Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Snow and Street Lights

Episode Date: December 4, 2023

Our story tonight is called Snow and Streetlights, and it’s a story about an afternoon at the bookshop on the edge of winter. It’s also about a bell jingling on a dog’s collar, the soft buffer of the first snowfall, a door held open by a stranger, and a pack of paper stars. We donate to a different charity each week, and this week, we are giving to Brother Wolf. Brother Wolf Animal Rescue enhances the lives of companion animals and the people who love them. www.bwar.org Subscribe for ad-free, bonus, and extra-long episodes now! Search for Nothing MuchHappens Premium channel on Apple Podcasts or follow the link belowhttps://www.nothingmuchhappens.com/premium-subscription  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 Catherine Nicolai. I read and write all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens, with audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. Thank you for listening, rating, and sharing what we do. We donate to a different charity each week, and this week we are giving to Brother Wolf. Brother Wolf Animal Rescue enhances the lives of companion animals and the people who love them. We have a link to them in our show notes.

Now, I have a story to tell you. It's a soft landing after your day, a quiet, safe place to rest your mind, and all you have to do is listen. Just by following along with the sound of my voice, we'll deactivate your default mode network and turn on task mode, and you don't have to understand that for it to work. It just means you'll sleep. I'll tell it twice, a little slower the second time through. If you wake later in the night, turn a story right back on.

You'll drop right back off. This response builds over time, so be patient if you are new to this. Now, lights out. Set everything else aside. It's all about comfort now. There is nothing to do. Your work is done for the day.

Take a deep breath in through your nose and sigh through the mouth. Again, breathe in and out. Good. Our story tonight is called Snow and Streetlights, and it's a story about an afternoon at the bookshop on the edge of winter. It's also about a bell jingling on a dog's collar,

the soft buffer of the first snowfall, a door held open by a stranger, and a pack of paper stars, snow, and streetlights. It was still light out as I walked into town. The sidewalks were bare. The few flakes that had fallen the day before didn't stick. I had my winter coat on, but I unbuttoned it at the neck to let the fresh air circle my skin. The soles of my shoes made a thin, echoing clap against the pavement. There is a bare, sort of exposed feeling that comes after the leaves have fallen and before

the snow has. The world feels too empty and unbuffered. I hoped that we'd have snow soon, a nice thick layer of it on the tree branches, and enough on the ground to make a snowman. At a corner, I stopped and looked up at the sky, gray and thick with clouds. They looked full of snow to my optimistic eyes, and I smiled as I walked on.

On Main Street, lights were being strung up, crisscrossing from building to building and wrapping around the lamp posts. As I passed, I noticed a huge crate full of fresh wreaths, ready to hang, that smelled so brightly of pine and cedar, a little kid part of me, always got excited to see the village getting ready for the holidays. I turned down an alleyway and came to the door of the bookshop. A woman with an armful of books was struggling to get out, and I leaned, I peeked at the books in her arms. I always want to know what other people are reading. She'd had a collection of fairy tales, big, prettily bound ones, that I'd bet were full of color illustrations.

As I stepped into the shop and pulled the door closed behind me, I remembered a book I'd begged to have read to me over and over at bedtime when I was very small. The pages and ink had had a very particular smell, and every once in a while, I found a book that smelled the same, and I'd press my nose to the page and draw it in. I chuckled to myself, thinking that it was a wonder that I'd never been asked to take my nose and leave the bookstore before. It was busy inside. Folks were doing their holiday shopping, and there were extra displays set up here and there. I stopped at a table full of cookbooks from around the world and flipped through a few,

looking at glossy pictures of plated-up stews and sides, steam rising from fresh-baked loaves, landscapes where the ingredients had grown. Some of them were presented perfectly, as if the plate were ready to be set down in front of me at a top-tier restaurant, beside an ironed linen napkin and a row of polished silver, and some were shown as home cooking. Good to eat from your favorite seat on the back porch as the rain fell. I already owned so many cookbooks, but they were as much a doorway to adventure for me as any science fiction novel or historical mystery.

From there, I wandered past the children's section, which was bustling with activity. There were a few grown-ups dressed in red suits and beards, and I remembered reading the flyer for Clauses with the Clauses, a literary program sponsored by the local elementary school. I stopped to listen for a moment to the story, which sounded like it had been written by all of them together, each child getting to add a sentence, which, of course, made it into a silly, absurd tale in no time. The kids laughed uproariously, falling out of their beanbag chairs and rolling around on the big circle of carpet, which I noticed was covered with

paper snowflakes they must have been cutting out. Their joy warmed me through, and I carried it with me as I headed toward the shelves in the back. I browsed fiction novels, how-tos, memoirs, and travelogues. There was a section of holiday-themed romances. And I stopped for a while, reading their descriptions and the notes left by the staff recommending one or the other. There was a story about strangers on a train, and and the cover showed tracks cutting through a snowy mountain pass. I could just bet it would be full of well-worn tropes and frustrating twists that would feel a bit contrived, but I was a sucker for these kind of stories

and I tucked it into my elbow the first of my selections for the day. On another display table I found books about crafts and origami with packs of beautiful bright paper alongside them. What a perfect winter task, I thought, and looked through the options. One had long strips of pretty paper in pastels and shimmery metallics. Good for beginners, it said.

Make a thousand paper stars, it suggested. Don't mind if I do, I thought, and added the kit to my stack. Moving back into the front of the shop, I heard a bell jingling, and I looked up at the one over the door, wondering what was making it ring out so steadily. But the door was shut and the bell still. I heard the jingle again and realized it was coming from down low and around the next shelf. I followed the sound and found the source. Alphabet.

The shop owner's dog. A spotted mutt with short legs and a long back. And a jingle bell attached to his collar. I was marching through the aisle. I squatted down, and he came to me, rolling over for a belly rub. Oh, Alfie, I cooed. You're dressed up for the holidays, too.

And it helps me keep track of him on busy days called the shop owner from behind her desk. She'd just finished ringing up a customer and for a moment there was no line at the register. Would you like some cocoa? she asked. I'm having one myself. Let me get you one. I nodded and thanked her as I gave Elfie one more pat and stood up. Behind her at the desk, she had a tall urn that she dispensed two cups of hot chocolate from and handed me one. I sipped it slowly. It was just the right temperature. Not too hot to burn your mouth, but hot enough that it warmed you through and tasted rich and velvety.

Oh, that's good, I said. It's the baker's recipe, she whispered. How did you get your hands on that, I asked, as I set my stack down for her to ring up. I found an out-of-print cookbook she'd been looking for. It was a long hunt, but in here she held up the cup. It was worth the effort. I agreed as she tucked my purchases into a bag, and I handed over some cash. The window seat is open.

Are you going to stay and start your book? I turned to look at my favorite seat, right in the front window. But as I did, I let out a quiet gasp. Snow. Finally, snow was falling in thick sheets out on the street. The sidewalks were already covered. I turned back to her with a big smile on my face and said that I wanted to walk home in the snow. She nodded and I took my cup and my bag

and headed toward the door. Just as I was struggling to open it without spilling my precious cocoa, a man outside leaned forward and pulled it open for me. We nodded to each other as we passed in the doorway and I stepped onto the snowy sidewalk. The clap of my shoes was muffled now, and the world around me felt blanketed and softer. The strings of lights on Main Street were glowing through the snow,

and I stopped and watched the flakes coming down through the halo cast by a streetlight. I was sure, in cities around the world where snow was falling. Others were, in that moment, doing the same. Snow and streetlights. It was still light out as I walked into town. The sidewalks were bare. The few flakes that had fallen the day before didn't stick. I had my winter coat on, but I unbuttoned it at the neck and let the fresh air circle my skin.

The soles of my shoes made a thin, echoing clap against the pavement. There is a bare, sort of exposed feeling that comes after the leaves have fallen and before the snow has. The world feels too empty and unbuffered. I hoped that we'd have snow soon, a nice, thick layer of it on the tree branches, and enough on the ground to make a snowman. At a corner, I stopped and looked up at the sky, gray and thick with clouds. They looked full of snow to my optimistic eyes, and I smiled as I walked on. On Main Street, lights were being strung up, crisscrossing

from building to building and wrapping around the lampposts. As I passed, I noticed a huge crate full of wreaths ready to hang that smelled so brightly of pine and cedar. I wanted to wear it as perfume. A little part of me, more specifically, a little kid part of me, always got so excited to see the village getting ready for the holidays. I turned down an alleyway and came to the door of the bookshop a woman with an arm full of books was struggling to get out and I leaned forward and pulled the door open for her

and held it as she passed. We nodded at each other, and I admit, I peeked at the books in her arms. I always want to know what other people are reading. She'd had a collection of fairy tale books, big, prettily bound ones, that I'd bet were full of color illustrations. As I stepped into the shop and pulled the door closed behind me, I remembered a book I'd begged to have read over and over at bedtime when I was very small, the pages and ink had had a very particular smell. And every once in a while, I found a book that smelled the same. And I'd press my nose to the page and draw it in. I chuckled to myself, thinking that it was a wonder

that I'd never been asked to take my nose and leave the bookstore before. It was busy inside. Folks were doing their holiday shopping, and there were extra displays set up here and there. I stopped at a table full of cookbooks from around the world, and flipped through a few, looking at glossy pictures of plated-up stews and sides, steam rising from fresh-baked loaves, landscapes where the ingredients had grown. Some of them were presented perfectly,

as if the plate were ready to be set down in front of me at a top-tier restaurant, beside ironed linen napkins and a row of polished silver, and some were shown as home cooking, perfect to eat from your favorite seat on the back porch as the rain fell. I already owned so many cookbooks, but they were as much a doorway to adventure for me as any science fiction novel or historical mystery. From there, I wandered past the children's section, which was bustling with activity. There were a few grown-ups dressed in red suits and beards, and I remembered reading the flyer for Clauses with the Clauses,

a literacy program sponsored by the local elementary school. I stopped to listen for a moment to the story, which sounded like it had been written by all of them together, each child getting to add a sentence, which of course made it into a silly, absurd tale in no time. The kids laughed uproariously, falling out of their beanbag chairs and rolling around on the big circle of carpet, which I noticed was covered with paper snowflakes

they must have been cutting out. Their joy warmed me through, and I carried it with me as I headed toward the shelves in the back. I browsed fiction novels, how-tos, memoirs, and travelogues. There was a section of holiday-themed romances, and I stopped for a while, reading their descriptions and the notes left by the staff recommending one or another. There was a story about strangers on a train, and the cover showed tracks cutting through a snowy mountain pass. I could just bet it would be full of well-worn tropes and frustrating twists that would feel a bit contrived, but I was a sucker for these kind of stories, and I tucked it into my elbow, my first selection for the day.

On another display table, I found books about crafts and origami, with packs of beautiful bright paper alongside them. What a perfect winter task, I thought, and looked through the options. One had long strips of pretty paper and pastels and shimmery metallics. Good for beginners, it said. Make a thousand paper stars, it suggested Don't mind if I do, I thought and added the kit to my stack

Moving back into the front of the shop I heard a bell jingling, and I looked up at the one over the door, wondering what was making it ring out so steadily. But the door was shut, and the bell still. I heard the jingle again and realized it was coming from down low and around the next shelf. I followed the sound and found the source. Alphabet, the shop owner's dog,

a spotted mutt with short legs and a long back and a jingle bell attached to his collar rolling over for a belly rub. Oh, Alfie, I cooed, you're dressed up for the holidays too. And it helps me keep track of him on busy days, called the shop owner from behind her desk. She'd just finished ringing up a customer, and for a moment, there was no line at the register. Would you like some cocoa? she asked. I'm having one myself. Let me get you one. I nodded and thanked her as I gave Elfie one more pat and stood up. Behind her at the desk,

she had a tall urn that she'd dispensed two cups of hot chocolate from and handed me one. I sipped it slowly. It was just the right temperature. Not too hot to burn your mouth, but hot enough that it warmed you through and tasted rich and velvety.

Ooh, that's good, I said. It's the baker's recipe, she whispered. How did you get your hands on that? I asked, as I set my stack down for her to bring up. I found an out-of-print cookbook she'd been looking for. It was a long hunt, and she held up the cup. But it was worth it. I agreed as she tucked my purchases

into a bag and I handed over some cash. The window seat is open. Are you going to stay and start your book? I turned to look at my favorite seat right in the front window. But as I did, I let out a quiet gasp. Snow. Finally. Snow was falling in thick sheets out on the street.

The sidewalks were already covered. I turned back to her with a big smile on my face and said that I wanted to walk home in the snow. She nodded, and I took my cup and my bag and headed toward the door. Just as I was struggling to open it without spilling my precious cocoa, a man outside leaned forward and pulled it open for me. We nodded to each other as we passed in the doorway, and I stepped onto the snowy sidewalk. The clap of my shoes was muffled now, and the world around me felt blanketed

and softer. The strings of light on Main Street were glowing through the snow, and I stopped and watched the flakes coming down through the halo cast by a streetlight. I was sure in cities around the world wherever snow was falling others were, in that moment, doing the same. Sweet dreams.