlight. The 1952 Ford pickup. What's missing tells its own story. No fast food restaurants with their bright plastic signs. No chain stores. No traffic lights. And they're wedged between the diner and the hardware store. A narrow storefront. A small wooden sign reads simply, telephone exchange. This is where we're headed. To this small room where a woman sits alone. Keeping watch over the sleeping town's connections. The switchboard itself is in the back room. Behind a door marked, authorized personnel only. Ellen Croft arrives at 10 45 p.m. Exactly as she has three nights a week for the past 19 years. She lets herself in through the back entrance with her own key. The lock turns with a solid click. She's in her late 40s. Dressed practically for the night shift. A cardigan over a simple cotton dress. Comfortable shoes with low heels. And a wool coat against the October chill. Her dark hair is pulled back neatly. And she wears cat eyeglasses that catch the light when she turns her head. Most people in Cottonwood know her simply as the night operator. Reliable. Competent. They'd be surprised to learn how much she notices. She moves through the familiar space switching on lights as she goes. The overhead fixtures have pull chains. And each one makes a soft click. The bulbs cast a warm yellow light. The switchboard itself takes up one wall. A massive piece of equipment. All wood and metal. Designed when things were built to last. The board has rows and rows of jacks. Each one representing a telephone line somewhere in Cottonwood. Above each row, small bulbs light up when someone lifts the receiver. The cords hang in neat loops. Each plug has a satisfying weight to it. Fitting into the jacks with a soft click. Below the board sits a wooden desk with Helen's logbook. A small lamp with a green glass shade lights the desk. Helen has made this space her own in small ways. A cushion on her chair. A few books on the shelf beside her. A mystery novel. A collection of poetry. A star chart pinned to the wall. By the window, a small electric space heater sits in the corner, already warming the room. It glows orange. And gives off that distinctive smell of warming dust. On the small table with the hot plate, Helen has set down her supper. A roast beef sandwich wrapped in wax paper. And a slice of apple cake she baked over the weekend. She also has a thermos of strong black coffee. She pours the coffee now. Holding the cup in both hands. Feeling the warmth. She takes a moment to simply sit in the silence. This is what she loves most about the night shift. The quiet. The sense of being the only person awake. Keeping watch while everyone rests. Helen opens her log book to a fresh page and writes the date. October 14th, 1958. Night shift. H. Croft. She settles in with her book. At 11.18pm, the first light flickers on the board. Helen reaches for the cord. She plugs it in with a soft click. The voice on the other end is slightly breathless. Asking to be connected to a doctor. Helen recognizes that tone of controlled urgency. A baby is on the way, she thinks. One of the farm families. Helen makes the connection. The doctor's phone rings three times before he picks up. His voice alert. Country doctors. Learn to wake quickly. Helen listens just long enough to confirm the connection is clear. And then quietly disconnects. She makes a note in her log book. Her handwriting is small. And precise. The minutes pass peacefully. Helen reads another page of her book. The coffee cools slowly in her cup. Outside the window. Main street lies quiet. And empty. At 11.42pm, another light flickers. The payphone outside the pharmacy. The only public telephone in Cottonwood. Helen plugs in and hears a man's voice. Asking to place a long-distance call to Germany. Long-distance calls require patience. The man gives her the number. A military base. And says he's trying to reach his son. A soldier stationed there. She connects to the operator in Des Moines. Who connects to Minneapolis. Who then connects to New York. Who connects to a military exchange in Germany. Each connection takes time. Helen can hear the quality of the line changing. The faint crackle of distance. The slight delay. Finally, after several minutes, she hears a military voice. She explains she has a call from Iowa. For one of the soldiers. There's a pause. Then footsteps. Then a young man's voice. Happy to hear from home. Helen disconnects. The clock ticks. Toward midnight. Outside. Cottonwood sleeps. Even more deeply now. At 12.03 a.m. a light flickers. Jimmy Bradford calling Susie Garfield for the second time tonight. Helen recognizes the pattern. The voice is young and hopeful. Claiming they need to study. The Garfields share a party line. One phone line that serves three different families. It's less expensive than a private line. But it means they all need to share. Helen makes the connection but notes to check back in 15 minutes. Young love is sweet but the party line belongs to everyone. And it's getting late. Helen unwraps her sandwich and eats while she reads. The night settles into its deepest quiet. Through her window she can see that every house has gone dark. At 12.18 she disconnects Tommy's call with a gentle interruption. 15 minutes is enough. At 12.30 she eats her apple cake savoring each bite. The hours continue. Helen works on her knitting a scarf for herself. At 2.07am another light. An elderly man's voice confused trying to reach someone. Helen makes the connection. She hears him explain that his furnace is making a terrible sound. The other man, a neighbor, a handyman says he'll be right over. Because that's what people do in small towns like Cottonwood. They help each other. Even at inconvenient hours. The hours stretch. Helen finishes her dinner and washes up. She reads more pages of her book. At 3.30am she stands and stretches. Walks to the window and looks out at Main Street. The town is completely dark now except for the street lights. The only movement is the wind rustling the leaves. This is what she loves most about the night shift. This moment of complete stillness. Of being the one who makes sure that if anyone needs to reach out in the darkness there will be someone there to help them. The lights begin to flicker more regularly after four. Farmers calling each other, coordinating work. The pharmacy calling suppliers. The early risers beginning their day. The day shift operator arrives at 6.45am. Helen gathers her things. Her empty thermos. Her book. Her knitting. She buttons her coat and steps out into the October morning. Lights show at the bakery. The diner's lights are also on. A truck drives past. Helen walks the three blocks to her house at a steady pace. She nods to the few people she sees. They nod back, saying, Morning, Miss Helen.She smiles slightly, saying little, thinking her own thoughts. In farmhouses, people are already up, starting stoves, beginning the work that will feed them through the morning. The old man whose furnace was fixed sleeps soundly now, his house warm again, his worry eased.Tommy Bradford sleeps with a smile, dreaming of his sweetheart. And now let's pull back even further, rising above the town until we can see all of Cottonwood in the growing light. The houses with their smoking chimneys, the farms with their barns and pastures, rising high or still, until the town becomes one small cluster of light among many, until we can see the sun beginning to rise in the east.And from this height, we can see what's true, not just for Cottonwood in 1958, but for every place and every time. The world will change. It always has.It always will. The switchboards will be replaced by other systems, and then by cell phones, and then by something not yet imagined. The world will change. It's already changing, and it will keep changing. Some things won't change. Some things remain true no matter when or where we live.The comfort of familiar routines in an uncertain world that will never change. The kindness of neighbors who help in the middle of the night that will never change. The sweetness of young love that will never change.The peace that comes with sleep after a long night. That will never change. These things remain true whether we live in 1958 or in any year, and these things exist for you too.You have routines that comfort you. Small, familiar things that feel like home. You have experienced kindness from others, and you've offered kindness in return.You've done work that mattered, made connections. At last, you've looked up at the night sky and felt part of something larger than yourself, and you're capable of rest, of peace, of sleep. Feel your body now.How heavy it's become. Your arms are so heavy, sinking into the mattress. Your legs are heavy, completely relaxed.Your head presses into the pillow, supported and comfortable. Each breath comes naturally, without effort. Your chest rises and falls, and with each exhale, you're releasing tension, releasing the day's concerns.The small muscles around your eyes have gone completely soft. Your hands are loose and open. Tonight, you might be worrying about tomorrow, about next week, about things you can't control.But most of what we worry about never happens. And the real challenges that do come, well, you've always handled them. You've survived every difficult day you've ever had.But right now, in this moment, there's nothing to handle, nothing to fix, nothing to solve. There's only this warm bed, this comfortable darkness, this gentle drift towards sleep. Your bed is so comfortable right now. The sheets are exactly the right temperature. The pillow supports your head perfectly. The blankets have just the right weight.You're so comfortable, so relaxed. Let your eyes stay closed. Let your breathing continue.It's slow, steady, rhythm. Let your thoughts drift and fade. Sleep is here now, ready to carry you into dreams.You can let go. You can rest. You can sleep. I'm Suzanne, and this is your ticket to Snoozeville. Sleep now. Sleep deeply.Sleep well.