Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - At The Summer Fair (Encore)

Episode Date: July 11, 2024

Originally Aired: July 14th, 2019 (Season 3 Episode 13) Our story tonight is called “At the Summer Fair,” and it’s a story about a yearly tradition and how it changes in the different summers of your life. It’s also about plums taken from the icebox, a handmade cup wrapped in paper, and strolling along the river as the streetlights blink on above you. So get cozy and ready to sleep. Subscribe for ad-free, bonus, and extra-long episodes now, as well as ad-free and early episodes of Stories from the Village of Nothing Much! Search for the NMH Premium channel on Apple Podcast or follow the link below nothingmuchhappens.com/premium-subscription.  Listen to our new show, Stories from the Village of Nothing Much, on your favorite podcast app.  Join us tomorrow morning for a meditation at firstthispodcast.com.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. I'm Katherine Nicolai. I write and read all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. My book, also called Nothing Much Happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. My book, also called Nothing Much Happens, is available wherever books are sold. Thank you for your support. Now let me say a little about how this podcast works. I'm going to read you a simple, soothing bedtime story. It's mostly about mood and feeling, so you don't have to keep track of anything as you listen. Just let your mind

follow along with the sound of my voice. This will keep it from wandering, and before you know it, you'll be dropping off to sleep. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll slow down a bit with the second telling. If you wake again later in the night, you could start the story over, or just think back to any part that the more you listen, the more quickly you'll drop off, and the quality of your sleep will keep improving over time. Our story tonight is called At the Summer Fair, and it's a story about a yearly tradition and how it changes in the different summers of your life. It's also about plums taken from the icebox,

a handmade cup wrapped in paper, and strolling along the river as the streetlights blink on above you. Now, turn out your light. Slip down into your sheets and feel how cool and soft they are around you. Get your pillow in just the right spot and let your whole body relax. Let's take a deep breath in through the nose

and out through the mouth. Good. Do that again. Breathe in and out. Good. At the Summer Fair As kids, we always went during the day,

riding the rides and playing the games, eating pretzels with lines of yellow mustard squeezed on top and blue snow cones that stained our lips. We didn't mind the heat and ran from one booth to another, calling out to each other about where to go next. At some point we'd be rounded up and taken home, dusty and exhausted, and still chattering about all the things we'd seen and done.

Now, as grown-ups, we liked to go in the late afternoon, as the sun was sinking behind the trees. The hottest part of the day behind us and the breeze of evening starting to break through the midsummer air. We'd set out from home, hand in hand, and made our way toward the sound of the fair in the distance. In my childhood memory, the fairgrounds were huge, paths you could get lost in, and always a corner of the park that you hadn't explored.

But now I saw that it had only ever been the green space of the city park and the gravel lot beside it, with a row of artists' booths stretching down along the riverfront. All along the edges of the fair were tall wooden bins filled by a local orchard with the ripe stone fruits of the season. Peaches and plums and nectarines and tiny yellow-orange apricots were heaped in sweet-smelling mounds. The fruit was so abundant at this point in the summer, and the orchard so generous, that you could just help yourself to anything that sounded good. Plums are my favorite, but if they aren't perfectly ripe, they can be terribly sour and hard to get your teeth through. We stopped to survey the offerings,

and I found a couple small but soft and ripe-smelling plums. They had that frosted shimmer on their skins, with deep purple underneath. I slipped them into my pocket to eat later, maybe after a short stay in the fridge. It made me think suddenly of that brief, lovely poem by William Carlos Williams that goes, This is just to say,

I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox, and which you were probably saving for breakfast. Forgive me. They were delicious, so sweet, and so cold. We linked hands again and stepped into the heart of the fair. Kids ran and chased.

Bunches of friends strolled on the midway. A teddy bear clamped under an arm. One at a booth somewhere along the way. The people watching was excellent. Here was an older couple, watching from a bench. Canes propped beside and a huge bag of popcorn between them, their hands bumping together as they reached in for another mouthful. Here was a grunt of teens. That is the collective noun for teenagers, a grunt, or, alternatively, an attitude of teens, boastful and merrily loud after a couple months of running free from school,

holding court by the Ferris wheel. Here were four women who looked so much alike they must be sisters, each with long dark hair and bright shades of lipstick, having a good gossip while an occasional kid would run up to ask for a dollar or hand over a cast-off sweater. Lucky children, I thought When you can turn as easily to an aunt As to your mom to have your shoelace tied They won't know till they're older

How sweet that is We'd ridden the Ferris wheel lots Back when we were teenagers ourselves And we didn't need any teddy bears, and we weren't yet ready to sit on a bench and eat popcorn. So we walked past all of that and down to the booths of art and handmade things by the river. We went slowly, looking at silver rings set with polished stones, watercolors of some local landmarks, soaps and salves I bought something good for mosquito bites. Tiny hand-bound books you could write stories in,

and rows and rows of ceramics. I'm a sucker for teacups and coffee mugs. However many I've got, I'd always like one more. And as I was looking, I got a little squeeze from the hand I was holding, which I knew meant, go on, pick out a good one. I found a squat little cup, the glaze smooth bluish-green,

and with a broad spot at the top of the handle to rest your thumb. I pointed to it. It was paid for and wrapped up in yesterday's newspaper and tucked into my bag for tomorrow morning's tea. I'll have it with my plums, I thought. The sunlight was going, and the tall street lamps were coming on around us. We could turn home, and and soon we would.

But maybe we'd walk just a bit further, down along the river first. After all, in the course of a year, these summer nights were few and should be savored. Yes, let's walk a bit further. At the summer fair. As kids, we always went during the day.

Riding the rides and playing the games. Eating pretzels with lines of yellow mustard squeezed on top and blue snow cones that stained our lips. We didn't mind the heat and ran from one booth to another, calling out to each other about where to go next.

At some point, we'd be rounded up and taken home dusty and exhausted and still chattering about all the things we'd seen and done now as grown-ups we like to go in the late afternoon,

as the sun was sinking behind the trees, the hottest part of the day behind us, and the breeze of evening starting to break through the midsummer air. We'd set out from home hand in hand and made our way toward the sound of the fair in the distance. In my childhood memory, the fairgrounds were huge, paths you could get lost in, and always a corner of the park you hadn't explored.

But now I saw that it had only ever been the green space of the city park and the gravel lot beside it, with a row of artists' booths stretching down along the edges of the fair were tall wooden bins filled by a local orchard with the ripe stone fruits of the season peaches and plums and nectarines and tiny yellow-orange apricots

were heaped in sweet-smelling mounds. The fruit was so abundant at this point in the summer and the orchard so generous that you could just help yourself to anything that sounded good. Plums are my favorite. But if they aren't perfectly ripe, they can be terribly sour

and hard to get your teeth through. We stopped to survey the offerings, and I found a couple small but soft and ripe-smelling plums. They had they had that frosted shimmer on their skins with deep purple underneath. I slipped them into my pocket to eat later, maybe after a short stay in the fridge. It made me think suddenly of that brief, lovely poem by William Carlos Williams that goes,

This is just to say I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox, and which you were probably saving for breakfast. Forgive me. They were delicious, so sweet, and so cold.

We linked hands again and stepped into the heart of the fair. Kids ran and chased. Bunches of friends strolled on the midway. A teddy bear clamped under an arm, one at a booth somewhere along the way. The people watching was excellent. Here was an older couple, watching from a bench,

canes propped beside, and a huge bag of popcorn between them, their hands bumping together as they reached in for another mouthful. Here was a grunt of teens. That is the collective noun for teenagers, a grunt, or alternatively, an attitude of teens. Boastful and merrily loud, after a couple months of running free from school, holding court by the Ferris wheel. Here were four women who looked so much alike.

They must be sisters, each with long dark hair and bright shades of lipstick, having a good gossip, while an occasional kid would run up to ask for a dollar or hand over a cast-off sweater. Lucky children, I thought. When you can turn as easily to an aunt as to your mom to have your shoelace tied.

They won't know till they're older how sweet that is. We'd ridden the Ferris wheel lots back when we were teenagers ourselves, and we didn't need any teddy bears, and we weren't yet ready to sit on a bench and eat popcorn. So we walked past all of that and down to the booths of art and handmade things by the river. We went slowly, looking at silver rings set with polished stones, watercolors of some local landmarks, soaps and salves.

I bought something good for mosquito bites. Tiny hand-bound books you could write stories in. And rows and rows of ceramics. I'm a sucker for teacups and coffee mugs. However many I've got, I'd always like one more. And as I was looking, I got a little squeeze from the hand I was holding, which I knew meant, go on, pick out a good one. I found a squat little cup, the glaze a smooth bluish green, and with a broad spot at the top of the handle

to rest your thumb. I pointed to it. It was paid for and wrapped up in yesterday's newspaper and tucked into my bag for tomorrow morning's tea. I'll have it with my plums, I thought. The sunlight was going, and the tall street lamps were coming on around us. We could turn home, and soon we would.

But maybe we'd walk just a bit further, down along the river first. After all, in the course of a year, these summer nights were few, and should be savored. Yes, let's walk a bit further. Sweet dreams.