Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Bells and Whistles

Episode Date: November 2, 2020

Our story tonight is called Bells and Whistles and it’s a story about being in the right place at the right time to hear something special. It’s also about seashells on a shelf, stacks of pumpkins on storefront stoops, and the trips we take to bring each other back home. It was inspired by a conversation I had with our pre-order winner, a lovely lady named Ginger. Her memories set my imagination spinning and this is where it landed. So get cozy and ready to sleep. Buy the book Get beautiful NMH merch Get autographed copies Get our ad-free and bonus episodesPurchase Our Book: https://bit.ly/Nothing-Much-HappensSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Grown-Ups, in which nothing much happens. You feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Catherine Nicolai. I read and write all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. This time last year, I was writing story after story to add to my new book, Nothing Much Happens, cozy and calming stories to soothe your mind and help you sleep. I was testing recipes and creating care rituals and emailing with the illustrator.

And now, a year later, my beautiful book is available all over the world. I can't wait for you to see it, to read one of the 16 new stories that are only in the book. To learn more, or to buy an autographed copy, go to nothingmuchappens.com. Let me say a little about how to use this podcast. Your brain needs a job to do, and without one, it will wander off and get into trouble. But the job is easy and such a pleasure.

I'll tell you a story. I'll tell it twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. Your job is just to listen, and pull the details of it around you like a blanket. If you wake in the middle of the night, you could listen again, or just walk yourself back through any part of it that you can remember. This trains the brain over time to shift out of its wandering default mode that can keep you up, and into the restful response that happens in task mode. It's brain training, and it gets easier and more automatic

over time. But have a bit of patience if you are new to this. Now, it's time to turn off the light. Put away anything you've been playing with or looking at. Take some time to slide your body down into your preferred sleeping position. Get the right pillow in the right spot and let everything relax. If you find you clench your jaw when you sleep, place the tip of your tongue at the spot where your top teeth meet the gums on the inside. This will help to keep your jaw relaxed. Now, let's take a deep breath in through the nose, and then a soft sigh through the mouth. Nice. Do that Good.

Our story tonight is called Bells and Whistles. And it's a story about being in the right place at the right time to hear something special. It's also about seashells on a shelf, stacks of pumpkins on storefront stoops, and the trips we take to bring each other back home. It was inspired by a conversation I had with our pre-order winner, a lovely lady named Ginger. Her memory set my imagination spinning, and this is where it landed. Bells and Whistles

I was at the corner grocery, the one a few storefronts down from the bakery, with the stands of fresh flowers wrapped in brown paper sleeves on the sidewalk. They had roses, and gerbera daisies, and calla lilies. I reached up for a bouquet of the lilies, whose centers were a deep rosy pink, but were edged with ivory. They looked elegant, even in their paper wrapping. And I thought they'd be perfect,

standing in my empty vase at home. I lived in an old brownstone, one of many, more or less identical, built in a neat row and all of them had a small niche tucked between the front door and the stairs. It was meant to be a shelf for a telephone back when telephones were things that stayed in one place

and plugged permanently into the wall. It was just a foot or so across and a few inches deep, with a pretty arched top cut into the plaster, and I tried to keep mine regularly filled with fresh flowers. When I visited with neighbors up and down the street, I noticed some had filled their nooks with pictures and frames, or houseplants with trailing, leggy vines. My nearest neighbor on one side had a little boy who loved to draw and paint, and he'd let him take over the space with his art supplies. He'd painted a portrait of the two of them,

and the shelf held seashells and the small found objects that children so easily make treasures of. I paid for my lilies and stood on the corner for a moment, just watching cars pass and feeling the cool, late autumn air sneaking into the sleeves and collar of my jacket. It wasn't cold enough for snow yet. We still had a month or so before the first flakes would fall. In fact, I'd noticed as I passed the post office that their small patch of decorative cabbages and purple-leafed kale were still hardy and hale.

The storefronts were decorated here and there with precarious stacks of pumpkins and drying corn stalks tied into bundles. As I stood, looking up and down the street, feeling the air, I heard a rising, rhythmic, rhythmic rushing sound coming from a few blocks over and I took a breath of anticipation a train the whistle came through high and exciting and I turned toward the sound with an eager smile on my face.

I've never outgrown my love for trains, and I don't plan to. I tucked my lilies into my bag and began briskly walking to the little depot that sat a block behind Main Street to watch it roll by. Most of the trains that passed now carried cargo, and sometimes I'd find grains of wheat spilled along the tracks after one went by. But once or twice a day, there was a passenger train that stopped, and I'd already recognized it by the whistle. When I rounded the corner by the depot,

I saw a few people stepping down onto the platform, and a few more waiting to step up. Years ago, I'd taken this train a thousand miles out and back. It had been just this time of year, in fact. I'd gone to collect my brother from college and bring him home for Thanksgiving. The trip out had been quiet. I had a compartment to myself, and I'd spent most of it reading books and watching the scenery whiz past. I liked watching a bustling city thin out into neighborhoods and then into farmland, and after a while, to see the effect reversed. We'd been far out into open fields,

and cutting through country where snow was already thick on the ground. A chime had rung, and the conductor told us that if we looked out of the left side of the train, we'd see a convocation of eagles in the top of the tallest tree. The ride home had been noisy and happy, as my brother and I told the stories of the last few months, leaning into the funny parts and loving to make each other laugh. We made a couple of friends and played hand after hand of euchre, with the cards balanced on a suitcase between our knees, which was certainly not a fair game.

My brother and I had played quite a few card games over the years, and though we weren't twins, had something like twin language between us. A shorthand that you only develop with someone you've spent a lot of time growing up with. And beyond giving us an upper hand in a game of cards meant we usually knew just what the other was thinking, and could answer before a question was asked. I could set up the joke, and he'd answer with the punchline. The trip out had felt long, and the one back, so short.

As I watched the train pull away, I caught a glimpse of a few faces in the windows and wondered where they were going and if they had packs of cards and novels tucked into their bags, if they were going to meet someone. If they were on their way to bring someone home. I turned toward Main Street and was cutting through the park

when the bell rang at City Hall. It struck out twelve times, and it cheered me just as much as the train whistle had. I picked up my pace, taking long strides through the paths, and looking up to watch light flicker through the remaining leaves. Out of the park and down a side street, I heard another bell ringing as someone opened the door to the bookshop. I passed the yoga studio and thought of the gong hanging on the wall that my teacher rang as class started and ended, and thenfashioned twist doorbell, working not on electricity, but on a clockwork action. You turned it like you were turning a key, and the bell rang, vibrating through the door itself.

I rang it when I stepped up onto my front stoop just because I liked the way it sounded and the feeling of it through the wood. I knew that people all over the world rang bells to change a mood, to announce the start of something sacred, or to make a place feel fresh and clean and clear. And I thought that whenever humans simultaneously, and without knowing each other, agree on an idea, well, there must be something to it. When I'd first moved into this house, there had been an ancient telephone still sitting in the nook, and a friend of

mine had taken it apart and made a chime from the bell inside. He'd given it to me as a gift. It sat on my fireplace mantle, and every now and then, I ring it. I thought of that line of Leonard Cohen's, Ring the bells that still can ring. Forget your perfect offering. There's a crack in everything. It's how the light gets in. Bells and whistles.

I was at the corner grocery. The one a few storefronts down from the bakery, with the stands of fresh flowers wrapped in brown paper sleeves on the sidewalk. They had roses and Gerbera daisies and calla lilies. I reached up for a bouquet of the lilies, whose centers were a deep, rosy pink, but were edged with ivory. They looked elegant, even in their paper wrapping. And I thought they'd be perfect, standing in my empty vase at home. I lived in an old brownstone, one of many, more or less identical, built in a neat row. And all of them had a small niche, tucked between the front door and the stairs. It was meant to be a shelf for a telephone,

back when telephones were things that stayed in one place and plugged permanently into a wall. It was just a foot or so across, and a few inches deep, with a pretty arched top cut into the plaster. And I tried to keep mine regularly filled with fresh flowers. When I visited with neighbors up and down the street, I noticed some had filled their nooks with pictures and frames,

or houseplants with trailing, laggy vines. My nearest neighbor on one side had a little boy who loved to draw and paint, and he'd let him take over the space with his art supplies. He'd painted in a portrait of the two of them, and the shelf held seashells, and the small found objects that children so easily make treasures of. I paid for my lilies, and stood on the corner for a moment, just watching cars pass, and feeling the cool, late autumn air sneaking into the sleeves and collar of my jacket.

It wasn't cold enough for snow yet. We still had a month or so before the first flakes would fall. In fact, I'd noticed as I'd passed the post office that their small patch of decorative cabbages and purple-leafed kale were still hardy and hale. The storefronts were decorated here and there with precarious stacks of pumpkins and drying cornstalks tied into bundles. As I stood, looking up and down the street, feeling the air, I heard a rising, rhythmic, rushing sound coming from a few blocks over,

and I took a breath of anticipation. A train. The whistle came through, high and exciting, and I turned toward the sound with an eager smile on my face. I've never outgrown my love for trains, and I don't plan to. I tucked my lilies into my bag and began briskly walking to the little depot that sat a block behind Main Street, to watch it roll by.

Most of the trains that pass now carried cargo. And sometimes I'd find grains of wheat spilled along the tracks after one went by. But once or twice a day, there was a passenger train that stopped, and I'd already recognized it by its whistle. When I rounded the corner by the depot, I saw a few people stepping down onto the platform, and a few more waiting to step up. Years ago, I'd taken this train a thousand miles out and back. It had been just this time of year, in fact. I'd gone to collect my brother from college and bring him home for Thanksgiving. The trip out had been quiet.

I had a compartment to myself, and I'd spent most of it reading books and watching the scenery whiz past. I liked watching a bustling city thin out into neighborhoods and then into farmland. And after a while, to see the effect reversed. We'd been far out into open fields and cutting through country

where snow was already thick on the ground. A chime had rung, and the conductor told us that if we looked out of the left side of the train, we'd see a convocation of eagles in the top of the tallest tree. The ride home had been noisy and happy as my brother and I told the stories of the last few months,

leaning into the funny parts and loving to make each other laugh. We made a couple of friends and played hand after hand of euchre, with the cards balanced on a suitcase between our knees, which was certainly not a fair game. My brother and I had played quite a few card games over the years. And though we weren't twins, twins had something like twin language between us.

A shorthand that you only develop with someone you've spent a lot of time growing up with. And beyond giving us an upper hand in a game of cards, meant we usually knew just what the other was thinking, and could answer before a question was asked. I could set up the joke, and he'd answer with the punchline. The trip out had felt long, and the one back so short. As I watched the train pull away, I caught a glimpse of a few faces in the windows and wondered where they were going

and if they had packs of cards and novels tucked into their bags. If they were going to meet someone, if they were on their way to bring someone home. I turned back toward Main Street and was cutting through the park when the bell rang out at City Hall. It struck out twelve times, and it cheered me just as much as the train whistle had. I picked up my pace, taking long strides through the paths, and looking up to watch light flicker through the remaining leaves. Out of the park and down a side street, I heard another bell ringing as someone opened

the door to the bookshop. I passed the yoga studio, and I thought of the gong hanging from the wall that my teacher rang as class started and ended and then of the doorbell on my own brownstone. It was an old-fashioned twist doorbell, working not on electricity, but on a clockwork action. You turned it like you were turning a key, and the bell rang, vibrating through the door itself. I ring it when I stepped up to my front stoop, just because I liked the way it sounded and the feeling of it through the wood. I knew that people all over the world rang bells to change a mood,

to announce the start of something sacred, or to make a place feel fresh and clean and clear. And I thought that whenever humans simultaneously, and without knowing each other, agree on an idea. Well, there must be something to it. When I'd first moved into this house, there had been an ancient telephone, still sitting in the nook, and a friend of mine had taken it apart and made a chime from the bell inside. He'd given it to me as a gift.

It sat on my fireplace mantle. And every now and then, I rang it. I thought of that line of Leonard Cohen's. Ring the bells that still can ring. Forget your perfect offering. There's a crack in everything. It's how the light gets in. Sweet dreams.