Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Joyride

Episode Date: June 26, 2023

Our story tonight is called Joyride and it’s a story about a spontaneous trip for two friends on a summer day. It’s also about music coming from the records shop’s door, a new book in a beloved series and riding off into the sunset with the windows rolled down.   We give to a different charity each week and this week we are giving to The Dougy Center www.dougy.org The Dougy Center provides grief support in a safe place for children, teens, young adults, and their families.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 read and write all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens, with audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. Thank you for listening, for rating and reviewing us, which helps us reach more folks who need sleep. Imagine with me for a second

a world where everyone is well-rested, gets up on the right side of the bed, and feels safe and cared for when they fall asleep. I believe in it. We give to a different charity each week, and this week we are giving to the Dougie Center. The Dougie Center provides grief support in a safe place for children, teens, young adults, and their families. Their link is in our show notes. Okay, so we are getting closer to 100 million downloads of Nothing Much Happens. And that's one way of saying that this works. I will put you to sleep.

And all you need to do is listen. Just follow along with the sound of my voice, and we'll actually shift your brain activity, and sleep will follow. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake again in the night, don't hesitate to turn the story right back on.

Or just think your way through any parts of it that you can remember. Now, it's time to turn out the light and put away anything you've been looking at or working on. Send your body the signal that it is time for sleep. Get as comfortable as you can and let your limbs drop heavy into the sheets. You have done enough for today.

It is enough. And I'll be here, keeping watch as you rest. Take a slow breath in. And sigh. Again, in through the nose. And out through the mouth. Good. Our story tonight is called Joyride.

And it's a story about a spontaneous trip for two friends on a summer day. It's also about music coming from the record shop store, a new book and a beloved series, and riding off into the sunset with the windows rolled down. Joy Ride with the windows rolled down. Joyride. The day was calling to me. It was one of those soft summer days, not too hot, but bright and sweet-smelling.

The grass was thick and green on every corner, the tiger lilies blooming in tall stalks along the roadside. The baby robins, whose broken, bright blue shells I'd spotted on walks a month or two ago, were fully grown and flying through the treetops. Kids had been out of school for long enough to have fallen into their summer schedules. And in the neighborhoods,

he'd spot a pile of bikes dumped on a front lawn marking where they were playing. The cafes and restaurants downtown had tables and chairs set up for open-air dining. And the basketball court in the park was busy, with hurriedly assembled teams vying for the next win. On days like this, it calls to you to get out and enjoy, to fall asleep under a big tree or wander down toward the river and sink your feet into the moving water. I was just ending my shift at the record shop.

We'd been pretty busy today. The stores on either side of us were having sidewalk sales. And while we couldn't set our vinyl out in the sunny spot in front of our shop window without warping our records, we propped the door open and and played the kind of slow, languorous jazz that made passersby imagine, if only for a few minutes, that they were in a movie. Probably one where they drove a convertible down a dusty desert road and their hat went flying off into the distance.

I watched people on the sidewalk turn toward the music, stop and look in through the window. A subtle change in their faces as they spotted an album cover they loved or took in our crates full of cassette tapes. They'd step in, their eyes adjusting from the bright day to the cool, dim shop, and you could feel the excitement of them being about to discover some new piece of music? When was the last time you flipped through a stack of records?

When did you last treat yourself to a new album or book or piece of art? Some might think it unimportant, unessential. And of course that is the point. A life without the delights of what other humans can create with their minds and hearts and hands. It could probably be survived, but it would certainly only be half-lived. And working here, playing music every day, reading the lyrics between ringing up records, hearing the stories that go with the songs, the memories they revive for customers. It has made me appreciate an adorned life,

a decorated, romanticized life, a life where when you get out of work on a sunny afternoon and feel called by the day to do something sweet and spontaneous. You do. I walked through the streets, stopping to duck my head into the bookshop and wave to my friend behind the counter. A while back, we'd found an old armchair at an estate sale,

and I'd helped her haul it into the shop. We'd wedged it behind the counter for her, swapping it for the rather uncomfortable stool that had sat there for years. Now she could sit with her feet propped up on a shelf under the counter, lean back, and read while the customers browsed. She had a new book open in front of her,

just a few pages in her left hand and a couple hundred in her right, and I knew that meant she was just settling in. What are you reading? I asked, as I leaned against the open doorway. New book in my series, she said without looking up. Sounds like serious business. It is. Can't talk. But you can pet Elfie before you go. I chuckled and stepped in and around the desk to squat down and pet her sweet dog, Elphabet.

Elfie for short. And he was short. Some sort of Dachshund, Corgi, Basset situation, but with some other bits in there too. He rolled over, and I scratched his chest. He perked up a bit and rolled onto his feet, taking a slow, big stretch, which of course I acknowledged by saying,

ooh, big stretch. He shook himself like he'd just climbed out of the lake and looked at me as if to say, well, I'm up. Now what? I looked up at his mom with her nose deep in her book and got an idea. Now, a ride in the car on a sunny day with the music up and the windows down is already a pretty great thing. But if you add a dog into the equation, it gets much better, and we could drive to a park, take a walk. I could get him a puppy cone, and me a dish of that lemon sorbet I liked. I must have been thinking pretty loudly, because when I looked up again, she still had her nose in the book,

but now held Elfie's leash out to me with one hand. Have him back by six and take his bag with you. She tilted her head toward a canvas sack hanging from the coat rack. There's a doggy water bottle in there. Make sure he has a drink if he gets hot. Yes, Mom, I said as I clipped the leash to Alfie's collar. He tippy-tapped excitedly on the old wood floors as I slung the bag over my shoulder. Have fun, kids,

she called from behind her book. We will have fun, I said to Elfie. I doggy-sat him plenty in the past, and he was happy to come with me. We stopped to sniff along the sidewalk, Alfie checking and responding to his pee mail at most of the trees. When we got to my car, I opened his door,

and he hopped up into the passenger seat. In his bag, he had a harness with a seatbelt connector, and I buckled him in. Soon the windows were down, and Elf had his head stuck out into the slipstream, his tail thumping against the seatback. I found some summer music to turn up and rested my hand on his back as we drove. This, I thought, is a joyride. Joyride. The day was calling to me.

It was one of those soft summer days. Not too hot, but bright and sweet-smelling. The grass was thick and green on every corner. The tiger lilies blooming in tall stalks along the roadside. The baby robins, whose broken, bright blue shells I'd spotted on walks a month or two ago, were fully grown and flying through the treetops. Kids had been out of school for long enough to have fallen into their summer schedules. And in the neighborhoods,

you could spot a pile of bikes dumped on a front lawn to know where they were playing. The cafes and restaurants downtown had tables and chairs set up for open-air dining, and the basketball court in the park was busy with hurriedly assembled teams vying for the next win. On days like this, it calls to you to get out and enjoy. To fall asleep under a big tree

or wander down toward the river and sink your feet into the moving water. I was just ending my shift at the record shop. We'd been pretty busy today. The stores on either side of us were having sidewalk sales. And while we couldn't set our vinyl out in the sunny spot in front of our shop window without warping our records, we propped the door open and played the kind of slow, languorous jazz that made passersby imagine, if only for a few minutes, that they were in a movie. Probably one where they drove a convertible down a dusty desert road, and their hat went flying off into the distance. I watched people on the sidewalk turn toward the music,

stop and look in through the window. A subtle change in their faces as they spotted an album cover they loved or took in our crates full of cassette tapes. They'd step in, their eyes adjusting from the bright day to the cool, dim shop. And you could feel the excitement of them about to discover some new piece of music.

When was the last time you flipped through a stack of records? When did you last treat yourself to a new album or book or piece of art? Some might think it unimportant, unessential. And of course, that is the point. A life without the delights of what other humans can create with their minds and hearts and hands it could probably be survived

but it would certainly only be half-lived and working here playing music every day, reading lyrics between ringing up records, hearing the stories that go with the songs, the memories they revive for customers. It has made me appreciate an adorned life, a decorated, romanticized life, A life where when you get out of work on a sunny afternoon and feel called by the day to do something sweet and spontaneous, you do. I walked through the streets, stopping to duck my head into the bookshop and wave to my friend behind the counter.

A while back, we'd found an old armchair at an estate sale, and I'd helped her haul it into the shop. We'd wedged it behind the counter for her, swapping it for the rather uncomfortable stool that had been there for years. Now she could sit with her feet propped up on a shelf under the counter, lean back and read while the customers browsed. She had a new book open in front of her. Just a few pages in her left hand, and a couple hundred in her right. And I knew that meant she was just settling in.

What are you reading? I asked, as I leaned against the open doorway. New book in my series, she said without looking up. Hmm, sounds like serious business. It is, can't talk, but you can pet Elfie before you go. I chuckled and stepped in and around the desk to squat down and pet her sweet dog, Elphabet, Elie, for short. And he was short. Some sort of dachshund, corgi, basset situation. But with some other bits in there, too. He rolled over, and I scratched his chest.

He perked up a bit and rolled onto his feet, taking a slow, big stretch, which, of course, I acknowledged by saying, ooh, big stretch. He shook himself like he'd just climbed out of the lake then looked at me as if to say

well, I'm up. Now what? I looked up at his mom with her nose deep in her book and got an idea. A ride in the car on a sunny day with the music up and the windows down is already a pretty great thing.

But if you add a dog into the equation, it gets much better. And we could drive to a park, take a walk. I could get him a puppy cone and me a dish of that lemon sorbet I liked. I must have been thinking pretty loudly because when I looked again,

she still had her nose in the book, but now held Elfie's leash out to me with one hand. Have him back by six, and take his bag with you. She tilted her head toward a canvas sack hanging from the coat rack. There's a doggy water bottle in there. Make sure he has a drink if he gets hot. Yes, Mom, I said as I clipped the leash to Elfie's collar.

He tippy-tapped excitedly on the old wood floors as I slung the bag over my shoulder. Have fun, kids, she called from behind her book. We will have fun, I said to Elfie. I doggy-sat him plenty in the past, and he was happy to come with me. We stopped to sniff along the sidewalk. Elfie checking and responding to his pee mail

at most of the trees. When we got to my car, I opened his door and he hopped up into the passenger seat. In his bag, he had a harness with a seatbelt connector, and I buckled him in.

Soon, the windows were down, and Elf had his head stuck out into the slipstream, his tail thumping against the seat back. I found some summer music to turn up and rested my hand on his back as we drove. This, I thought, is a joy ride. Sweet dreams.