Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Over the Fence

Episode Date: December 27, 2021

Our story tonight is called Over the Fence and it’s a story about two friends and their plans for the New Year. It’s also about shooting stars seen from the beach, letting go of things that no longer serve, and a bag of pastries passed over the fence. Buy the bookGet beautiful NMH merch Get autographed copies Get our ad-free and bonus episodesPurchase Our Book: https://bit.ly/Nothing-Much-HappensSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Grownups, in which nothing much happens. You feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Catherine Nicolai. I read and write all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens, with audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. Join the village of nothing much. Subscribe to our bonus and ad-free episodes. Read our beautifully illustrated book.

And find merch, all at nothingmuchhappens.com. Since every episode is someone's first, I always like to take a second to explain how to use this podcast. Our brains have a network called the default mode. It's the one you're likely to experience when your thoughts are wandering and racing. It's pretty hard to get to sleep when you're in default mode, so we need to give your brain a job to do to move it into its task positive network. And here's the good news. The job is easy and enjoyable. It's just to follow along with the sound of my voice

and the simple story I'll tell you. I'll tell it twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake again later and feel that default mode kick back in, you can listen again, or just think back through any part of the story that you can remember, and you'll drop right back off. Really. This is brain training, so understand that it will improve with time,

and you've got to give it a chance to become a habit. Now, let's get your body ready for sleep. Switch off the light and snuggle down. Get as comfortable as you can. Switch off the light and snuggle down. Get as comfortable as you can. Do a quick scan from your temples down to your toes. And just relax things along the way. It is safe to sleep. it is okay to let go

I'll be here watching over with my voice and guarding you as you rest let's take a deep breath in through the nose and sigh through your mouth do that once more breathe in and out

good And out. Good. Our story tonight is called Over the Fence. And it's a story about two friends and their plans for the new year. It's also about shooting stars seen from the beach, letting go of things that no longer serve, and a bag of pastries passed over the fence. Over the fence. Ever since that Friendsgiving, when we'd served up a table full of unconventional

dishes, when we broke all the rules to help soften the blow of a year when things couldn't be celebrated as they always had. We'd become a team of party planners. Not professionally, you understand. People didn't call on us when they had a birthday coming or a new member of the family to celebrate

it's just that we'd made a hobby out of planning fun finding ways to bring our friends together and doing things we might never have tried before finding ways to bring our friends together, and doing things we might never have tried before. On Valentines, we'd organized a day-long bowling tournament for anyone without plans, and we'd had enough folks to fill half the lanes. Most had never bowled before, but by the end of the tournament, they knew enough to tease

each other when a frame ended with a tap or a chop, to call a player out for sandbagging, and to begrudgingly applaud when someone achieved a turkey. That's three strikes in a row. I hadn't known either. We were already hearing from friends, and friends of of friends about this year's tournament, and it looked like it would be a yearly tradition. We'd celebrated the last day of winter with a plunge into the lake off the end of the dock at the inn. We'd only managed to talk about five people into joining us, and then it was mostly because

the innkeeper had agreed to serve us coffee cake and hot drinks in front of her fire afterward. But it had been an unforgettable day. Standing there in our swimsuits, nervously shivering and amping each other up until we'd all grabbed hands and counted to three. And then the shock of the cold and the scramble up the ladder and into towels as the early spring sun shone over us.

I'd decided to call it life-affirming, that leap, and was already looking forward to doing it again. We'd snuck baskets of chocolates and flowers onto front porches on May Day and made up secret handshakes on National Handshake Day. In August, we'd gotten a dozen friends to join us on the beach when the meteor showers were at their peak.

We'd met other folks there that night, some with telescopes who let us take a peek, and one who taught us that these showers were called the Perseids, so named because the area of the sky where they seemed to originate from was near the constellation of Perseus. I looked him up later in the library and learned that he had slayed a Gorgon and rescued Andromeda from a sea monster. How many things had I learned this year? Some silly and some striking.

All because we kept saying let's plan something. We'd signed up to lead haunted hikes through the trails in the state park on the edge of town and we'd had such fun meeting up before at my house to put on costumes and makeup and come up with code names and backstories for our characters.

When November came, and we looked at all the people who wanted to join us for our Friendsgiving dinner, we soon realized that we wouldn't be able to fit them all under one roof. Luckily, one of them was the owner of the diner, kitty corner from the bakery downtown, and he kindly invited us to celebrate there. We'd cooked on his grill and laid tablecloths and linen napkins we'd bought from the resale shop over his long counter and Formica tabletops. Someone brought a keyboard and a microphone, and as we sat, full of Thanksgiving nachos

and sweet potato pie, we were serenaded. We'd decided that next year we'd make a float for the Thanksgiving parade, and all march together, though we had no idea yet what it would be. Now, we were closing up the year, shifting into the new one. And we'd made plans for that too. We made those plans in the same way we'd been doing it since that first Friendsgiving, over the fence that separated our backyards.

We had a gate that let us travel from my house to his, and vice versa. And we often met there, our elbows propped on the top rail, with cups of coffee steaming in the air when we'd planned New Year's Day the Christmas lights had been strung through the branches of his crab apple tree and they reflected off the snow in the early morning

I'd stopped at the bakery and they reflected off the snow in the early morning. I'd stopped at the bakery the evening before and handed a paper bag of apple turnovers over the fence to him as we sipped. Oh, thanks, he said, opening the bag, holding it up to his nose to draw in the scent. I watched his brain work, and I bet I knew what he was thinking. It was why I'd gotten him two turnovers. Surely they would taste best warmed up, but who, being handed a pastry, when you've got a hot cup of coffee to hand,

wants to wait? He reached in for one and crumpled the top of the bag shut and slid it into his pocket one for now one for later, he said and I raised my cup to salute his solid logic. While he chewed and we watched the sun come up,

we talked about New Year's. Of course, there was New Year's Eve to celebrate, but that all seemed a little tired to us. Our friends who went to dance and dine would do so. We wanted something different. I remembered a tradition I'd read about somewhere, in which, at the stroke of midnight, people opened their windows and tossed out any broken things they'd been holding onto.

Chipped wine glasses and busted toasters were heartily defenestrated, and the street sweepers would come by a few minutes later and clear it all away. It made me think about the things we held in our hearts and minds, even when they no longer served us. about the things we held in our hearts and minds, even when they no longer served us. Habits that were dug in like a groove, that needed filling in and replanting with something more useful.

I told my friend about it as he washed down his breakfast with a long drink of coffee. What if, instead of throwing things from windows, yes, I put in, that does sound pretty dangerous, what if we had a bonfire and everyone wrote down the things they were letting go of and we all tossed them in? And what if, I said, we had it before the sun came up

on New Year's Day. Here, in the pit in my yard. And afterward, we all walked to town for bagels. He lifted his cup to mine, and we toasted the idea. A big bonfire. The pre-dawn light of a brand new year. A list of worn-out worries, or tired ways of thinking to shed.

And a few friends to share it with. Life-affirming, I called it. Over the Fence Ever since that Friendsgiving, when we'd served up a table full of unconventional dishes, when we broke all the rules to help soften the blow of a year when things just couldn't be celebrated as they always had been. We'd become a team of party planners. Not professionally,

you understand. People didn't call on us when they had a birthday coming or a new member of the family to celebrate. It's just that we'd made a hobby out of planning fun, finding ways to bring friends together, and doing things we might never have tried before. On Valentine's, we'd organized a day-long bowling tournament. For anyone without plans. And we'd had enough folks to fill half the lanes. Most had never bowled before, but by the end of the tournament,

they knew enough to tease each other when a frame ended with a tap or a chop, to call a player out for sandbagging, and to begrudgingly applaud when someone achieved a turkey. That's three strikes in a row. I hadn't known either. We were already hearing from friends, and friends of friends,

about this year's tournament. And it looked like it would be a yearly tradition. We'd celebrated the last day of winter with a plunge into the lake, off the end of the dock at the inn. We'd only managed to talk about five people into joining us. And then it was mostly because the innkeeper had agreed to serve us coffee cake and hot drinks in front of her fire afterward. But it had been an unforgettable day. Standing there in our swimsuits, nervously shivering

and amping each other up until we'd all grabbed hands and counted to three. And then the shock of the cold and the scramble up the ladder and into towels as the early spring sun shone over us. I'd decided to call it life-affirming, that leap, and was already looking forward to doing it again.

We'd snuck baskets of chocolates and flowers onto front porches on May Day and made up secret handshakes on National Handshake Day. In August, we'd gotten a dozen friends to join us on the beach when the meteor showers were at their peak. We'd met other folks there that night, some with telescopes who let us take a peek, and one who taught us that these showers were called the Perseids, so named because the area of the sky where they seemed to originate from was near the constellation of Perseus.

I looked him up later in the library and learned that he had slayed a Gorgon and rescued Andromeda from a sea monster. How many things had I learned this year, some silly and some striking, all because we kept saying, let's plan something. We'd signed up to lead haunted hikes through the trails in the state park on the edge of town. And we'd had such fun meeting up before at my house to put on costumes and makeup

and come up with code names and backstories for our characters. When November came and we looked at all the people who wanted to join us for our Friendsgiving dinner, we soon realized that we wouldn't be able to fit them all under one roof. Luckily, one of them was the owner of the diner, Kitty Corner from the bakery downtown,

and he kindly invited us to celebrate there. We'd cooked on his grill and laid tablecloths and linen napkins we'd bought from the resale shop over his long counter and Formica tabletops. Someone brought a keyboard and a microphone, and as we sat, full of Thanksgiving nachos and sweet potato pie, we were serenaded. We'd decided that next year we'd make a float for the Thanksgiving parade and all march together, though we had no idea yet what it would be.

Now, we were closing up the year, shifting into the new one, and we'd made plans for that too. We made those plans in the same way we'd been doing it since that first Friendsgiving, over the fence that separated our backyards. We had a gate that let us travel from my house to his, and vice versa. And we often met there, our elbows propped on the top rail with cups of coffee steaming in the air. When we planned New Year's Day,

the Christmas lights had been strung through the branches of his crabapple tree, and they reflected off the snow in the early morning. I'd stopped at the bakery the evening before and handed a paper bag of apple turnovers over the fence to him as we sipped. Oh, thanks, he said, opening the bag and holding it up to his nose to draw in the scent. I watched his brain work, and I bet I knew what he was thinking. It was why I had gotten him two turnovers. Surely they would taste best warmed up. But who, being handed a pastry when you've got a hot cup of coffee to hand, wants to wait. He reached in for and slid it into his pocket. One for now, one for later, he said.

And I raised my cup to salute his solid logic. While he chewed, and we watched the sun come up. We talked about New Year's. Of course, there was New Year's Eve to celebrate. But that all seemed a little tired to celebrate. But that all seemed a little tired to us. Our friends who went out to dance and dine

would do so. We wanted something different. I remembered a tradition I'd read about somewhere, in which, at the stroke of midnight, people opened their windows and tossed out any broken things they'd been holding on to. Chipped wine glasses and busted toasters were heartily defenestrated, and the street sweepers would come by a few minutes later and clear it all away.

It made me think about the things we held in our hearts and minds, even when they no longer served us. Habits that were dug in like a groove that needed filling in and replanting with something more useful. I told my friend about it as he washed down his breakfast with a long drink of coffee. What if, instead of throwing things from windows, yes, I put in, that does sound pretty dangerous. What if we had a bonfire, and everyone wrote down the things they were letting go of, and we all tossed them in? And what if, I said,

we had it before the sun came up on New Year's Day, here in the pit in my yard, and afterward we all walked to town for bagels. He lifted his cup to mine and we toasted the idea a big bonfire the pre-dawn light of a brand new year a list of worn out worries or tired ways of thinking to shed.

And a few friends to share it with. Life-affirming, I called it. Sweet dreams.