Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Fall Fair (Encore)

Episode Date: October 19, 2023

Originally Aired: October 17th, 2021 (Season 8 Episode 11) Our story this week is called Fall Fair and it’s a story about a day with loved ones out where the blue ribbons are handed out and the cider is being served. It’s also about a scarf wrapped twice around your shoulders, horses grazing in an open field, and the way simple good feelings show up when you’re paying attention. 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 Grownups, in which nothing much happens. You feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Catherine Nicolai. I write and read all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. Cozy new hoodies, long-sleeved tees, t-shirts, and stickers are for sale at nothingmuchhappens.com. I like the idea that you could be walking down the street in your neighborhood and pass someone and recognize our logo on their sleeve. A fellow resident of the village of Nothing Much.

Someone else who cares about gentleness and ordinary magic. And of course, you can subscribe to our ad-free and bonus episodes at the same spot. That's nothingmuchappens.com. Now, let me say a bit about how to use this podcast. Instead of letting your overstimulated brain run roughshod over you, this story will guide it someplace calm and relaxed. And its natural response will be

to power down and allow you to sleep. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a bit slower the second time through. If you wake in the middle of the night, you can listen again or just think back to any details of the story that you can remember

or even any pleasant memory of your own. With practice, falling asleep and returning to sleep quickly will become your go-to response. Now it's time to turn off the light, set down anything you've been looking at, and settle your body into your bed as deeply and cozily as you can. If there are things you didn't get to today

and you feel them tugging at your sleeve, believe me when I say it's okay if you just don't think about them right now. Leave tomorrow for tomorrow. It's okay if for right now, you just do this. Take a slow, deep breath in through your nose

and out through your mouth. Nice. Do that one more time. Let's breathe in. And out. Good. Our story this week is called Fall Fair. And it's a story about a day with loved ones,

out where the blue ribbons are handed out and the cider is being served. It's also about a scarf wrapped twice around your shoulders, horses grazing in an open field, and the way simple good feelings show up when you're paying attention. Fall Fair It was a perfect day for it. Cool enough to need a sweater, but with bright blue skies

and a little wind to spread the scent of dried leaves. I'd woken up excited, like a child on Christmas morning or on the first day of summer vacation. It was the day of the fall fair, and we had a plan. We being me and my sisters. Life had been busy since the kids had gone back to school, and we'd missed our usual catch-ups. But this had been on the calendar all year. We had a few hard and fast days that we just wouldn't budge on, that no matter what else was happening, we spent them together. Of course, there were holidays and birthdays. But for years now, the fall fair was my favorite of our days together.

Sometimes the big days on the calendar can come with a bit of pressure to give the perfect gift or make the perfect meal or host the perfect party. But the fair, that was just fun. Walking around rather than sitting at a table for hours was much better for the little ones as well, and it left us free to chat while we roamed, to relax together and take in the sights, sounds, and flavors of the autumn. I dressed in jeans and boots and a cardigan with patched elbows and pulled from a box on the top shelf of the coat closet a long, soft scarf

that could wrap two or three times around my neck with more to spare. I remembered seeing the tail end of that scarf hanging down from the box on some hot summer afternoon a few months ago, and thinking a little wistfully about the day when it would be needed, when the thick July air would be a memory and the days would be crispy and pleasantly cold. As I wrapped it around me, I smiled, catching myself in aiest part. Not to have them, but to notice when you are. I stood still and tried to feel where the happy was in my body.

It had a fingerprint, an afterimage, shifting like a cloud, shimmering like light on water. And finding it, feeling it, helped to make the moment stick. The happy was more salient. The contentedness, more like a part of me than a fleeting encounter.

Happy and well-wrapped in my scarf, I headed out to meet my sisters. There is a summer fair that we never miss over a few fields out by the orchards. Driving out past the paved roads, I spotted horses in a field, calmly chewing away at the grass with blankets slung over their backs, and a stretch of split-rail fence with a dozen crows calling from the posts. There was a field, already half-full with cars. A teenager in a reflective vest waved me into a spot. When I stepped out of my car, I laughed to see my sister's car parked right next to mine. Synchronized we were. Her car was empty. She must have arrived a few minutes before. We'd made a plan to meet at the photo booth where we could take a few pictures with the kiddos,

before we let them run wild. And that's where I found them. the kiddos, before we let them run wild. And that's where I found them. The little ones full of energy, jumping and chasing each other. And my sisters, smiling, waiting for me as usual. I am the baby of the family, so it only makes sense that I show up last. There were hay bales set up with pumpkins and bright red gourds,

chrysanthemums and scarecrows propped all around. There was a big wood cutout, painted with a family of squirrels, that the kids could stick their heads through, which made them laugh to no end. I stood, snapping pictures and laughing too, and feeling the way the silliness, the simple joy at their joy,

felt in my body. More fingerprints, more shimmering light on waves. Soon, the kids were eager to be off. There were potato sack races and pumpkin bowling where they got to roll, or more likely messily throw, pumpkins down a lane to try to knock over some bowling pins.

We told them to check in every for hugs and a few words. We headed for the coffee and cider booth and each got a cup of something hot. Ben started to stroll there was an area for games and we could spot the kids playing it looked like they might be making a few new friends and so far had caused no visible damage

besides the bowling and races and so far had caused no visible damage. Besides the bowling and races, there was a ring toss and face painting and a giant glass jar full of candy corn where you could win a prize by guessing the right number of pieces inside. One of my sisters had a theory, a world peace kind of theory, that if you brought together children from all over the world and let them play together on a playground, leaving their parents to watch over from the sidelines.

Differences would be forgotten, new bonds formed, and we'd come closer to peace just by witnessing their example. There were booths and tents with local wares, crafts and paintings. I bought a candle that smelled like vetiver and pine, and one of my sisters bought a jar of spice mix. And we chatted with the vendors as they showed us their pieces. You must be sisters, we heard more than once. It's something nearly everyone says who sees us.

Curly dark hair, dark eyes, the same smile in four variations. Sometimes we joked, saying, who, these three? Never seen them before in my life. But mostly we were happy to be recognized in each other's faces. We'd shared a lot over the years, and we're proud to share this too. Beyond the artists' tents were the blue ribbon tables. There were jams and jellies, stacked in neat pyramids, and you could sample from each one. The rhubarb was my favorite.

I loved the tart punch of it and the bright color. Beside them were jars of pickles, every kind you could imagine. And one of my sisters went back twice for another sample of the pickled Brussels sprouts, which I passed on. We don't, it turns out, have everything in common. Then there were the giant vegetables, cabbages, onions, and of course pumpkins,

all competing to win a ribbon for their size. The kids found us there as we were looking over them, and they each patted the side of the biggest pumpkin, the one with the blue ribbon pinned to its viney top. It must have taken a team to deliver it, and I thought of all the pies it could make. The kids clung to our legs for a few moments, resting between bursts of energy,

then ran off again to play with their new friends. I could smell popcorn in the air, fresh and hot. As I looked up, I saw a V of geese flying across the sky. I was happy. Fall fair. It was a perfect day for it. Cool enough to need a sweater, but with bright blue skies and a little wind to spread the scent of dried leaves. I'd woken up excited, like a child on Christmas morning or on the first day of summer vacation. It was the day of the fall fair

and we had a plan. We being me and my sisters. Life had been busy since the kids had gone back to school, and we'd missed our usual catch-ups. But this had been on the calendar all year. We had a few hard and fast days that we wouldn't budge on. That no matter what else was happening, we spent them together. Of course, there were the holidays and birthdays. But for years now,

the fall fair was my favorite of our days together. Sometimes the big days on the calendar can come with a bit of pressure. To give the perfect gift, or make the perfect meal, or host the perfect party. But the fair, that was just fun. Walking around, rather than sitting at a table for hours, was much better for the little ones as well. And it left us free to chat while we roamed, to relax together, and take in the sights, sounds, and flavors of autumn.

I dressed in jeans and boots, and a cardigan with patched elbows and pulled from a box on the top shelf of the coat closet a long, soft scarf that could wrap two or three times around my neck with more to spare. I remembered seeing the tail end of that scarf hanging down from the box on some hot summer afternoon a few months ago, and thinking a little wistfully about the day when it would be needed. When the thick July air would be a memory

and the days would be crispy and pleasantly cold. As I wrapped it around me, I smiled, catching myself in a moment in which I was simply happy, simply content. When I noticed these moments, and listen, that is the trickiest part, not to have them, but to notice when you are,

I stood still and tried to feel where the happy was in my body. It had a fingerprint, an afterimage, shifting like a cloud, shimmering like light on water. And finding it, feeling it, helped me to make the moment stick. The happy was more salient, the contentedness more like a part of me than a fleeting encounter. Happy and well wrapped in my scarf, I headed out to meet my sisters. There is a summer fair that we never miss as well. That happens in the park downtown. But the fall fair needs a bit more space

and takes over a few fields out by the orchards. Driving out past the paved roads, I spotted horses in a field calmly chewing away at the grass with blankets slung over their backs and a stretch of split-rail fence with a dozen crows cawing from the posts. There was a field already half-full with cars. A teenager in a reflective vest waved me into a spot.

When I stepped out of my car, I laughed to see my sister's car parked right next to mine. Synchronized, we were. Her car was empty. She must have arrived a few minutes before. We'd made a plan to meet at the photo booth, where we could take a few pictures with the kiddos before we let them run wild. And that's where I found them, the little ones, full of energy, jumping and chasing, and my sisters smiling, waiting for me as usual.

I am the baby of the family, so it only makes sense that I show up last. There were hay bales, set up with pumpkins and bright red gourds, chrysanthemums and scarecrows propped all around. There was a big, wood cutout, painted with a family of squirrels, that the kids could stick their heads through, which made them laugh to no end. I stood, snapping pictures and laughing too,

and feeling the way the silliness, the simple joy at their joy, felt in my body. More fingerprints. More shimmering light on waves. Soon the kids were eager to be off. There were potato sack races and pumpkin bowling, where they got to roll, or more likely messily throw pumpkins down a lane to try to knock over some bowling pins.

We told them to check in every so often and let them loose. In the resulting quiet, we let out a collective sigh and got a chance for hugs and a few words. We headed for the coffee and cider booth and each got a cup of something hot, then started to stroll. There was an area for games and we could spot the kids playing. It looked like they might be making a few new friends. And so far had caused no visible damage. Besides the bowling and races,

there was a ring toss and face painting, and a giant glass jar full of candy corn, where you could win a prize by guessing the right number of pieces inside. One of my sisters had a theory, a world peace kind of theory, that if you brought together children from all over the world

and let them play together on a playground, leaving their parents to watch over from the sidelines, differences would be forgotten, new bonds formed, and we'd come closer to peace just by witnessing their example. There were booths and tents with local wares, crafts and paintings.

I bought a candle that smelled like vetiver and pine, and one of my sisters bought a jar of spice mix, and we chatted with the vendors as they showed us their pieces. You must be sisters. We heard that more than once. It's something nearly everyone says who sees us. Curly dark hair, dark eyes, the same smile in four variations. Sometimes we joked, saying, who, these three? Never seen them before in my life. But mostly, we were happy to be recognized in each other's faces. We shared a lot over the years, and we're proud to share this too. Beyond the artists' tents were the blue ribbon tables.

There were jams and jellies stacked in neat pyramids, and you could sample from each one. The rhubarb was my favorite. I loved the tart punch of it and the bright color. Beside them were jars of pickles, every kind you could imagine. And one of my sisters went back twice for another sample of the pickled Brussels sprouts,

which I passed on. We don't, it turns out, have everything in common. Then there were the giant vegetables. Cabbages, onions, and of course pumpkins, all competing to win a ribbon for their size. The kids found us as we were looking over them, and they each patted the side of the biggest pumpkin there, the one with the blue ribbon pinned to its viney top. It must have taken a team to deliver it, and I thought of all the pies it could make. The kids clung to our legs for a few moments, resting between bursts of energy, then ran off again to play with their new friends. popcorn in the air, fresh and hot.

And as I looked up, saw a V of geese flying across the sky. I was happy. Sweet dreams.