Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Family Photos

Episode Date: June 22, 2026

Our story tonight is called Family Photos, and it’s a story about an afternoon in the village square and moments caught on film. It’s also about oak trees and rowboats, a gate in a fence and the feeling of belonging in your family and in your community. Subscribe to our ⁠Premium channel⁠. The first month is on us. OneSkin Get 15% off OneSkin with the code NOTHINGMUCH at ⁠oneskin.co/NOTHINGMUCH⁠. #oneskinpod We give to a different charity each week and this week we are giving to CommUNITY Pride of Saugatuck/Douglas. They support and celebrate the LGBTQIA+ community through events, advocacy, partnerships, and year-round connection. Pre-register for the Village of Nothing Much app⁠. Use code VILLAGE-FOUNDER for 25% off for life! Sign up for our ⁠newsletter⁠ to stay in the know. Pre-order Kathryn’s new book, ⁠On the Street Where You Live⁠. ⁠NMH merch, autographed books, and more⁠ Listen to our daytime show, ⁠Stories from the Village of Nothing Much⁠. ⁠Sit Meditation with Kathryn⁠ ⁠Pay It Forward Subscription⁠ Follow us on ⁠Instagram⁠. Visit ⁠Nothing Much Happens⁠ for more Village fun. Listen to the adventures of our favorite furry trio with this playlist! Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Get more Nothing Much Happens with bonus episodes, extra long stories, and ad-free listening, all while supporting the show you love. Subscribe now. Hi, I'm Catherine Nikolai, and if you're looking for something gentle to listen to that isn't news or true crime or self-improvement, I made this for you. Stories from the Village of Nothing Much is like easy listening, but for fiction. Cozy, warm, calm stories, about ordinary moments that feel a little magical. They're grounding, soothing, and quietly uplifting without being cheesy, relaxing without putting you to sleep, and just dreamy enough to remind you that there's still sweetness in everyday life. Perfect for your commute while you're tidying up,

or when you want a little escape, that feels simple and good. Search for stories from the village of Nothing Much, wherever you listen. Welcome. to bedtime stories for everyone, in which nothing much happens. You feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Catherine Nikolai. I write and read all the stories you hear on nothing much happens.

Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. We give to a different charity each week, and this week we are giving to community pride of Sagatuck Douglas. They support and celebrate the LGBTQIA Plus community through events, advocacy, partnerships, and year-round connections. Learn more about them in our show notes. For ad-free episodes, and to support and sustain what we do, subscribe to our premium feed at Nothing Much Happens.com.

It's also a great spot to get your very own audio engineering with Bob Wittersheim hoodie. Come on, everyone needs one of those. Now, we begin the brain training. Just by listening to our story, we will condition a reliable response to quickly and peacefully fall asleep. And be patient if you're new to this. Habit building takes time. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through.

If you wake later in the night, just press play again. Our story tonight is called Family Photos, and it's a story about an afternoon in the village square and moments caught on film. It's also about oak trees and rowboats, a gate and a fence, and the feeling of belonging in your family and in your community. I've been thinking a lot lately about aging and how I see it differently than I used to.

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keeping watch as you sleep. Take a deep breath in through your nose. Let it out your mouth. Nice. One more. Breathe in and out. Good. Family photos.

The oaks around the village green are thankfully very tall and full of wide scalloped leaves. So the square beneath it stays shady. and cool, even on long summer afternoons. My camera hung from my neck, but I lifted it to snap a photo so frequently that I didn't even notice its weight. I'd set up a few spots for folks to pose,

in front of the fountain, on the benches by the chess tables, and on the sloping green grass, on the north side of the square. There was a sign-up sheet, with time slots and spots for names on a clipboard, a stubby pencil dangling from it by a ribbon, but lots of folks just showed up whenever they could,

and we fit them in easily enough. It was part of a project that the historical society put together. To create a photographic record of our citizens, to keep their stories for posterity, and to give families a chance at a free portrait to take home. Getting pictures taken is sometimes one thing too many for busy folks. But we'd be running these photo sessions regularly over the

summer. So chances were nearly every villager could be a part of it if they wanted to. It seemed lots wanted to. I'd been snapping away all day and had seen kids and grown-ups and dogs and cats and at least one iguana all pose and smile. I mean, I think the iguana was smiling, it was a bit hard to tell. The family settled on the bench in front of the camera now was made up of a husband and wife, a small, excited brown dog, a seemingly indifferent orange cat, and a large greyhound with a salt and pepper muzzle, who had fallen asleep across his mom's lap as soon as they sat down. It took a minute to get the little brown dog. I learned his name was crumb to settle somewhere. He finally picked the spot between his parents, plopping his

bum down on the bench seat and thawking his tail against his mom's elbow. And the cat, Marmite? No, Marmalade. That was her name. She climbed up onto her dad's lap and looked over one Auburn shoulder at me like a seasoned model. I called out jokingly.

Could y'all show me a bit more personality, please? In the moment their mouths turned up and their eyes lit with humor. I snapped the picture. I took a half dozen or so for safety and then sent the family over to the table the historical society had set up to look at the shots on a tablet

and pick out their favorite. While they were there, they would share their names and ages for posterity and add any extra information they wanted to include in the record. Some people shared their occupation, maiden names, the cross streets of their neighborhood,

or even a story about their lives in the village. Today I'd met the homecoming queen who'd been crowned the year I was born, the family that bought the cider mill a few seasons back, and the boatwright, who'd built the rowboat, smored at the inn's dock, and speaking of the inn, the innkeeper herself had come up with the idea for this project, something about a cache of pictures and documents she'd come across somewhere, and how she wanted to add our contemporary villagers to it.

She was the one at the table, taking down names and ages, in fact. Her portrait had been the first I'd taken today before a line formed, one with just her and her cat Sycamore, and another with an older man with a mustache, and a very good-looking person in a chef's apron. Sycamore had gone back to the inn with the other two,

and the innkeeper stayed to help make records of our photo subjects. As Crum's parents looked over their pictures, I welcomed two more people onto the bench. Now, families come in all shapes and sizes, and I found it better to let people tell you how they related to each other, rather than guess. And most people did offer up details as they posed. And these two had strong sibling energy,

but didn't look a thing alike. Late 30s, early 40s, maybe. Him with thick-rimmed glasses, sitting across striking patches of Vidaligo on his cheeks. His shirt was crisply ironed, and his shoes freshly shined. Her, with combat boots, and an orange Gerbera daisy

tucked behind one ear. Still, there was something unmistakably aligned between them. They seemed a bit wooden on the bench, and I moved them over to the spot in front of the fountain instead. He casually leaned back against it, bringing his height a bit closer to hers. And she automatically threaded her arm through his.

We all smiled, feeling the comfort in the pose. I realized, as I pulled the camera away from my eye, to look at the shot on the screen, that I recognized them. Wait, I said with excitement. Aren't you the ones who organize the Friends Giving Dinner every year? They both smiled even wider and said in unison, that's us. They told me about growing up in houses

whose backyards touched each other. How there was a gate in the fence so they could go back and forth and how they'd become a member of each other's household and family ending up something like brother and sister or best friends. The pictures I took while they told me their story were my favorites of the set.

Next up, and this time, over on a blanket, I'd stretched atop a patch of soft grass, was a bigger group, husbands and their two sons, two pretty dogs called Crimson and Clover, a couple of grandparents and an aunt. They were a noisy, busy group, and kept me laughing as I focused my lens. Since there were no other villagers waiting, we spent some time putting together different groupings, the boys and their dogs, then added in the aunt, then swapped the dogs for the grandparents, and then just the husbands. I asked them when the last time they'd had a picture taken of just the two of them was.

They looked at each other trying to remember. Probably not since our wedding day, they finally agreed. The moment with just the two of them only lasted a few seconds, before the dogs pulled their way back onto the blanket, and we did one final portrait with the whole family. I gave the dogs a pat. shook hands and got hugs from the boys. And they stepped over to the table

to see how the shots had come out, the post-clock in the square. Showed I had a few minutes till the next family was set to arrive. I sat down on the bench and lifted my camera from my neck. I'd read somewhere that there isn't a person on the planet.

that is anything less than your 20th cousin. And I thought that just as the people and animals I'd photograph today were through blood or marriage or simple choice, family to each other, they were also family to me, that we were all walking each other, back home. Family photos. The oaks around the village green are thankfully very tall and full of wide scalloped leaves. So the square beneath it stays shady and cool. Even on long summer afternoons. My camera hung from around my neck, but I lifted it to snap a photo so frequently that I didn't even notice its weight. I'd set up a few spots for folks to pose in front of the

fountain, on the benches by the chest tables, and on the sloping green grass, on the north side of the square. There was a sign-up sheet with time slots and spots for names on a clipboard, a stubby pencil, dangling from it by a ribbon. But lots of people just showed up whenever they could,

and we fit them in easily enough. It was part of a project that the historical society put together to create a photographic record of our citizens to keep their stories for posterity and also give families a chance at a free portrait to take home. Getting pictures taken is sometimes one thing, thing too many for busy folks. But we'd be running these photo sessions regularly over the summer. So chances were nearly every villager could be a part of it if they wanted to. And it seems lots

wanted to. I'd been snapping away all day and had seen kids. kids and grown-ups, and dogs and cats, and at least one iguana, pose, and smile. I mean, I think the iguana was smiling. It was a bit hard to tell. The family settled on the bench in front of the camera now was made up of a husband and wife, a small, excited brown dog, a seemingly indifferent orange cat, and a large greyhound, with a salt and pepper muzzle who had fallen asleep across his mom's lap as soon as they sat down. It took a minute to get the little brown dog. I learned his name was crumb to settle somewhere.

He finally picked the spot between his parents, plopping his bum down on the bench seat, and thawking his tail against his mom's elbow. And the cat? Um, marmite? Uh, no, marmalade. That was her name. She climbed up onto her dad's lap and looked over one Auburn shoulder at me, like a seasoned model.

I called out jokingly. Could y'all show a bit more personality, please? In the moment their mouths turned up and their eyes lit with humor. I snapped the picture. I took a half dozen or so for safety and then sent the family over to the table the historical society had set up to look at the shots on a tablet and pick out their favorite.

While they were there, they would share their names and ages for posterity and add any extra information they wanted to include in the record. Some people shared their occupier. occupation, maiden names, the cross streets of their neighborhood, or even a story about their lives in the village. So far today, I'd met the homecoming queen who'd been crowned the year I was born, the family that bought the cider mill a few seasons back, and the boatwright, who'd built The rowboats moored at the inn's dock. And speaking of the inn, the innkeeper herself, had come up with the idea for the project.

Something about a cache of pictures and documents she'd come across somewhere and how she wanted to add our contemporary villagers to it. She was at the table, taking down names, and ages, in fact. Her portrait had been the first I'd taken today before a line formed, one with just her and her cat, Sycamore, and another with an older man, with a mustache, and a very good-looking person. in a chef's apron. Sycamore had gone back to the inn with the other two,

and the innkeeper stayed to help make records of our photo subjects. As Crum's parents looked over their pictures, I welcomed two more people onto the bench. Families come in all shapes and sizes. and I found it better to let people tell you how they related to each other rather than to guess. And most people did offer up details as they posed. These two had strong sibling energy, but didn't look a thing alike. late 30s, early 40s maybe.

Him with thick-rimmed glasses, sitting across striking patches, a vitiligo on his cheeks. His shirt was crisply ironed, and his shoes freshly shined, her with combat boots, and an orange Gerbera Daisy, tucked behind.

one ear. Still, there was something unmistakably aligned between them. They seemed a bit wooden on the bench, and I moved them over to the spot in front of the fountain. He casually leaned back against it, bringing his height, a bit closer to hers, and she automatically threaded. her arm through his. We all smiled. Feeling the comfort in the pose, I realized as I pulled the camera away from my eye

to look at the shot on the screen that I recognized them. Wait, I said with excitement, aren't you the ones who organize the Friends Giving Dinner every year? They both smiled even wider and said in unison, That's us. They told me about growing up in houses, whose backyards touched each other. Now there was a gate in the fence so they could go back and forth,

and how they'd each become a member of the other's household and family, ending up something like brother and sister or best friends. The pictures I took while they were telling me their story were my favorite of the set. Next up, and this time over on a... a blanket. I'd stretched a top, a patch of soft grass, was a bigger group, husbands, and their two sons, two pretty dogs called Crimson and Clover, a couple of grandparents and an aunt. They were a noisy, busy group, and kept me laughing. As I focused my lens, as there were no other villagers waiting, we spent some time putting together different groupings.

The boys and their dogs. Then added in the aunt. Then swapped the dogs for the grandparents. then just the husbands. I asked them when the last time they'd had a picture taken of just the two of them was and they looked at each other trying to remember, probably not since our wedding day.

They finally agreed. The moment with just the two of them lasted only a few seconds before the dogs pulled their way back onto the blanket and we did one final portrait with the whole family

I gave the dogs a pat shook hands and got hugs from the boys and they stepped over to the table to see how their shots had come out the post clock in the square, showed I had a few minutes till the next family was set to arrive. I sat down on the bench and lifted my camera from my neck. I'd read somewhere that there isn't a person on the planet who is anything less than your 20th cousin.

and I thought that just as the people and animals I photographed today were through blood or marriage or simple choice family to each other. They were also family to me that we were all walking each other back home. Sweet dreams.