Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - At the Farmers Market, on a Fall Morning

Episode Date: October 15, 2018

Our story tonight is called “At the Farmer’s Market, on a Fall Morning and it’s a story about the abundance of autumn and the bustle of a busy neighborhood market. It’s also about the feeling of looking forward to the winter and of looking back to being a child. So get cozy and ready to sleep. See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.Purchase Our Book: https://bit.ly/Nothing-Much-HappensSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Grownups, in which nothing much happens, you feel good, and then you fall asleep. All stories are written and read by me, Katherine Nicolai, with audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. Thank you for listening and for sharing your stories with anyone you know who likes relaxation and good sleep. You can also follow us on Instagram and Facebook for an extra bit of coziness. Now let me say something about how to use this podcast. I have a story to tell you, and the story is simple,

without much action, but full of relaxing detail. Our minds race, you know this, and this story is a way to move your mind off the expressway and onto an exit ramp, toward a serene resting spot. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you find that you're still awake at the end of the second telling, don't worry. Just take yourself back through any of the details of the story that you remember. This even works if you wake in the middle of the night. Just use the details to get right back on the exit ramp. And before you know it, you'll be drifting off to peaceful sleep. Now it's time to turn off the light and set aside anything you've been working on or looking at.

Adjust your pillows and pull your blanket up over your shoulder. All of this preparation that you're doing before you even close your eyes is setting you up for an excellent night's sleep. Sometimes it even helps to say to yourself, I'm about to fall asleep and I'll sleep sound all night. Take a deep breath in through your nose, and let it out with a soft sigh. Good. Let's do that again. Breathe in, and out. Our story tonight is called At the Farmer's Market on a Fall Morning.

And it's a story about the abundance of autumn and the bustle of a busy neighborhood market. It's also about the feeling of looking forward to the winter and of looking back to being a child. At the farmer's market on a fall morning, it used to be that Saturday mornings were for sleeping till noon and sometimes for piecing together the night before from blurry memories. But I guess I've grown up a bit,

because now I look forward to being up early and to having the whole day laid out in front of me to plan and enjoy. And now I was up, and sitting on the back porch, wrapped in a blanket with a cup of tea in my hands, enjoying its fragrant steam rising against my cheek in the autumn chill. I'd been watching a squirrel gathering acorns and hiding them away in her secret spots in

the yard. I guessed we were making the same plans this morning, gathering the harvest and thinking ahead to winter. I was on my way to the farmer's market to fill my bags with all the good things that came with the end of the summer and the peak of the autumn. The market was busy by the time I arrived, and I circled for a few minutes, looking for a spot to park. I'd nearly ridden my bike instead and left the car at home, but I knew myself too well.

I would surely buy more than I could ever carry on my bike, especially now that pumpkins and squashes were filling up the market stalls. I slipped my car into a spot and stepped out into the crisp morning. At the edge of the lot, there were a circle of tall trees, their leaves starting to turn and fall in the morning breeze. At their feet was an old tilting bench and the bank of a creek running swiftly by. I took a minute with my market bags tucked under my arm to squat down on a flat rock by the water and watch it flow past.

The water was cool, and I let my fingers trail through it and smelled the mixture of the fresh water with the spicy morning air. I took a few deep breaths, then turned back to the market, and followed the stream of people and kids and dogs to the overflowing stalls. I knew from experience that the best strategy was to walk the length of the market, just looking first, not buying, till I knew what was available and where the best bits were. But that's just not who I am. I'm not good at waiting, especially when surrounded by so much abundance. I've made peace with that, and now I just accept

that I'll buy too much and struggle to get it back to the car. Mums were stacked along the walkway and up on old milk crates, some with their buds fully open and others still tucked in, their blossoming a ways off yet. Behind them, on broad wooden benches or jars of sunflowers and pots of zinnias and pansies,

decorative cabbages and purple kale. I paid for a few things and arranged to pick them up on the way out, and then headed over to the banks of vegetables and stacks of pumpkins. There were still tomatoes coming in, and I bought some for canning. I bought long, lumpy yams, and a sugar pumpkin to roast and puree into a soup. I bought a whole branch of Brussels sprouts and butternut squashes and chard with bright yellow stems. My bags were heavy on my shoulders, but I persisted and made my way past the open-air stalls into the enclosed market with the bustling crowd. I bought a jar of pumpkin butter, great stuff, which I had bought before and could be used to turn a humble piece of toast into something like pumpkin pie for breakfast.

Sign me up. At the far end of the market was a bakery whose sweet smells permeated clear to the parking lot. The line for their goods was a few patrons deep, and I used my time waiting to drink in the yeasty hot smell of fresh bread and pastries and cookies. I had a distinct memory of being a child, maybe five or six at the time, and standing in the exact same spot,

holding my mother's hand as she bought a dozen chocolate chip cookies in a white paper bag. I noticed stacks of the same bags held in place against the breeze with a rock beside the register, all these years later, little having changed here. And as the baker turned her expectant face to me and took my order, she slipped a loaf of pecan cinnamon bread into one. I paid my few dollars, shifted the bags onto my shoulders,

and stepped back out into the brisk open air. As predicted, it took two trips to get everything buckled into the car, remembering my mums and pansies. As I was tucking in the stems and closing the hatch door, I noticed a squat, shiny cart, a sort of mini food truck parked at the far end of the lot,

and I could smell coffee and hot cider. I felt into my pocket and found I still had a few dollars left, so I bought myself a coffee and sat at a picnic table, people-watching, while I drank it.

Someone was playing a guitar somewhere nearby, and some friends were gossiping outside the double doors of the main building. A girl was telling a friend a story that had them both giggling till one was wiping her eyes, head thrown back in a roar of laughter. A few feet away, an older couple held hands and walked in slow, patient steps past the vegetable vendors. The chill of the day was working its way up into my legs, so I stood up and, taking the last few sips of my coffee,

headed back to the car to see what the rest of my Saturday would become. At the farmer's market on a fall morning. It used to be that Saturday mornings were for sleeping till noon, and sometimes for piecing together the night before from blurry memories. But I guess I've grown up a bit, because now I look forward to being up early, and to having the whole day laid out in front of me to plan and enjoy. And now I was up,

and sitting on the back porch, wrapped in a blanket with a cup of tea in my hands, enjoying its fragrant steam rising up against my cheek in the autumn chill. I'd been watching a squirrel gather acorns and hiding them away in her secret spots in the yard. I guessed we were making the same plans this morning gathering the harvest and thinking ahead to winter. I was on my way to the farmer's market

to fill my bags with all the good things that come with the end of the summer and the peak of the autumn. The market was busy by the time I arrived, and I circled for a few minutes, looking for a spot to park. I'd nearly ridden my bike instead and left the car at home, but I knew myself too well. I would surely buy more than I could ever carry on my bike, especially now that pumpkins and squashes were filling up the market stalls.

I slipped my car into a spot and stepped out into the crisp morning. At the edge of the lot, there was a circle of tall trees, their leaves starting to turn and fall in the morning breeze. At their feet was an old tilting bench and the bank of a creek running swiftly by. I took a minute,

with my market bags tucked under my arm, to squat down on a flat rock by the water and watch it flow past. The water was cool, and I let my fingers trail through it and smelled the mixture of the fresh water with the spicy morning air. I took a few deep breaths, then turned back to the market and followed the stream of people and kids and dogs to the overflowing stalls. I knew from experience that the best strategy was to walk the length of the market, just looking first, not buying, till I knew what was available

and where the best bits were but that's just not who I am I'm not good at waiting especially when surrounded by so much abundance I've made peace with that and now I just accept that I'll buy too much

and struggle to get it back to the car. Mums were stacked along the walkway and up on old milk crates, some with their buds fully open and others still tucked in. They're blossoming a ways off yet. Behind them on broad wooden benches were jars of sunflowers, and pots of zinnias and pansies, decorative cabbages and purple kale. I paid for a few things and arranged to pick them up on the way out,

then headed over to the banks of vegetables and stacks of pumpkin. There were still tomatoes coming in, and I bought some for canning. I bought long, lumpy yams and a sugar pumpkin to roast and puree into a soup. I bought a whole branch of Brussels sprouts and butternut squashes and chard with bright yellow stems. My bags were heavy on my shoulders, but I persisted and made my way past the open-air stalls into the enclosed market with the bustling crowd. I bought a jar of pumpkin butter, great stuff which I had bought before and could be used

to turn a humble piece of toast into something like pumpkin pie for breakfast. Sign me up. At the far end of the market was a bakery whose sweet smells permeated clear to the parking lot. The line for their goods was a few patrons deep, and I used my time waiting to drink in the yeasty hot smell of fresh bread and pastries and cookies. I had a distinct memory of being a child, maybe five or six at the time, and standing in the exact same spot holding my mother's hand as she bought a dozen chocolate chip cookies

in a white paper bag I noticed stacks of the same bags held in place against the breeze with a rock beside the register all these years later, little having changed here and as the baker turned her expectant face to me beside the register, all these years later, little having changed here. And as the baker turned her expectant face to me and took my order, she slipped a loaf of pecan cinnamon bread into one.

I paid my few dollars, shifted the bags onto my shoulders, and stepped back out into the brisk open air. As predicted, it took two trips to get everything buckled into the car remembering my mums and pansies. As I was tucking in the stems and closing the hatch door I noticed a squat, shiny cart.

A sort of mini food truck parked at the far end of the lot, and could smell coffee and hot cider. I felt into my pocket and found I still had a few dollars left. So I bought myself a coffee and sat at a picnic table, people watching while I drank it. Someone was playing a guitar somewhere nearby, and some friends were gossiping outside the double doors of the main building. A girl was telling a friend a story that had them both giggling till one was wiping her eyes, head thrown back in a roar of laughter. A few feet away, an older couple held hands and walked in slow, patient steps past the vegetable vendors. The chill of the day was working its way up into my legs, so I stood up,

and taking the last few sips of my coffee, headed back to the car to see what the rest of my Saturday would become. Sweet dreams.