Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Snowfall at the Bakery Part 3

Episode Date: February 27, 2023

Our story tonight is called Snowfall at the Bakery Part Three and it’s a story about the snowmen in the park and the sledding hill beside them. It’s also about a memory of a grandfather in front of the fire, a pocketful of dog treats, and the simple joy of playing in the snow.This week we are giving to the Turkish Red Crescent http://www.kizilay.org.tr/https://linktr.ee/nothingmuchhappensPurchase 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. If you are looking for more nothing much in your life, we have two dozen bonus stories on our premium plus feed. All episodes there are also completely ad free. It's a lovely way to support what we do,

and you can subscribe through the link tree in our show notes. We give to a charity each week, and this week we are giving to a member of the International Red Cross, the Turkish Red Crescent. They are providing aid for needy and defenseless people affected by the earthquake in Turkey. See their link in our show notes. Now, busy minds need a place to rest. The story I have for you is just that.

A soft, safe landing spot. Just by listening and following along with the sound of my voice will be conditioning your brain to relax and fall 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, listen again, and you'll go right back to sleep. Okay, lights out campers. Snuggle down and get as comfortable as you can. I'll be here, watching over with my voice. It's safe to let go now. There's nothing left to do today but rest. Take a slow breath in through your mouth. Nice.

Again, fill it up and release it. Good. Our story tonight is called Snowfall at the Bakery, Part 3. And it's a story about the snowmen in the park and the sledding hill behind them. It's also about a memory of a grandfather in front of a fire, a pocket full of dog treats, and the simple joy of playing in the snow.

Snowfall at the Bakery, Part 3 I could hear them shouting and playing as I got closer to the park. They'd built a dozen snowmen and found spindly sticks to give them arms. A few had scarves tied around their necks or floppy knitted hats perched on their heads. I stopped at the edge of the park, where the kiosk that sold papers and magazines stood. I was surprised to see that it was still open.

The man inside sat on a stool, looking out through the kiosk window at the kids in the snow with a smile on his face. He saw me coming and waved through the flakes falling between us. I often stopped by on my way home from the bakery to peruse the magazines, and today I saw he'd already brought down all the papers and circulars that were usually clipped to his stand with clothespins. I thought you'd be packed up and gone by now

with all this snow, I said. Oh, well, there aren't any customers now, that's for sure. But I've been having fun watching the kids make their snowmen. I was just about to close up. He had a little heater in his stand,

and had told me on other chilly days that he stayed toasty, even when the temperature dropped down low. But I thought that his warmth must come more from his perspective than his heater or his gloved hands. He seemed to love to talk to customers each day, loved to look out at the park, whether there were daffodils blooming and ducks swimming on the pond, or like today, a snowy blur of kids at play. I could relate. I loved to bake,

but my favorite part of my work was watching a customer take their first bite of something I had made. To see their eyes close in pleasure and powdered sugar cling to their smile. That reminded me that I had one packet of scones left in my bag when I reached in and brought it out. Raspberry and hazelnut, I said, as I passed them over to the man.

Have them with your coffee tomorrow. Oh, thank you, he said, and he peeled open the packet a bit and brought it up to his nose to inhale the scent. He smiled and said he wasn't sure they would last till tomorrow. Hazelnuts, huh? Know what my grandfather called them? Filberts, I guessed.

Remembering my own grandfather using them to fill his squirrel feeder. After he'd given up on them leaving the bird feeders alone. And instead simply set them their own place at the table. That's it, he said. He'd keep a bowl of them beside his chair all winter, and crack them for an after-dinner snack. One for him, and one for me.

I was glad those scones had been in my bag. I'd gotten to bring him a treat, and a memory. And there was one more thing in my bag. A forgotten green glove left behind in the bakery by one of the snowmen builders an hour or so before. I said goodbye to the man in the kiosk

as he reached up to unhook the wooden shutter that sealed up his stand at night. I took the glove from my bag and tromped through the ankle-high snow into the park. It was busier than I'd expected. Besides the pack of children I recognized from the bakery, there were a few people with skates and hockey sticks

playing on the solid surface of the pond. There were people bundled up and walking the paths, and several big fluffy dogs who looked like they were having the best day of their lives. One was laying in a snowdrift, his fur slowly being covered in a layer of fresh flakes, while his dad attempted to persuade him to regain his feet. I stopped nearby, laughing under my scarf, and his dad rolled his eyes good-naturedly at me.

This will be the story for the next few days, he said shrugging. He would stay out in the snow all day if I let him. We baked dog biscuits at the bakery, and I kept a few in my coat pocket for just these occasions. I handed one off to the fluffy dog's dad as I passed them on the path. If it gets desperate, I said. The kids who'd built the legion of snowmen on the open ground had retreated to a slope

and were sledding down on saucers and red toboggans. I hiked over watching them come down the hill, holding tight to their sleds and each other and screaming with silliness as they went over a bump and tumbled into the snow. I kept a keen eye out for anyone without gloves or with just one in the same telltale green I had now in my hand.

Almost certainly, school would be cancelled tomorrow. And there would be pancakes for breakfast and more adventures in the snow. There would be sidewalks to shovel, and movies to watch, and board games to set up and then abandon when they got bored of them. Snow days, when I was their age, were often when I would pull down a few cookbooks from the shelf and try my first recipes, try a loaf of wheat bread,

cookies, or a pie crust. My most successful, and therefore most made bake, had been simple oatmeal raisin cookies. I smiled as I watched the sledders, thinking that I hadn't made any in a while. And I was sure I had all the ingredients in my pantry. Yes, the baker on her day off was going to bake. Ah well, I was looking forward to it already. A saucer came flying down the hill in front of me.

A little girl in green snow pants with a green hat. I squinted to see through the snow. And yes, one green glove. Her other hand bare and chilled as it clung to the edge of the disc. Intentionally or not, she steered past the bump that had sent everyone else a few feet into the air and let momentum carry her till she tipped into the snow. She lay for a few moments, just looking up into the flakes, and I hustled over and peered down at her. Missing something, I said, dangling the glove in the air above her.

Oh, she said, and she bounded to her feet and reached for it. Thanks, I was hoping it would turn up. She slid it onto her bare hand and sighed in relief. She snatched up her saucer and went running for the hill again. At the top, just as I was about to turn for home, ready now

for my slippers and my hot water bottle, she waved at me and yelled out, Happy Snow Day. Happy Snow Day, I thought. Snowfall at the bakery. Part three.

I could hear them shouting and playing as I got closer to the park. They'd built a dozen snowmen and found spindly sticks to give them arms. A few had scarves tied around their necks or floppy knitted hats perched on their heads. I stopped at the edge of the park, where the kiosk that sold papers and magazines stood. I was surprised to see that it was still open. The man inside sat on a stool,

looking out through the kiosk window at the kids in the snow with a smile on his face. He saw me coming and waved through the flakes falling between us. I often stopped by on my way home from the bakery to peruse the magazines, and today I saw he'd already brought down all the papers and circulars that were usually clipped to his stand with clothespins. I thought you'd be packed up and gone by now with all this snow, I said. Oh, well, there aren't any customers now that's for sure but

I've been having fun watching the kids make their snowmen I was just about to close up he had a little heater in his stand and had told me on other chilly days that he stayed toasty even when the temperature dropped down low.

But I thought that his warmth must come more from his perspective than his heater or his gloved hands. He seemed to love to talk to customers each day, loved to look out at the park, whether there were daffodils blooming and ducks swimming on the pond, or, like today, a snowy blur of kids at play. I could relate. I loved to bake.

But my favorite part of my work was watching a customer take their first bite of something I had made, to see their eyes close in pleasure and powdered sugar cling to their smile. That reminded me that I had one packet of scones left in and brought it out. Raspberry and hazelnut, I said, as I passed them over to the man. Have them with your coffee tomorrow. Oh, thank you, he said, and he peeled open the packet a bit

and brought it up to his nose to inhale the scent. He smiled and said he wasn't sure they would last till tomorrow. Hazelnuts, huh? Know what my grandfather used to call them? Filberts, I guessed, remembering my own grandfather using them to fill his squirrel feeder, after he'd given up on them, leaving the bird feeders alone, and instead simply set them their own place at the table. That's it, he said. He'd keep a bowl of them beside his chair all winter and crack them for an after-dinner snack, one for him and one for me. I was glad those scones had been in my bag. I'd gotten to bring him a treat and a memory. There was one more thing in my bag.

A forgotten green glove left behind in the bakery by one of the snowmen builders an hour or so before. I said goodbye to the man in the kiosk as he reached up to unhook the wooden shutter that sealed up his stand at night I took the glove from my bag and tromped through the ankle-high snow in the park. It was busier than I'd expected.

Besides the pack of children I recognized from the bakery. There were a few people with skates and hockey sticks playing on the solid surface of the pond. There were people bundled up and walking the paths, and several big fluffy dogs who looked like they were having the best day of their lives. One was laying in a snowdrift, his fur slowly being covered in a layer of fresh flakes, while his dad attempted to persuade him to regain his feet. I stopped nearby, laughing under my scarf. And his dad rolled his eyes good-naturedly at me. This will be the story for the next few days, he said shrugging. He'd stay out in the snow all day if I let him.

We baked dog biscuits at the bakery, and I always kept a few in my coat pocket for just these occasions. I handed one off to the fluffy dog's dad as I passed them on the path. If it gets desperate, I said. The kids who'd built the legion of snowmen on the open ground had retreated to a slope and were sledding down on saucers and red toboggans.

I hiked over, watching them come down the hill, holding tight to their sleds and each other, and screaming with silliness as they went over a bump and tumbled into the snow. I kept a keen eye out for anyone without gloves, or with just one, in the same telltale green I had now in my hand. Almost certainly, school would be canceled tomorrow. And there would be pancakes for breakfast and more adventures in the snow. There would be sidewalks to shovel and movies to watch and board games to set up and then abandon when they got bored of them. Snow days when I was their age, or often when I would pull down a few cookbooks from the shelf and try my first recipes. Try a loaf of wheat bread, cookies,

or a pie crust. My most successful and therefore most made bake had been simple oatmeal raisin cookies. I smiled as I watched the sledders, thinking that I hadn't made any in a while, and that I was sure I had all the ingredients in my pantry.

Yes, the baker, on her day off, was going to bake. Oh well, I was looking forward to it already. A saucer came flying down the hill in front of me. A little girl in green snow pants with a green hat. I squinted to see through the snow and, yes, one green glove. Her other hand bare and chilled as it clung to the edge of the disc. Intentionally or not, she steered past the bump that had sent everyone else a few feet into the air and let momentum carry her till she tipped into the snow. She lay for a few moments, just looking up into the flakes.

And I hustled over and peered down at her. Missing something, I said, dangling the glove in the air above her. Oh, she said, and bounded to her feet and reached for it. Thanks. I was hoping it would turn up. She slid it onto her bare hand and sighed in relief. She snatched up her saucer and went running for the hill again.

At the top, just as I was about to turn for home, ready now for my slippers and my hot water bottle. She waved at me and yelled out, Happy snow day. Happy snow day, I thought. Sweet dreams.