Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - On The Rooftop

Episode Date: March 25, 2024

Our story tonight is called On the Rooftop, and it’s a story about the giddy first flush of real spring weather. It’s also about baseball cards tucked into bike spokes, the benefits of small talk, barbecue grills lighting up for the first time in months and the joy of seeing the world from a new perspective. We give to a different charity each week, and as a proud Flintstone, I’m glad that this week, we are giving to Shelter of Flint. Working for safe housing, independence, and stability. 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 NMH Premium channel on Apple Podcasts or follow the link below:https://www.nothingmuchhappens.com/premium-subscription Listen to our new show Stories from the Village of Nothing Much on your favorite podcast app. https://www.nothingmuchhappens.com/stories-from-the-villagePurchase 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 create everything you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. We give to a different charity each week, and as a proud Flintstone, I'm glad that this week we are giving to Shelter of Flint, working for safe housing, independence, and stability. Learn more about them in our show notes. If you need more nothing much in your life,

more episodes, zero ads, extra long episodes, you can subscribe to our premium feed. It works out to about a dime a day, and it helps us continue to bring you bedtime stories. We've got a link in our show notes, or you can search NMH Premium on Apple Podcasts. how this works. We need a little bridge to guide us from our busy brains into sleep. It's too far to jump, you see. So my story will be that bridge, winding you down, giving you something soft and simple to focus on. And before you know it,

probably before I finish the story, you will be asleep. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake later in the night, turn the story back on, or think your way through any part of it that you can remember. Often, just getting one foot back on that bridge will send you right back to sleep. Our story tonight is called On the Rooftop, and it's a story about the giddy first flush of real spring weather. It's also about baseball cards tucked into bike spokes, the benefits of small talk, barbecue grills, lighting up for the first time in months,

and the joy of seeing the world from a new perspective. Now, lights out, devices down, babies. Snuggle deep into your sheets. Get comfortable. Get the right pillow in the right spot. And let your whole body relax. There is nothing left to do today. I promise, you did enough. I'll be here, a voice in the darkness,

even after you've fallen asleep. Take a deep breath in through your nose, and sigh from your mouth. Nice. Do that one more time. Inhale and let it out. Good. On the rooftop. The sign over the shop door was creaking in the wind. I'd made it myself when this place was mostly still a dream in my basement workshop. I'd designed and assembled it from old bike parts, a pair of handlebars and a wire basket, part of a frame so that the bike seemed to be coming straight out of the brick facade, and a carved plaque with a name outlined in

roller chain. I still remember the day I ladder on the front sidewalk, a friend handing me tools as passersby smiled and pointed out the new shop to each other. When it had finally been secured, the wooden plaque hanging from the bike basket, I'd heard applause and turned to see the staff of the flower shop opposite, clapping from their front step. It was a memory that always made me smile, as it did now, looking up from inside at the plaque shifting in the wind. There were only a few clouds in the sky today, and the sunshine was plentiful and warm. I pushed the shop door open and stepped out into the wind. I was pleasantly surprised. I'd expected cold, sunny but cold weather, the kind that we'd had for the last few weeks,

that hinted at but never really felt like spring. Instead, it was warm. Like, actually warm. And it smelled different. For weeks, when I'd left the house in the morning or closed the shop in the evening, it smelled the scent of winter runoff, damp and inorganic. Kind of blank space smell. Now that blank space was full of sweetness. First flowers and plants.

The way the skin of your inner elbow smells when you've been driving with the window down and your arm slung out. I pushed the door open all the way and propped it in place with an old brick I'd found in the back room. I rolled a couple of bikes out onto the sidewalk, opening their kickstands and turning the handlebars so that the baskets tilted toward the street. I even tucked a note in one of the baskets with big letters that said,

ring me, knowing that most people wouldn't be able to pass by the bike bells without without taking them for a spin. I liked reminding my customers that riding a bike is meant to be fun. I kept stacks of baseball cards and decks of playing cards beside the register and regularly helped to weave them into the spokes of little and big bikes alike. When I heard the thrilling high-speed slap of those cards as riders sped through town, I was truly proud to have helped them do something just for the fun of it.

As the day went by, each customer who came in remarked on the weather, And I didn't get tired of agreeing that yes, it was glorious, that it did indeed seem that spring was at our door. Some people are bothered by that sort of small talk, but I kind of liked it. I'd read once that small talk serves a purpose. A few, actually. It's a way to make a connection with someone. It can open a door to a deeper connection. It helps to communicate mood and affinity,

and it makes us better listeners. I smiled, thinking of ancient ancestors, helping to build language as we know it now, to build community and culture, and how much of it came from just talking to each other about the weather. Several folks brought in their bikes for tune-ups, and I had a row of them in the workshop to work on during the week. I also did a couple easy fixes

of loose chains and leaky tires. Sold a helmet, put a special order in for a road bike, and printed out posters for our first group ride of the year. At closing time, when I stepped outside to wheel the bikes on the sidewalk back in. The day was still lovely. Sunset had been creeping later and later, and it felt so nice knowing that I still had several hours of light left. I was wondering what to do with them when I heard someone call my name from the front step.

I waved, and one of them hurried over, the broom in her hand. We're going up on the roof to enjoy the weather for a bit. The record store guys are coming, too. Why don't you come up? I shaded my eyes with my hand And looked up at the top of the flower shop It was just two stories An old fire escape climbed its side

Leading to the roof, where I already saw a couple of downtown workers I recognized looking out over the village. The spring breezes were out the kid in all of us, and remembering my own ethos for fun, I agreed immediately, saying I just needed to lock up and I'd be there. She smiled and ran back across the street to finish her sweeping. I rolled the bikes inside and parked them in the front window. Not liking to show up anywhere empty-handed, I went into the back to see if I had anything shareable in my fridge. Luckily I was well stocked. I had a fresh six-pack of orange soda and a box of cookies from the bakery.

I peeked in the box. They were pistachio shortbread. I thought that would go perfect with sunshine and a view. I locked up the shop, balancing the cookies and the sodas, and walked across the street to head up onto the roof. The flower shop crew were climbing up the fire escape as I arrived, and the woman who

had invited me, her broom now stashed in its cupboard, came down a few steps to carry the sodas. I was relieved to feel the steps of the fire escape were secure and steady underneath me. And as I reached the top, even though we were only on a two-story building, I couldn't believe how lovely the view was. I could see all of downtown and into the park at the end of Main Street. There were a few chairs and an old picnic table where I set out my contributions to our impromptu gathering.

But I wanted to keep looking out, feeling the breeze and sun. So I slowly circled around the rooftop. People were lighting their grills in the neighborhoods, and I could smell charcoal. There must have been a movie just getting over at the theater, and I could see people coming out of the doors, spilling onto the sidewalk. The cafe's outdoor tables were full,

and the diner looked busy too. Someone turned on a radio. Summertime music played, and underneath it I could hear the clickety-clack of cards in spokes from somewhere down on the street. What fun. On the rooftop. The sign over the shop door was creaking in the wind. I'd made it myself when this place was mostly still a dream. In my basement workshop, I'd designed and assembled it from old bike parts, a pair of handlebars and a wire basket, part of a frame so that the bike seemed to be coming straight out of the brick facade, and a carved plaque with a name outlined in roller chain.

I still remember the day I'd gotten to install it, when the ink was dry on the lease, and an opening date was set. I'd been up on a ladder on the front sidewalk, a friend handing me tools as passersby smiled and pointed out the new shop to each other. When it had finally been secured, the wooden plaque hanging from the bike basket, I'd heard applause

and turned to see the staff of the flower shop opposite, clapping from their front step. It was a memory that always made me smile, as I did now, looking up from inside at the plaque shifting in the wind. There were only a few clouds in the sky today, and the sunshine was plentiful and warm. I pushed the shop door open and stepped out into the wind. I was pleasantly surprised.

I'd expected cold, sunny but cold weather, the kind we'd had for the last few weeks, that hinted at but never really felt like spring. Instead, it was warm, like actually warm. And it smelled different. For weeks when I'd left the house in the morning or closed the shop in the morning, or closed the shop in the evening,

I'd smelled the scent of winter runoff, damp and inorganic, a kind of blank space smell. Now that blank space was full of sweetness, first flowers and plants, the way the skin of your inner elbow smells when you've been driving with the window down and your arm slung out. I pushed the door open all the way

and propped it in place with an old brick I'd found in the back room. I rolled a couple of bikes out onto the sidewalk, opening their kickstands and turning their handlebars so that the baskets tilted toward the street. I even tucked a note in one of the baskets with big letters that said, Ring Me, knowing that most people wouldn't be able to pass by the bike bells without taking them for a spin. I liked reminding my customers

that riding a bike, it's meant to be fun. I kept stacks of baseball cards and decks of playing cards beside the register and regularly helped to weave them into the spokes of little and big bikes alike. When I heard the thrilling, high-speed slap of those cards as riders sped through town, I was truly proud to have helped them do something just for the fun of it. As the day went by, each customer who came in remarked on the weather, and I didn't get tired of agreeing that, yes, it was glorious. That it did seem that spring was at our door.

Some people are bothered by that sort of small talk, but I kind of liked it. I'd read once that small talk serves a purpose. A few, actually. It's a way to make a connection with someone, and it can open a door to a deeper connection. It helps to communicate mood and affinity. It makes us better listeners.

I smiled, thinking of ancient ancestors helping to build language as we know it now, to build community and culture. And how much of it came from just talking to each other about the weather? Several folks brought in their bikes for tune-ups, and I had a row of them in the workshop to work on during the week. I also did a couple easy fixes of loose chains and leaky tires, sold a helmet, put a special order in for a road bike,

and printed out posters for our first group ride of the year. At closing time, when I stepped outside to wheel the bikes on the sidewalk back in. The day was still lovely. Sunset had been creeping later and later, and it felt so nice knowing I still had several hours of light left.

I was wondering what to do with them when I heard someone call my name from across the street. They were closing up at the flower shop as well, taking in the sidewalk sign and sweeping loose leaves and petals from their front step. I waved and one of them hurried over, the broom in her hand. We're going up onto the roof to enjoy the weather for a bit. The record store guys are coming too. Why don't you come up? I shaded my eyes with my hand and looked up at the top of the flower shop.

It was just two stories. An old fire escape climbed its side, leading to the roof, where I already saw a couple of downtown workers I recognized looking out over the village. The spring breezes were bringing out the kid in all of us, and remembering my own ethos for fun, I agreed immediately, saying I just needed to lock up and I'd be there. She smiled and ran back across the street to finish her sweeping. I rolled the bikes inside and parked them in the front window, not liking to show up anywhere empty-handed. I went into the back to see if I had anything shareable in my fridge. Luckily, I was well-stocked.

I had a fresh six-pack of orange soda and a box of cookies from the bakery. I peeked in the box. They were pistachio shortbread. I thought they would go perfect with sunshine and a view. I locked up the shop, balancing the cookies and the sodas, and walked across the street to head up onto the roof. The flower shop crew were climbing up the fire escape as I arrived, and the woman who'd invited me, her broom now stashed in its cupboard, came down a few steps to carry the sodas. I was relieved to

feel the steps of the fire escape were secure and steady underneath me. And as I reached the top, even though we were only on a two-story building, I couldn't believe how lovely the view was. I could see all of downtown and into the park at the end of Main Street. there were a few chairs and an old picnic table where I set out my contributions to our impromptu gathering. But I wanted to keep looking out, feeling the breeze and sun, so I slowly circled around the rooftop. People were lighting their grills in the neighborhoods

and I could smell charcoal. There must have been a movie just getting over at the theater and I could see people coming out of their doors, spilling onto the sidewalks. The cafe's outdoor tables were full, and the diner looked busy too. Someone turned on a radio. Summertime music played.

And underneath it, I could hear the clickety-clack of cards in spokes from somewhere down on the street. What fun. Sweet dreams.