Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Mudlarking on the River, Part 2

Episode Date: March 11, 2024

Our story tonight is called Mud Larking on the River, Part 2, and it’s a story about a search for ordinary treasures in the sand on a bright spring morning. It’s also about a coin with a hole through its center, the red and white pole of a barber shop, forsythia stems and curiosity and imagination and seeing the things around us with new eyes. We give to a different charity each week, and this week, we are giving to the Maui Nui Marine Resource Council. Working for healthy coral reefs, clean ocean water, and abundant native fish. Learn more at https://www.mauireefs.org. 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: https://www.nothingmuchhappens.com/premium-subscription. Listen to our new show, Stories from the Village of Nothing Much, on your favorite podcast app.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 give to a different charity each week, and this week we are giving to Maui Nui Marine Resource Council, working for healthy coral reefs, clean ocean water, and abundant native fish.

Learn more about them in our show notes. Thank you for listening and for sharing what we do with others. I believe a world in which more people are rested with consistent sleep is bound to be a world in which we are a little kinder to each other. And thank you especially to our premium subscribers. You make creating this show in the increasingly complex world of podcasting possible. Our premium feed gives you access to ad-free, extra-long, and bonus episodes, of which there are over 35. And we just released an extra-long episode. We call it Slightly More Happens on Marmalade and Crumb. If you know, you know.

Subscribe through the link in our show notes or by searching NMH Premium on Apple Podcasts. Now, I have a story to tell you, and it is like a lullaby for your busy mind. It will occupy it just enough to let you drift deeply to sleep. Just by listening regularly, we will train your brain to fall asleep faster and return to sleep more easily. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little bit slower the second time through. If you wake in the night,

don't hesitate to turn a story right back on. Or just think through any of the details that you can remember. Even a pleasant memory can send you back to sleep. This will get easier with time and practice, so have patience if you are new to this. Our story tonight is called Mudlarking on the River, Part 2, and it's a story about a search for ordinary treasures in the sand on a bright spring morning. It's also about a coin with a hole through its center, the red and white pole of a barbershop, forsythia stems and curiosity and imagination,

and seeing things around us with new eyes. Now, it's time, friend. Snuggle down into your sheets and get as comfortable as you can. The world will wait for you till tomorrow. Soften your jaw. Let your shoulders and neck relax. And your eyes close. I'll guard you with my voice as you sleep so you can let go. Really, let go.

Take a deep breath in through your nose And sigh from your mouth. Let's do one more. All the way in. And out with sound. Good. Mudlarking on the River, Part 2 I couldn't get over how good it smelled this morning. The scent of the fresh moving water as the river flowed past,

the good earthy smell of the sand and silt as I poked through it with my gloves, and the air, though it was too soon for any of the trees to bud, or even the first of the spring grass to grow. It smelled somehow green. I was drinking it all in, knowing that snow could come tomorrow and push spring off for a few more weeks. I had already had my first find on the riverbank.

I was mudlarking, a term and activity I wasn't familiar with until my beachcombing friends taught me about it. To mudlark was to search the soft banks beside a body of water for interesting and valuable objects. In some places you might find rings from hundreds of years before, lost perhaps when someone dove into the water on a hot day, or tossed from a bridge in anger when a heart was broken. Around here, most finds were a lot more recent. Soda bottles from a few decades before, or an anchovy can with the keys still wound into its metal lid.

More often than not, they were simple objects of daily life, but I loved the idea of unearthing them and imagining a story to go with them, how they arrived in the sand on this early spring morning. And my first find today was a coin. I'd spotted the edge of it as I poked through some pebbles close to the water. It was a pretty bronze, and while it wasn't exceptionally old, it had been minted in the 90s, it was from another country, which felt pretty special. And best of all, it had a hole through its center, a feature I'd never seen in currency before. When I pulled it from the ground

the hole was plugged with sand and I rinsed it in the cold water of the river till it sparkled. Wherever it was from it represented five of something and I thought how we tended to count things in fives and tens I'd read about examples

of other counting systems through history some civilizations used a base-12, or a base-20, or even a base-60 system. Base-12 in particular still showed up a lot in our world. Twelve months in a year, twelve inches in a foot, twelve doughnuts in a dozen, the equinox now just a few days off, on which we celebrated twelve hours of day and twelve hours of night. As I slipped the coin into my pocket, I decided that it had been brought home after a trip abroad years ago. The change from an ice cream bought on the last walk through a plaza before heading to the airport. It had become a token of remembrance for that time in a foreign and exciting place and the person who brought it home kept it in their pocket for years rubbing it between their thumb and forefinger

whenever they needed to be reminded about how wide the world was, how many possibilities lay ahead of them. Then, one day, while walking across a bridge on a chilly late autumn afternoon somewhere far upstream of here, across a bridge, on a chilly late autumn afternoon, somewhere far upstream of here.

They'd pushed their hands into their pockets, thinking it was about time to start grabbing gloves on the way out of the house in the morning. And the coin had slipped out. It had hit the walk beside them and rolled toward the water, and before they could do anything about it, tumbled over the edge of and splashed into the river below. There had been a moment of loss. They'd stood looking down into the water, a little shocked that it was gone. Then they had started to smile down at their rippled reflection. The token had been about the joy of adventure, hadn't it?

Well, now it was on an adventure of its own, and they wished it well. Further down the bank, I spotted a shape that was too regular to be a stone, a reflective surface that I thought might be glass. As I got closer, I saw that it was the bottom of a bottle, and I wondered how much of it was left beneath the surface. Sometimes I would come away with just the very bottom piece of glass or a partial broken vessel.

I started to carefully clear the sand around it until it came free. To my delight, it was unbroken and whole. It was prettily shaped, with a square bottom and a long, sloping neck. It reminded me a bit of the bottles of oil and vinegar set out on the tables at the diner. The glass was tinted a light blue, and its cork had survived its time in the water and sand. There was a remnant of a label, though any that it had held hair tonic, a precursor to our gels and mousses of today, and that this particular bottle had sat on the counter of a barbershop when my grandfather was a young man. The red and white pole in the window

had spun on a slow-moving motor, making a sound that was so constant it eventually failed to be noticed. On a day like today, a sunny Saturday, the shop would have been full of customers, sitting in their chairs, gossiping and sipping from paper cups of coffee, or tilted back with steaming towels on their faces. Eucalyptus and Witch Hazel scented the air, and every now and then the room would break up with laughter at someone's joke or story. I imagined my own grandfather there,

a little shy around the others, quiet but enjoying the stories and camaraderie as he eyed himself in the mirror, watching as the barber reached for the glass bottle on the shelf and shook a little tonic into his hand to finish off my grandfather's fresh cut. After the stray hairs had been brushed off his collar, and he'd stepped back out into the March sunlight, he'd gone where? To the diner for a sandwich, home to dress for a date, to the movies for a matinee.

Maybe my next time mudlarking would tip my imagination to an answer. For now, I would take my treasures home, coin I'd thread onto a necklace to be my own token for a while, and the bottle to hold the stem of forsythia when it bloomed in a few weeks. I took one more look up and down the river. I wondered which objects on my own shelves, in my own pockets, might inspire some future archaeologist when dug out of the mud. The things we take for granted can seem magical when seen with the right eyes. Mud Larking on the River, Part 2 I couldn't get over how good it smelled this morning.

The scent of the fresh moving water as the river flowed past, the good earthy smell of the sand and silt as I poked through it with my gloves, and the air, though it was too soon for any of the trees to bud, or even the first of the spring grass to grow. It smelled somehow green. knowing that snow could come tomorrow and push spring off for a few more weeks. I'd already had my first find on the riverbank. I was mudlarking, a term and activity I wasn't familiar with until my beach-combing friends had taught me about it. To mudlark was to search the soft banks beside a body of water for interesting and valuable objects. In some places, you might find rings from hundreds of years before, lost perhaps when someone dove into the water

on a hot day. Or tossed from a bridge in anger when a heart was broken. Around here, most finds were a lot more recent. Soda bottles from a few decades before or an anchovy can with the keys still wound into its metal lid. More often than not, they were simple objects of daily life. But I loved the idea of unearthing them

and imagining a story to go with them and how they arrived in the sand on this early spring morning. My first find today was a coin. I'd spotted the edge of it as I poked through some pebbles close to the water. It was a pretty bronze, and while it wasn't exceptionally old, it had been minted in the 90s, it was from another country, which felt pretty special. Best of all, it had a hole right through its center,

a feature I'd never seen in currency before. When I pulled it from the ground, the hole was plugged with sand, and I rinsed it in the cold water of the river till it sparkled. Wherever it was from, it represented five of something, and I thought of how we tended to count things in fives and tens. I'd read about examples of other counting systems through history. Some civilizations used a base-12, or a base-20, or even a base-60 system. Base-12 in particular still showed up a lot in our world.

Twelve months in a year. Twelve inches in a foot. Twelve donuts in a dozen the equinox now just a few days off on which we celebrated twelve hours of day and twelve hours of night as I slipped the coin

into my pocket I decided that it had been brought home after a trip abroad years ago. The change from an ice cream bought on the last walk through a plaza before heading to the airport. It had become a token of remembrance for that time in a foreign and exciting place. And the person who brought it home kept it in their pocket for years,

rubbing it between their thumb and forefinger whenever they needed to be reminded about how wide the world was, how many possibilities lay ahead of them. Then, one day, while walking across a bridge on a chilly, late autumn afternoon, somewhere far upstream of here, they'd pushed their hands into their pockets, thinking it was about time to start grabbing gloves on the way out of the house in the morning. And the coin had slipped out. It had hit the walk beside them and rolled toward the water. And before they could do anything about it, tumbled over the edge of the bridge and splashed into the river below.

There had been a moment of loss. They'd stood looking down into the water, a little shocked that it was gone. Then they had started to smile down at their rippled reflection. The token had been about the joy of adventure, hadn't it? Well, now it was on an adventure of its own, and they wished it well. Further down the bank, I spotted a shape that was too regular to be a stone,

a reflective surface that I thought might be glass. As I got closer, I saw that it was the bottom of a bottle, and I wondered how much of it was left beneath the surface. Sometimes I would come away with just the very bottom piece of glass, a partial, broken vessel. I started to clear away the sand until it came free. To my delight, it was unbroken and whole. It was prettily shaped with a square bottom and a long, sloping neck.

It reminded me a bit of the bottles of oil and vinegar set out on the tables at the diner. the glass was tinted a light blue and its cork had survived its time in the water and sand there was a remnant of a label though any print that had been there was long ago faded and washed away as I rinsed it in the river that had been there was long ago faded and washed away. As I rinsed it in the river, I decided that it had held hair tonic,

a precursor to our gels and mousses of today, and that this particular bottle had sat on the counter of a barbershop when my grandfather was a young man. The red and white pole in the window had spun on a slow-moving motor, making a sound that was so constant it eventually failed to be noticed. On a day like today, a sunny Saturday, the shop would have been full of customers

sitting in their chairs, gossiping and sipping from paper cups of coffee, or tilted back with steaming towels on their faces. Eucalyptus and witch hazel scented the air, and every now and then the room would break up with laughter at someone's joke or story. I imagined my own grandfather there, a little shy around the others, quiet but enjoying the stories and camaraderie as he eyed himself in the mirror, watching as the barber reached for the glass bottle on the shelf and shook a little tonic into his hand

to finish off my grandfather's fresh cut. After the stray hairs had been brushed off his collar, we'd stepped out into the March sunlight and gone where? To the diner for a sandwich, home to dress for a date, to the movies for a matinee. Maybe my next time mudlarking would tip my imagination to an answer. For now, I would take my treasures home, the coin I'd thread onto a necklace to be my own token for a while, and the bottle to hold a stem of forsythia when it bloomed in a few weeks.

I took one more look up and down the river. I wondered which objects on my own shelves, in my own pockets, might inspire some future archaeologist when dug out of the mud. These things we take for granted can seem magical when seen with the right eyes. Sweet dreams.