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

Episode Date: June 5, 2025

Originally aired June 26, 2023, Season 12, Episode 4 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.  Subscribe to our Premium channel. The first month is on us. 💙 NMH merch, autographed books and more! Listen to our Bedtime Story Show, Nothing Much Happens First This, Kathryn’s guided mediation podcast Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Hi friends, want every episode ad free? Tap the link in our show notes to subscribe. If you're on Apple Podcasts, just hit subscribe on our show page. Easy and it helps keep the show going. Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Everyone, 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. 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 breaths and sweet dreams. 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. Our story tonight is called Joy Ride, 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. 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 mouth. Good. 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'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 readily 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 passers-by

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, when 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. 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, Elphi, 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. scratch. 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 Alfie. 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 peemail 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 seat belt 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 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 passers-by 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 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 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, 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.

genius. 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 Elphie before you go."

I chuckled and stepped in and around the desk to squat down and pet her sweet dog, Elphabet, Alfie, 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, it's 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 doggie water bottle in there. Make sure he has a drink if he gets hot. 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 doggiesat 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 female 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 when I buckled him in. Soon the windows were down, an 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 joy ride.

Sweet dreams.