Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Street Sweepers

Episode Date: July 14, 2025

Our story tonight is called Street Sweepers, and it’s a story about an early morning tending of the village lanes. It’s also about hoppers and windrows, zinnia heads and locust pods, clearing small floods near blocked up drains, and a simple but important way to care for a place you love. Subscribe to our Premium Channel. The first month is on us. 💙 AquaTru water purifier: Click here and get 20% OFF with code NOTHINGMUCH. We give to a different charity each week and this week we are giving to Raincoast Conservation Society. They inspire action to protect wildlife and wildlife habitats. NMH merch, autographed books and more! Pay it forward subscription  Listen to our daytime show Stories from the Village of Nothing Much.  First This, Kathryn’s guided mediation podcast.  Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

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That's A-Q-U-A-T-R-U.com, and enter the code N-O-T-H-I-n-g-m-u-c-h at checkout. That's aquatrue.com. Use code nothingmuch. Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Everyone, in which nothing much happens. You feel good and then you fall asleep. I'm Catherine Nicolai.

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Just because you might be a grown-up, and it's okay if you're not, all our stories are family-friendly. It doesn't mean you've outgrown the need for a bedtime story. It's some old-time medicine for insomnia, which we might now call cognitive reshuffling. All you have to do is listen. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. The more you use this technique, the more quickly you'll fall and return to sleep. If you wake later in the night, don't hesitate to turn another episode right back on.

Our story tonight is called Street Sweepers, and it's a story about an early morning tending of the village lanes. It's also about hoppers and windrows, zinnia heads, and locust pods, clearing small floods near blocked-up drains, and a simple but important way to care for a place you love. Now, lights out, campers. Snuggle down into your sheets, Lights out, campers. Snuggle down into your sheets and let your whole body relax. The day is over. It's over.

Nothing left to do or attend to. Soften your jaw, your shoulders, your hands, and your mouth. Once more, breathe in and let it out. Good. Street sweepers. There was certainly a time in my life when I didn't find much pleasure in being the first one up. When my body just required too much rest to rise before the sun. Those days still hold their own allure, being able to sleep into the late morning, waking feeling so replete and relaxed, then able to stay up late, to have adventures that didn't start until long after the sun went down. Maybe I am romanticizing those times now. But no, so is this. So is being alone on the street at dawn, as the sky just begins to shade lighter by a

degree at a time. The air is so fresh and clean. It feels like the molecules have just come off the production line. them in, breathing them out, knowing a moment of true excitement for being alive and awake, just where I was. Then began to sort through my brushes and rakes, outfitting my sweeper for the morning's work. There is more than one of us in the village, a whole crew in fact. But our sweepers are stored all across the town. So I was on my own as I climbed aboard. She started right up, and I steered her out of her garage and onto the street.

Each neighborhood gets to name their own sweeper, and this has led to a friendly rivalry. Each set of streets looking for the best name. Each set of streets looking for the best name. The cleaner by the park was called A Broom with a View. Grime and punishment worked through downtown. West of the village by the cemetery, the grim sweeper cleaned up. And my own avenues were tended by sweet dreams, a nod to my own tendency to be the first one at work, quietly cleaning while the houses around me slept. I rode close to the curb, watching the bristles of the gutter broom rotating and clearing away debris. This time of year we were cleaning up linden

blossoms and locust pods. There was still a bit of cottonwood fluff, plenty of grass clippings and whirly birds. I could see marigold heads and zinnia leaves that had blown from someone's yard. It was all swept into the main broom, the rotating bristles that lived in the belly of sweet dreams. They in turn swept the windrow into the hopper. Behind me a fine mist was spraying out onto the pavement to keep dust down until the next cleaning. It was a very satisfying experience to roll slowly down the street and see the clutter in front of me, then to turn in my seat and see the clean, damp road behind. The scope of work for a street sweeper depended very much on the season. And while you'd not likely be surprised to hear

that autumn is a very busy time of year for us, there are moments from spring through summer that rival it. When the cottonwood flies at the end of May, the sweepers shake their heads at the snow drifts of sticky fluff piled along the curbs. We sighed and clucked our tongues in July, when the heat led maples and lindens to drip sap onto the street, turning every loose leaf gummy, clogging up our bristles, and don't even get me started on parades. Heavy end-of-the-season storms clogged drains with twigs and mud, mud. Though, and I think I wasn't alone in this, coming across a small flood at a gutter and raking out the debris till the water began to spin and spiral and empty through the spillway was actually something I looked forward to. Sometimes a homeowner would wave me down,

point toward a blocked up drain on a side street, point toward a blocked up drain on a side street. And a small crowd would gather till I cleared it out. They'd clap as it drained, and I'd stop to take a bow. I turned down another street, continuing to sweep away dust and dirt. I noticed a gray cat in a window watching me as I inched past. I raised a hand to wave to her, but she blinked in a slow way that felt like a returned greeting. In another house, I saw windows being pushed open on the ground floor. A front door pulled back to let the breeze in. The village was starting to come to life. So far, I hadn't seen a stretch of road that needed more than one pass until I rounded and saw the cement speckled with nickel-sized purple stains. I paused, sweep dreams, then climbed down. The arch enemy of the street sweeper had arrived. Mulberries.

I circled the stained section of concrete, eyeing the mess, and taking out my handkerchief to wipe my glasses. Out came my hose. I started by washing down the curb and pavement with a bit of cleaner. Then I selected the right size hand broom and got to scrubbing. The next few weeks would see me doing the same here day after day. day after day. But I wouldn't be bowed by the persistence of the berries. I climbed aboard and started sweet dreams back up. We rolled over the sudsy mess slowly, and I looked behind us to see that we'd made good progress. At the corner I turned and made a second pass. The street was nearly stain free now. But still, I stopped to rinse the spot with my hose one more time to flush the last bits of soap and seeds down the sewer.

I liked a job well done, a job that was completed even if it took a bit of extra time and energy. It was a point of pride to me that the streets in my territory were well tended and cared for. It was probably something that people didn't really notice. They'd only be likely to notice the mess, not the lack of it. But that was okay with me.

I was happy to work in the background and give the village a sense of order and being well kept. I thought it lent itself to the overall sense of this place, just as a good place to be. That was enough. I rehung the hoseistles of her brushes, emptied her hopper, and traffic was just beginning to pick up. I gave my sweeper a pat on the hood. Those mulberries would be back tomorrow, but so would we. Street sweepers.

There was certainly a time in my life when I didn't find much pleasure in being the first one up. When my body just required too Being able to sleep up late to have adventures that didn't start until long after the sun went down. Maybe I am romanticizing those times now. But no, they were romantic. And so is this. So is being alone on the street at dawn, as the sky just begins to shade lighter by a degree at a time. The air is so fresh and clean. It feels like the molecules have just come I stood for a few moments, breathing them in, breathing them out, knowing a moment of for being alive and awake just where I was. Then began to sort through my brushes and rakes, outfitting my sweeper for the morning's work.

sitting my sweeper for the morning's work. There is more than one of us in the village, a whole crew in fact, but our sweepers are shored all onto the street. Each neighborhood gets to name their own sweeper. And this has led to a friendly rivalry. Each set of streets looking through downtown, west of the village by the sweeper cleaned up, and my own avenues were tended by sweep dreams, a nod to my tendency to be the first one at work, quietly clearing while the houses around me slept. I rode close to the curb watching the bristles of a gutter broom rotating and clearing away debris. This time of year we were cleaning up linden blossoms and locust pods. of cottonwood fluff and plenty of grass clippings and whirlybirds. I could see marigold heads had blown from someone's yard. It was all swept into the windrow into the hopper. Behind me, a fine mist was spraying out onto the pavement to keep dust down until the next cleaning.

It was a very satisfying experience to roll slowly down the street and see the clutter in front of me, then to turn in my seat and see the clean, damp road behind. The scope of work for a street sweeper depended very much on the season. And while you're not likely to be surprised to hear that autumn is a very busy time of year for us, there are moments in the spring and summer that rival it. summer that rival it. When the cottonwood flies at the end of May, the sweepers shake their heads at the snowdrifts of sticky fluff piled along the curbs. We sighed and clicked our tongues in July, when the heat led maples and lindens to drip sap into the street, turning every loose leaf gummy,

clogging up our bristles. And don't even get me started on parades. Heavy end of the season storms, clogged drains with twigs and mud. Though, and I think I wasn't alone in this, coming across a small flood at a gutter, and raking out the debris till the water began to spin and spiral and empty through the spillway and empty through the spillway was actually something I looked forward to. Sometimes a homeowner would wave me down, point toward a blocked up drain on a side street. And a small crowd would gather till I cleared it out. They'd clap as it drained

and I'd stop to take a bow. I turned down another street, continuing to sweep away dust and dirt. I noticed a gray cat in a window watching me as I inched past. I raised a hand to wave to her, and that felt like a returned greeting. In another house, I saw windows being pushed open on the ground floor. A front door pulled back to let the breeze in. The village was starting to come to life. So far, I hadn't seen a stretch of road that needed more than one pass until I rounded the curve by the corner store and saw the cement speckled with nickel-sized purple stains. I paused, sweep dreams, then turned her key to off and climbed down. The arch enemy of the street sweeper had arrived.

Mulberries. had arrived. Mulberries. I circled the stained section of concrete, eyeing the mess and taking out my handkerchief to wipe my glasses. Out came my hose. I started by washing down the curb and pavement with a bit of cleaner. Then selected the right size hand broom

and got to scrubbing. The next few weeks would see me doing the same here, day after day. But I wouldn't be bowed by the persistence of the berries. I too could be persistent. After I scrubbed and rehung my broom, I climbed aboard and started sweep dreams back up. We rolled over the sudsy mess slowly. I looked behind us to see that we'd made good progress. At the corner I turned and made a second pass. The street was nearly But I still stopped to rinse the spot with my hose one more time, to flush the last bits of soap and seeds down the sewer. I liked a job well done, a job that was completed, even if it took a bit of pride to me that the streets in my territory were well tended and cared for.

It was probably something that people didn't really notice. They'd only be likely to notice the mess, not the lack of it. But that was okay with me. I was happy to work in the background and give the village a sense of order and being well-kept. I thought it lent itself to the overall sense of this place as a good place to be. And that was enough. I re-hung the hose and kept on with my work. When I got sweet dreams back to her garage, I cleaned the bristles of her brushes, emptied her hopper, and refilled her tanks for tomorrow.

Outside, the sun was rising above the horizon, and traffic was just beginning to pick up. I gave my sweeper a pat on the hood. Those mulberries would be back tomorrow, but so would we. Sweet dreams.