Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - People Watching and The Coffee Shop

Episode Date: February 22, 2021

Our story tonight is called People Watching and the Coffee Shop and it’s a story about the view from a table in the back corner, it’s also about found family, a neatly shoveled sidewalk, and simple ways to feel connected. So get cozy and ready to sleep. Buy the book Get 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. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. If you love these stories, there is a whole world waiting for you in my book, also called Nothing Much Happens.

With 52 stories, 16 of which will never be on the podcast, it takes you through a whole year in the village of Nothing Much. And along with the stories, you'll find recipes and guided meditations and the most charming illustrations that will make you want to climb right into the pages and stay a while. Get yours from your favorite bookseller or at nothingmuchappens.com. Now, I have a story to tell you,

and it is meant to simply be a soft landing spot for your mind, a way to reroute your thoughts away from the day and toward a place that feels safe and calm and enjoyable. Just a reminder, you deserve to feel good. If your self-care plan doesn't include enjoyment and pleasure, you're missing something fundamental. I'll read the story twice, and I'll go a little slower on the second reading. Just follow along with the sound of my voice, and before you know it, probably before I'm more than a couple minutes in, you'll be deeply asleep. If you wake in the middle of the night, think back through

any of the details of the story that you can remember, and you'll drop right back off. Seriously, I have been using this technique my whole life, and now I've heard from thousands of you who agree. It works. So turn off your light. Put down anything you've been looking at. It is time for sleep. Slide down into your sheets and get as cozy and comfortable as you can. Feel your body becoming really heavy, every muscle relaxing. Now take a slow breath in through your nose and let it out through your mouth. Again, in. Let it out.

Good. Our story tonight is called People Watching and the Coffee Shop. And it's a story about the view from a table in the back corner. It's also about found family, a neatly shoveled sidewalk, and simple ways to feel connected. People Watching and the coffee shop. It had snowed steadily for the past few days.

A few inches would fall at some point in the night or afternoon, and then Mother Nature would stop and give us a chance to catch up before beginning again. We'd put on our thick gloves and tall boots and step out into our driveways with our shovels and start to clear it away. I hadn't minded. There is something about a simple chore that is quite satisfying. There are lots of kinds of work that, after hours of effort, you step back and you can't see that you've done anything but when I shoveled the drive and the sidewalks

it was immediately apparent that it was a job well and thoroughly done in the early fall when I'd had a cord of firewood to stack in the garage, I'd been just as happy. One wheelbarrow load at a time, setting it in neat rows that, at the end, had gotten taller than me. I could have done it all day,

folding bath towels into identical rectangles, stacking firewood, setting up a dozen jars of canned tomatoes in the pantry, or shoveling the sidewalks until they were clear. It all gave me a feeling that while there were lots of things in the world that, at least to me, didn't seem to add up, here were little pockets of order and harmony. I was thinking of this as I shoveled,

of a phrase my grandmother used to say when she finished tidying up a room and stopped with her hands on her hips to look at her work. Apple pie order, she called it. After the pavement was clear, I'd spread out some salt to keep the ice away. I propped my shovel by the door.

No use in putting it away. The skies were low with thick clouds full of more snow. I had a sudden craving for a cup of something hot and a bit of people watching. There was a coffee shop on a corner just a few blocks up and when I walked by I saw that my favorite table was free

in the back corner. I got myself a peppermint hot chocolate and took it back to the table, taking off my gloves and wrapping my fingers around the cup to ease the chill out of them. I liked this spot because I could see all the way down one street and up another. I could watch people on the sidewalk, bundled up as they passed, the snow catching in their hair, and their breath thick in the air as they talked. I also liked this spot because it was beside a table

of grouchy, gossipy old men. At any time of day, there were nearly always three or four of them sitting at their table. They seemed to come in shifts and relieve each other now and then. I'd look in the window morning or night

and I'd see them. There were one or two with their reading glasses low on their noses, eyes on a newspaper spread out on the table, not saying much, but somehow just as vital a part of the group discussion with their silence. Then there were a couple, the ones that sat with their backs to the wall, facing out to the street, that kept a steady debate going about everything from world events to which flavor of coffee cake was best at the bakery,

which, just so you know, is their cinnamon apple cake with extra crumb. I'd been in coffee shops all over the world, and this table and its occupants were universal. They had been there in each one on busy, bustling avenues and cities along cobblestone streets and small villages and even on neighborhood park benches beside hand-pushed carts. At any time, on nearly any continent, you can find a retirement of coffee or tea drinking elders with plenty to say.

I sipped my cocoa and smiled as they talked and griped. It's not that you stop needing grandparents at some point in your adult life, but sadly, you do stop having them. I decided, as I sat there, that I'd adopt a couple of these men as additional grandfathers. I picked out a quiet one with bushy, overgrown eyebrows

who was shaking the creases out of his paper, and a hot-tempered one who was prodding his neighbor with his elbow, trying to persuade him to his point of view. I'd keep tabs on them over the winter, whenever I stopped in for a drink, maybe learning which newspaper was a favorite, whether they took their coffee with milk or sugar. I'd eavesdrop and maybe learn something or just feel the comfort of their conversation in the background of my day. It made me laugh to myself, wondering if one day, decades in the future, I'd be pushing my cart through the aisles of a grocery store, taking my glasses out to read a label on a box, while a young person, watching from the other end of the aisle,

silently adopted me as their grandparent. We just don't stop needing each other. And I guessed in a very big-picture sense that was the point. The sun would set in another half hour,

and as I sat there, the sky began to turn a lovely, vibrant pink. The coffee machines hissed and hummed. I watched people come in and stomp snow off their shoes and fish through their pockets and bags for dollars and change. Just as I finished my hot chocolate and the pink sky had faded into a purplish gray, it began to snow again.

I gave the table of grandfathers a smile as I wrapped myself back up and went out into the snow. A few clouds moved overhead and a waxing crescent moon shone bright above me. I turned toward home and began to walk. The cold air opened my eyes wide, and I watched the clouds moving, the cars going past, and the porch lights coming on. In an apartment building across the street, I saw someone step out on their balcony with a blanket pulled around their shoulders. Their eyes were turned up at the sky, and we both, together and separately, looked at the moon. I kept walking. I could smell the wood smoke from the chimneys of the houses around me. I turned onto my street and saw that my apple pie-ordered sidewalks were covered in a fresh inch of snow.

Ah well, I'd have another chance tomorrow. People watching and the coffee shop. It had snowed steadily for the past few days. A few inches would fall at some point in the night or afternoon, and then Mother Nature would stop and give us a chance to catch up before beginning again. We'd put on our thick gloves and tall boots

and step out into our driveways with our shovels and start to clear it away. I hadn't minded. there is something about a simple chore that is quite satisfying. There are lots of kinds of work that, after hours of effort, you step back and you can't see that you've done anything but when I shoveled the drive and the sidewalks it was immediately apparent

that it was a job well and thoroughly done in the early fall, when I'd had a cord of firewood to stack in the garage, I'd been just as happy. One wheelbarrow load at a time, setting it in neat rows that, by the end, had gotten taller than me. I could have done it all day. Folding bath towels into identical rectangles stacking firewood

setting up a dozen jars of canned tomatoes in the pantry or shoveling the sidewalks until they were clear it all gave me a feeling or shoveling the sidewalks until they were clear. It all gave me a feeling that while there were lots of things in the world that, at least to me, didn't seem to add up, here were little pockets of order and harmony. I was thinking of this as I shuffled. Of a phrase my grandmother used to say when she finished tidying up a room, and stopped with her hands on her hips to look at her work.

Apple pie order, she called it. After the pavement was clear, and I'd spread out some salt to keep the ice away, I propped my shovel by the door. No use in putting it away. The skies were low with thick clouds full of more snow. I had a sudden craving for a cup of something hot and a bit of people watching. There was a coffee shop on a corner,

just a few blocks up, and when I walked by, I saw that my favorite table was free in the back corner. I got myself a peppermint hot chocolate and took it back to the table, taking off my gloves and wrapping my fingers around the cup to ease the chill out of them. I liked this spot because I could see all the way down one street and up another. I could watch people on the sidewalk, bundled up as they passed four of them sitting at their table. They seemed to come in shifts and relieve each other now and then.

I'd look in the window morning or night, and I'd see them. There were one or two with their reading glasses low on their noses, eyes on a newspaper spread out on the table, not saying much, but somehow just as vital a part of the group discussion with their silence. Then there were a couple, the ones that sat with their backs to the wall, facing out to the street, that kept a steady debate going about everything from world events to which flavor of coffee cake was best at the bakery, which, just so you know, is their cinnamon apple cake with extra crumb.

I'd been in coffee shops all over the world, and this table and its occupants were universal. They had been there in each one, on busy, bustling avenues in cities, along cobblestone streets in small villages, and even on neighborhood park benches beside hand-pushed carts. At any time, on nearly any continent, you can find a retirement of coffee or tea-drinking elders with plenty to say. I sipped my cocoa and smiled as they talked and griped. It's not that you stop needing grandparents at some point in your adult life, but sadly, you do stop having them.

I decided as I sat there that I'd adopt a couple of these men as additional grandfathers. I picked out a quiet one with bushy, overgrown eyebrows who was shaking the creases out of his paper, and a hot-tempered one who was prodding his neighbor with his elbow, trying to persuade him to his point of view. I'd keep tabs on them over the winter,

whenever I stopped in for a drink, maybe learning which newspaper was a favorite or whether they took their coffee with milk or sugar. I'd eavesdrop and maybe learn something or just feel the comfort of their conversation in the background of my day. It made me laugh to myself, wondering if one day, decades in the future, I'd be pushing my cart through the aisles of a grocery store, taking my glasses out to read a label on a box,

while a young person, watching from the other end of the aisle, silently adopted me as their grandparent. We just don't stop needing each other. And I guessed, in a very big-picture sense. That was the point. The sun would set in another half-hour, and as I sat there, the sky began to turn a lovely, vibrant pink. The coffee machines hissed and hummed. I watched people come in and stomp snow off their shoes and fish through their pockets and bags for dollars and change. Just as I finished my hot chocolate, and the pink sky had faded into a purplish gray,

it began to snow again. I gave the table of grandfathers a smile as I wrapped myself back up and went out into the snow. A few clouds moved overhead, and a waxing crescent moon shone bright above me. I turned toward home and began to walk. The cold air opened my eyes wide, and I watched the clouds moving, the cars going past, and porch lights coming on. In an apartment building across the street, I saw someone step out on their balcony with a blanket pulled around their

shoulders. Their eyes were turned up at the sky, and we both, together and separately, looked at the moon. I kept walking. I could smell the wood smoke from the chimneys of the houses around me. I turned onto my street and saw that my apple pie-ordered sidewalks were covered in a fresh inch of snow. Ah well, I'd have another chance tomorrow. Sweet dreams.