Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - In The Bleachers (Encore)

Episode Date: September 12, 2024

Originally Aired: September 20th, 2020 (Season 6, Episode 6) Our story tonight is called In the Bleachers, and it’s a story about a game watched on a crisp fall evening. It’s also about pumpkins on doorsteps, flannel shirts, and remembering that there are lots of ways to grow. 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 Podcasts or follow the link: nothingmuchhappens.com/premium-subscription. Save over $100 on Kathryn’s hand-selected wind-down favorites with the Nothing Much Happens Wind-Down Box. A collection of products from our amazing partners: Eversio Wellness: Chill Now Vellabox: Lavender Silk Candle Alice Mushrooms: Nightcap NutraChamps: Tart Cherry Gummies A Brighter Year: Mini Coloring Book NuStrips: Sleep Strips Woolzies: Lavender Roll-On 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 nothingmuchhappens.com/first-this. Purchase Our Book: https://bit.ly/Nothing-Much-HappensSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Everyone, 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. We are bringing you an encore episode tonight, meaning that this story originally aired at some point in the past. It could have been recorded with different equipment in a different location. And since I'm a person and not a computer, I sometimes sound just slightly different. But the stories are always soothing and family-friendly, and our wishes for you are always deep rest and sweet dreams. Now, 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 are 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 works well if you wake in the middle of the night

use the details to get right back on the exit ramp. And before you know it, you'll be drifting off to peaceful sleep. Our story tonight is called In the Bleachers. And it's a story about a game watched on a crisp fall evening. It's also about pumpkins on doorsteps, flannel shirts from the back of the closet, and remembering that there are lots of ways to grow. Now, it's time to turn the light off. Set down anything you've been working on or looking at.

Adjust your pillows and pull your blanket up over your shoulder. All of this preparation you are doing before you close your eyes is setting you up for an excellent night's sleep. You might even 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. Let's do that again. Breathe in and out. Good. In the bleachers.

We'd thought of it months ago. We'd been on a walk in the earliest days of the summer. In fact, it might have been on the first truly warm day of the year. That's when every moment, with your face turned toward the sun, makes you shiver with energy and excitement at being out of the house and in the open air. And you look forward to getting good and hot and doing all the summer things. That runs its course by the end of the summer, when you'd give your eye teeth for a cool, rainy day to curl up by a window and read a book. By then, you begin to look forward to doing all the autumn things.

And this was the autumn thing we'd thought of that day on that sunny summer walk. We'd been walking through a neighborhood, looking at the pots of geraniums showing up on front steps when we'd noticed an empty lot between two houses. It didn't look like a house had ever stood there. I guessed it had always been just an open space of grass and wildflowers. But there was a path worn through

that reached far back to a line of trees. And we both turned to each other, tilting our heads like dogs listening for their favorite word. Shall we? I asked. Let's. And we stepped onto the path. The path was sandy earth, laid bare by many feet. And as we made our way along it,

I heard the slight crunch of a grain of sand scraping along a pebble under my foot. The grass was thick and bright green and full of crickets hopping along in front of us, leading our way. Soon, we were in the shade of the trees, with their leaves newly full and unfurled in the high air above us. The path persisted, and we followed. We stopped to squat down at the base of an elm tree, to look at what we guessed were a troop of morel mushrooms. We left them to their business, but I bookmarked the spot in my mind for a return visit after a bit of schooling on mushroom identification. I smiled, thinking of that quote, that all mushrooms are edible edible but some only once.

The path led us to step right through the low divided trunk of a tree. It split just a few inches above the ground, and was growing twin saplings that straightened into parallel, upright, thin-marked trunks just after their initial angled inception. I remembered learning a word for the opposite of this. Inosculation. A rare sight when two trees grow into each other. I supposed there were lots of ways to grow.

We stepped out from the cover of the trees and blinked up at the shapes in front of us, which took a moment to resolve and be recognized. Upright pillars that looked like giant cactus arms against the blue sky, steps leading up and up, and a vast field dotted with white and yellow. We both laughed as we realized where we were. We'd snuck up on the back of the high school football field. I guessed that path

marked the way back and forth for scores of teenagers on school days, with their backpacks slung over their shoulders, their sneakers kicking through the pine needles and old dried leaves. We raced each other from one end of the field to the other and bounced our voices in long, confident echoes across the bleachers. I couldn't remember ever doing anything like it when I'd been a high schooler. In fact, I'd probably avoided spots like this. But I'd grown out of my shyness long ago, and it felt powerful to run through the place and

fall laughing on our backs on the soft field. That's when we'd made the plan to come back and watch a game on a cool autumn night. I'd forgotten about it until I'd seen the schedule of games in the community calendar section of the local paper. And now that the evenings were getting chilly and the leaves were starting to shift into reds and oranges and yellows. Well, it sounded like a lovely night out. We bundled up a bit, our fall jackets and scarves over flannel shirts, and decided to trace our steps as we did before, down along the

neighborhood streets where pumpkins were replacing the geraniums, and along the path into the woods. There's that pleasant, eerie tingle at the back of your neck when you're out on an autumn night. Something instinctive. That must be why we put our holidays for celebrating spookiness here, rather than in the spring. And I felt it as we stepped into the woods. We both must have, because we reached out and caught each other's hands as we walked.

As we stepped over the split tree, we heard the band playing and could see the bright stadium lights shining through the branches. When we broke through the edge of the woods, we saw folks in the bleachers and felt that energy we'd tapped into in the summer. That now pushed us to jog around the sideline, and find our way to our own spots in the stands. We passed the concession stand and decided to supply ourselves with hot drinks, one cider and one coffee, and a big bag of popcorn that we could share. Around us, high schoolers strode in small packs, laughing or pretending to laugh,

while also pretending not to look to see if a certain someone in another pack was watching. I remembered how crucial those nights had felt at the time, each one loaded with potential and possibility, and demanding to be made the most of. I was glad that my evenings had been dialed back as I aged to much more mellow affairs. I thought that must all be part of the process. The bubbling pot of emotion and urgency that pushes us through the early years

slows to a steady simmer as we add experience and wisdom to the mix. We stepped our way up through the bleachers, passing groups of parents and teachers, chatting away and sipping from cups. We scuttled along a row near the top and settled down onto the chilly seat. We propped the bag of popcorn between us and snacked away as we looked out over the field and listened to a mix of tuning brass instruments, clapping hands and cheering chants, coaches pumping up their players, and the crowd calling and chatting.

Up here the air was deliciously brisk, stinging my nostrils as I took in a deep lungful. I let the steam from my cider warm my face, and as a whistle blew on the field, settled in to watch the game. In the bleachers. We thought of it months ago. We'd been on a walk in the earliest days of the summer. In fact, it might have been on the first truly warm day of the year.

That's when every moment, with your face turned toward the sun makes you shiver with energy and excitement at being out of the house and in the open air. And you look forward to getting good and hot and doing all the summer things. That runs its course by the end of the summer, when you'd give your eye teeth for a cool, rainy day to curl up by a window

and read a book. By then, you begin to look forward to doing all the autumn things. And this was the autumn thing we'd thought of through a neighborhood, looking at the pots of geraniums showing up on front steps, when we'd noticed an empty lot between two houses. It didn't look like a house had ever stood there. I guessed it had always been

just an open space of grass and wildflowers. But there was a path worn through that reached far back to a line of trees, and we both turned to each other, tilting our heads like dogs, listening for their favorite word. Shall we? I asked. Let's. And we stepped onto the path. The path was sandy earth,

laid bare by many feet, and as we made our way along it, I heard the slight crunch of a grain of sand scraping along a pebble under my foot. The grass was thick and bright green and full of crickets hopping along in front of us, leading our way. Soon we were in the shade of the trees, with their leaves newly full high air above us. The path persisted, and we followed. We stopped to squat down at the base of an elm tree, to look at what we guessed were a troop of morel mushrooms. We left them to their business,

but I bookmarked the spot in my mind for a return visit. After a bit of schooling on mushroom identification. I smiled, thinking of that quote, that all mushrooms are edible, but some only once. The path led us to step right through the low, divided trunk of a tree. It split just a few inches above the ground and was growing twin saplings that straightened into parallel upright thin barked trunks just after their initial angled inception. I remembered learning a word for the opposite of this. Inosculation. A rare sight

when two trees grow into each other. I supposed there were lots of ways to grow. We stepped out from the cover of the trees and blinked up at the shapes in front of us, which took a moment to resolve and be recognized. Upright pillars that looked like giant cactus arms against the blue sky. Steps leading up and up, and a vast field dotted with white and yellow.

We both laughed as we realized where we were. We'd snuck up on the back of the high school football field. I guessed that path marked the way back and forth for scores of teenagers on school days. With their backpacks slung over their shoulders, their sneakers kicking through the pine needles, and old dried leaves. We raced each other from one end of the field to the other, and bounced our voices in long, confident echoes across the bleachers.

I couldn't remember ever doing anything like it when I'd been a high schooler. In fact, I'd probably avoided spots like this. But I'd grown out of shyness long ago, and it felt powerful to run through the place and fall laughing on our backs on the soft field. That's when we'd made the plan to come back and watch a game on a cool autumn night. I'd forgotten about it until I'd seen the schedule of games in the community calendar section of the local paper. And now, the evenings were getting chilly. The leaves were starting to shift into reds and oranges and yellows.

And it sounded like a lovely night out. We bundled up a bit, our fall jackets and scarves over flannel shirts, and decided to trace our steps, as we did before, down along the neighborhood streets where pumpkins were replacing the geraniums and along the path into the woods. There's that pleasant, eerie tingle at the back of your neck when you're out on an autumn night. Something instinctive.

That must be why we put our holidays for celebrating spookiness here rather than in the spring. And I felt it as we stepped into the woods. We both must have, because we reached out and caught each other's hands as we walked. As we stepped over the split tree, we heard the band playing and could see the bright stadium lights shining through the edge of the woods, we saw folks in the bleachers and felt that energy we'd tapped into in the summer

that pushed us to jog around to the sideline and find our way to our own spots in the stands. We passed the concession stand and decided to supply ourselves with hot drinks, one cider and one coffee, and a big bag of popcorn that we could share. Around us, high schoolers strode in small packs, laughing or pretending to laugh while also pretending not to look to see if a certain someone in another pack

was watching. I remembered how crucial those nights had felt at the time. Each one loaded with potential and possibility and demanding to be made the most of. I was glad that my evenings had been dialed back as I aged to much more mellow affairs, and thought that must all be part of the process. The bubbling pot of emotion and urgency that pushes us through the early years slows to a steady simmer

as we add experience and wisdom to the mix. We stepped our way up through the bleachers, passing groups of parents and teachers chatting away and sipping from cups. We scuttled along a row near the top and settled down onto the chilly seat. We propped the bag of popcorn between us and snacked away as we looked out over the field and listened to a mix of tuning brass instruments, clapping hands and cheering chants, coaches pumping up their players, and the crowd calling and

chatting. Up high, the air was deliciously brisk, stinging my nostrils as I took in a deep lungful. I let the steam from my cider warm my face, and, as a whistle blew on the field, settled in to watch the game. Sweet dreams.