Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Snowfall at the Bakery Part 2

Episode Date: February 20, 2023

Our story tonight is called Snowfall at the Bakery Part Two and it’s a story about closing up shop and stepping out into falling flakes. It’s also about a bag full of wrapped treats, knowing today that you’ll be snowed in tomorrow, and a lost glove on its way back to its owner. We give to charitable organizations each week and this week we are giving to Syrian American Medical Society (SAMS) https://www.sams-usa.net/ “SAMS works on the front lines of crisis relief in Syria and beyond to alleviate suffering, save lives, and support medical professionals.https://linktr.ee/nothingmuchhappensPurchase 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 Katherine Nicolai. I write and read all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. My book, also called Nothing Much Happens, is available wherever books are sold. Thank you for your support. Every episode is someone's first, so I like to say a bit about how this works. I'm going to tell you a story,

and the story is a place to rest your mind. It's a soft landing spot after whatever your day was. Just by listening, you'll shift your brain activity and train yourself to sleep consistently. This improves with time, so be patient if you're new to this. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little bit slower the second time through. If you wake later in the night, don't hesitate to listen again. You'll go right back to sleep.

Okay, it's time. Turn out the light. Set aside anything you've been looking at. Arrange yourself into the most comfortable and comforting position you can find. You have done enough for the day. Truly, it is enough. Nothing to do now but rest. Take a slow breath in through your nose

and sigh through your nose. And sigh through your mouth. Again, fill it up. And let it go. Good. Our story tonight is called Snowfall at the Bakery, Part 2. And it's a story about closing up shop and stepping out into falling flakes. It's also about a bag full of wrapped treats, knowing today that you'll be snowed in tomorrow,

and a lost glove on its way back to its owner. Snowfall at the Bakery, Part 2 We were getting close to closing time. We'd seen a rush in the early afternoon. First of school kids, who'd gotten out of class early because of the thickly falling snow. Then a wave of folks who suspected they might just be snowed in tomorrow. And if that was going to happen, well, they wanted to be sure to have a loaf of fresh sourdough and a box of cinnamon rolls for breakfast. I'd already sent a couple of my staff home,

not wanting them to be out on the roads if they didn't need to. I just had one helper left. He lived in an apartment just up the alley and had been happy to stay with me and finish wiping down the tables and prepping the kitchen for the next day. I poured the last two cups of hot chocolate from the urn for us

and set his beside the register form. I appreciated the companionable quiet between us. We both knew just what needed to be done and how, and worked together like cogs in a clock. I wasn't sure yet if we would open tomorrow if we would get so much snow overnight that the whole village

would stay snuggled up in their houses for the day or if it would taper off as we slept snuggled up in their houses for the day. Or if it would taper off as we slept and we'd have the magical combination of closed schools and offices but a day lovely enough to venture out into. I looked into the pastry case, where we had a couple dozen leftover buns and cookies. We usually wrapped them up for the day-old basket,

but they'd go to waste if we didn't open up tomorrow morning. I wrapped a few of my colleague's favorites for him and popped them into a handlebag and hooked it over his coat in the hall. Then I wrapped the rest in little packs of two or three, and added them to a bigger bag. I flipped the sign in the front window,

and as I was walking back to the counter, something green caught my eye. Snagged on a chair in the back corner where the school kids had been eating their treats was a single glove, little, made for little hands, that I suspected were, at this moment, getting pretty chilly, making snowmen in the park. I laughed, thinking about how many gloves and hats and even somehow coats that I had lost

or left on the bus when I was little. And I thought I might be able to save this kid from a bit of trouble when they got home. I added it to the bag with the leftover pastries. I heard a voice from the back hall calling. Thanks for the goodies. Are you going through the front? Should I lock up the back? Yes, please, I called back. I could hear him pause as he put on his coat and waited.

He called out again. I'm putting a spoon under my pillow tonight. Maybe we'll have a snow day tomorrow. I chuckled, imagining him trying to zip his coat with crossed fingers. Maybe, I said. The door closed behind him, and I could hear him locking it and pulling on the door once to make sure it was secure. Sometimes we all need a day off, I thought. And I decided right then that snow or not, we'd take tomorrow for ourselves.

I'd call my staff to let them know when I got home. Because often the best part of a day off is the night before, when you know you don't have to get up in the morning. I put my own coat on and made a sign for the window to let customers know we'd be closed the next day. Then I pulled a hat over my ears, picked up my bag, and stepped out the front door. The snow was still falling, and

I let a few flakes catch in my eyelashes. The air smelled brand new and just slightly sweet. I locked the door and started to walk toward the park. I noticed a few other shops that were closed early as well, and I hoped they would take the day off tomorrow too if they could. When I first took over the bakery, I worked too hard. I worried that if I closed for a day or took time off, everything might fall apart in my absence. Pretty quickly I learned that if I carried on like that,

I would burn out. The joy of what I did would be overtaken by exhaustion. I'd been given a good talking to by a friend, the man who'd owned the bakery before me. Who'd taught me to bake and given me his secret recipes. He'd stopped by one afternoon and found me worn out in the office with my head on the desk. Okay, he said. That's enough.

I looked up at him and knew exactly what he meant. He'd sat with me and assured me that my customers would give me grace when I needed to close up. He pulled my calendar from the wall and we marked off days for a much-needed vacation. Then he went into the kitchen and reorganized the fridges and the baking stations. From then on out, I'd not lost sight of taking care of myself and my staff, even as the bakery got busier. I learned to let other people give to me. Sometimes the hardest lesson is to learn to receive. The diner was still open, and I pushed through their door and stepped up to the counter. A friendly face peeked through the kitchen window

and smiled when she recognized me. Hi, need a coffee? No thanks, I'm on my way home, just dropping off some leftovers. I held up the bag. Oh, what a treat, thank you. I did a head count of the waitstaff, then added more for the cooks and dishwashers, and left the packets on the counter.

Take care, she called, and I waved as I went through the door. At the next corner, I saw a regular customer clearing the snow from their windshield. I took a packet from my bag and waved it at them to catch their attention. Delivery from the cookie fairy, I chuckled. A smile broke over their face, and they wiped the snowflakes from their steamed-up glasses as they reached out for them. Do you need a ride?

This snow isn't going to slow down for a while yet. Thanks, I said. But I've got one more stop to make. I'm on a mission. I held up the glove from my bag and turned back to the street. I felt like I was in a snow globe. The swirling flakes all around me. The downtown street with the storefronts lit from within. It was a magic moment, and I determined not to miss a beat of it.

Snowfall at the Bakery Part 2 We were getting close to closing time. We'd seen a rush in the early afternoon. First of school kids who'd gotten out of class early because of the thickly falling snow. Then, a wave of folks who suspected they might just be snowed in tomorrow. And that, if that was going to happen, well, they wanted to be sure to have a fresh loaf of sourdough and a box of cinnamon rolls for breakfast.

I'd already sent a couple of my staff home, not wanting them to be out on the roads if they didn't need to. I just had one helper left. He lived in an apartment just up the alley and had been happy to stay with me and finish wiping down the tables

and prepping the kitchen for the next day. I poured the last two cups of hot chocolate from the urn for us and set his beside the register. I appreciated the companionable quiet between us. We both knew just what needed to be done and how, and worked together like cogs in a clock. I wasn't sure yet if we would open tomorrow, if we would get so much snow overnight. That the whole village would stay

snuggled up in their houses for the day. Or if it would taper off as we slept. And we'd have the magical combination of closed schools and offices, but a day lovely enough to venture out into. I looked into the pastry case where we had a couple dozen leftover buns and cookies.

We usually wrapped them up for the day-old basket, but they'd go to waste if we didn't open up tomorrow morning. I wrapped a few of my colleague's favorites for him and dropped them into a handlebag and hooked it over his coat in the hall, then wrapped the rest in packs of two or three and added them to a bigger bag. I flipped the sign in the front window, and as I was walking back to the counter something green caught my eye snagged on a chair in the back corner where the school kids had been eating their treats

was a single glove, little, made for little hands that I suspected were at this moment getting pretty chilly making snowmen in the park. I laughed, thinking about how many gloves and hats and even somehow coats that I had lost or left on the bus when I was little. And I thought I might be able to save this kid from a bit of trouble when they got home. I added it to the bag with the leftover pastries. I heard a voice from the back hall calling.

Thanks for the goodies. Are you going through the front? Should I lock up the back? Yes, please, I called back. I could hear him pause as he put on his coat and I waited.

He called again. Um, and I am putting a spoon under my pillow tonight. Maybe we'll have a snow day tomorrow? I chuckled, imagining him trying to zip his coat with crossed fingers. Maybe, I said.

The door closed behind him, and I could hear him locking it and pulling on the door once to make sure it was secure. Sometimes we all need a day off, I thought. And I decided right then that snow or not, we'd take tomorrow for ourselves. I'd call my staff to let them know when I got home.

Because often the best part of a day off is the night before when you know you don't have to get up in the morning. I put my own coat on and made a sign for the window to let customers know we'd be closed the next day.

Then I pulled a hat over my ears, picked up my bag, and stepped out the front door. The snow was still falling, and I let a few flakes catch in my eyelashes. The air smelled brand new and just slightly sweet. I locked the door and started to walk toward the park. I noticed a few other shops

that were closed early as well, and hoped they would take the day off tomorrow too, if they could. When I first took over the bakery, I worked too hard. I felt that if I closed for a day or took time off, everything might fall apart in my absence. Pretty quickly, I learned that if I carried on like that, I would burn out. The joy of what I did

would be overtaken by exhaustion. I'd been given a good talking to by my friend, the man who'd owned the bakery before me. He'd taught me to bake and given me his secret recipes. He'd stopped by one afternoon and found me worn out in the office with my head on the desk. Okay, he said. That's enough. I looked up at him and knew exactly what he meant.

He'd sat with me and assured me that my customers would give me grace when I needed to close up. He pulled my calendar from the wall, and we marked off days for a much-needed vacation. Then he'd gone into the kitchen and reorganized the fridges and the baking stations. From then on out, I'd not lost sight of taking care of myself and my staff. Even as the bakery got busier, I learned to let other people give to me.

Sometimes the hardest lesson is to learn to receive. The diner was still open and I pushed through their door and stepped up to the counter. A friendly face peeked through the kitchen window and smiled when she recognized me. Hi. Need a coffee? No thanks. I'm on my way home. Just dropping off some leftovers.

Oh, what a treat. Thank you. I did a head count of the waitstaff, then added more for the cooks and dishwashers, and left the packets on the counter. Take care, she called, and I waved as I went through the door. At the next corner, I saw a regular customer clearing the snow from their windshield. I took a packet from my bag and waved it at them to catch their attention. Delivery from the cookie fairy, I chuckled. A smile broke over their face, and they wiped the snowflakes from their steamed-up glasses

as they reached out for them. Do you need a ride? This snow isn't going to slow down for a while yet. Thanks, I said, but I've got one more stop to make. I'm on a mission. I held up the glove from my bag and turned back toward the street. I felt like I was in a snow globe, the swirling flakes all around me,

the downtown street with the storefronts lit from within. It was a magic moment when I determined not to miss a beat of it. Sweet dreams.