Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Summer Afternoons

Episode Date: July 1, 2024

Our story tonight is called Summer Afternoons, and it’s a story about the possibilities of a special part of the day. It’s also about an empty ginger ale bottle filled with windflowers, a walk by the railroad tracks, date bars, and park benches, and elevating the everyday.  We give to a different charity each week, and this week, we are giving to A Wider Circle, whose purpose is to end poverty for one individual and one family after another.  Save over $100 on Kathryn’s hand-selected wind-down favorites with the Nothing Much Happens Wind-Down Box. A collection of products from our amazing partners: Eversio Wellness: Chill Now Vellabox: Lavender Silk Candle Alice Mushrooms: Nightcap NutraChamps: Tart Cherry Gummies A Brighter Year: Mini Coloring Book NuStrips: Sleep Strips Woolzies: Lavender Roll-On. Subscribe for ad-free, bonus, and extra-long episodes now, as well as ad-free and early episodes of Stories from the Village of Nothing Much! Search for the NMH Premium channel on Apple Podcast or follow the link belownothingmuchhappens.com/premium-subscription.  Listen to our new show, Stories from the Village of Nothing Much, on your favoritepodcast app.  Join us tomorrow morning for a meditation at firstthispodcast.com.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 write and read everything you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. We give to a different charity each week. And this week we are giving to a wider circle whose purpose is to end poverty for one individual and one family after another.

Learn more about them in our show notes. For more Nothing Much in your life, we invite you to listen to our daytime show called Stories from the Village of Nothing Much, where you have a shot at actually hearing the story. It has lovely soundscapes, and I've been dropping some behind-the-scenes details on your favorite characters and storylines there. You can subscribe to our premium feeds for bonus episodes if nothing much happens. Today, the July bonus comes out. It's called Golden Hour, and I love that story. Find more about all of it, as well as our sleepy time wind-down boxes in our show notes. Now, this is a tested and true technique for falling asleep and returning to sleep if you wake in the night.

It works by occupying your mind just enough to keep it from wandering, giving it a job to do so that it stays put. And the job is just to listen. The story is simple and calm, and there's nothing to keep track of. I'll tell it twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. Don't hesitate to turn it back on if you wake later and, go back to sleep more quickly.

So be patient if you're new to this. Our story tonight is called Summer Afternoons. And it's a story about the possibilities of a special part of the day. It's also about an empty ginger ale bottle filled with wildflowers, a walk by the railroad tracks, date bars and park benches, and elevating the everyday. Now, snuggle in, my friend. The day is done, and all is well. Nothing more is needed from you. Take a deep, slow breath in through your nose and let it out through the mouth.

Do it one more time. Fill up and let it go. Good. Summer afternoons. When I was a teenager, I loved the idea of afternoons. I even liked the word. It sounded languorous and unhurried.

A nice, long word with plenty of possibility in it. Thinking back on it now, it was part of a phase I'd been going through of romanticism. I wore dresses with long, floaty skirts and read poetry on park benches and daydreamed about how an ordinary afternoon could turn into an adventure. In all honesty, I've never quite left that phase behind.

I still romanticize many moments of my day, still wander through dreamy possibilities in my mind, and still love the idea of afternoons. Not being an early riser, mornings feel distinctly less inviting to me. But an afternoon implies some space. A few hours after the thickest slice of the day, when you might stop into a cafe for an iced coffee

or take a walk to clear your head? And what if, on that walk, you found a key with a number scratched into it? The start of a mystery that led you to a safety deposit box full of old newspaper clippings, the subject of which you matched to a headstone in the old cemetery. I laughed out loud at that silly, story-spinning part of my brain, the part that loved afternoons and what-ifs, as I took my own slow, ambling walk beside the railroad tracks. The day was warm, but there was a steady, strong breeze blowing that made even being

in the full sun comfortable. I'd been helping out at the bakery today, as I did a few days a week. There early enough to rotate the trays of bagels and muffins in and out of the oven, to glaze donuts and slice sandwich bread and pack the strawberry rhubarb pies into their white boxes, tied with string, to see them through the morning rush and a bit beyond. Then, sometime after one or two, as the tables emptied out,

as sold-out items were written in chalk on our 86 board, I'd be done. The baker always offered to make me and anyone else who was hungry a sandwich at the end of our shifts. And honestly, I've never turned her down. She'd been experimenting with fresh-baked pita bread lately. Soft and a little chewy.

Cooked quickly inside a very hot oven. And today, she slit a bunch of them open and filled the pockets inside with a thin sliced veggie slaw, carrots, broccoli stems, cabbage and red onions, all coated with green goddess dressing. It was tangy and creamy, and she topped it with sliced avocado and flaky salt.

Beside it, she'd set out date bar offcuts, the scraps that we trimmed away when we were dividing them up into perfect squares. With my plate in hand, I'd pulled up a chair beside another of my fellow helpers at the small table outside the back door of the bakery. And we'd both and we both let out a deep sigh, that sigh of work well done and a bit of time to recharge. I'd gotten a ginger ale out of the fridge, and it sweated in the warm air of the alley.

In between bites, he asked me, what are you going to do with the rest of the afternoon? That was the moment this whole discourse on afternoons started. I'd smiled at the memory of those poetry books and park benches. About to take a sip of my ginger ale when the spice of it had made me cough a bit. I sat my bottle down, and he gently patted me on the back as I promised I wasn't choking. I dabbed under my eyes, which had brimmed when the ginger got the better of me, telling him how I loved that word. And while I had no firm plans, I'd definitely get up to something. He chuckled at my recounting of my twirly skirts and told me his teenage phase had been equally dramatic,

but featured more eyeliner and box-dyed black hair. I agreed that we'd been conveying something similar back in those days, just with different expressions. When my sandwich was finished and the plate bust away, I grabbed my ginger ale and a large piece of the date bar offcuts, waved goodbye to him, and made my way down the alley. That's when I'd wound through town

toward the end of Main Street to where the depot sat a block back. I liked to walk beside the railroad tracks, talk about romantic. What if I hopped aboard a train headed due south of here and rode it for a day?

Got off in some place where no one knew who I was, and walked the streets of their downtown. What if there was a help-wanted sign in the window of their bakery, and hot pita coming out of their oven when I walked in? Would it mean I was meant to stay? I swallowed the last bite of my date bar and washed it down with the last sip from my bottle. There was a small path through the woods, away from the tracks. I knew it well. I followed it down past that tree with the collection of pretty stones around its roots. I'd left perfect pine cones and the best giant red oak leaves there in the autumn. I picked a few stems of orange butterfly weed

and purple chicory as I went, feeding the stalks into my empty soda bottle. When I got home, I'd just add a bit of water and have flowers for the kitchen table. The path wove behind some old houses, and through the leaves and branches, I heard a screen door bang shut. I stood still, listening to see if someone was coming out or going in. I was on public land, far enough from their backyards not to disturb anyone, but still, I didn't want to startle or be startled.

There was a rustling and footfalls a dozen yards in front of me. And I wondered how this person was spending their afternoon. Were they out here to pick the huckleberries that were ripe and ready through the woods? Were they on their way to a secret assignation, avoiding the streets and sidewalks so as to not be spotted? That's when I heard the door bang again and a young voice call Clover, walkies and from the spot I'd heard the rustling

a sudden silence and then a quick ruckus as Clover, who through the foliage I could just see, was a golden retriever with a blue collar, spun on the spot and raced back to his house. As I walked on, I heard the screen door bang again, and I imagined Clover and his boy reaching for the leash from a hook in the hall. A walk with your dog, a sandwich with a friend, a daydream along the railroad tracks.

They weren't the wildest adventures I'd ever imagined. But they left me with a deep warmth and contentment for my life right now. And who knew what I'd get up to tomorrow? Summer afternoons When I was a teenager, I loved the idea of afternoons. I even liked the word. It sounded languorous and unhurried, a nice long word with plenty of possibility in it. on it now, it was part of a phase I'd been going through, of romanticism. I wore dresses with long, floaty skirts, and read poetry on park benches, and daydreamed about how an ordinary afternoon could turn into an adventure.

In all honesty, I never quite left that phase behind. I still romanticize many moments of my day, still wander through dreamy possibilities in my mind, and still love the idea of afternoons. Not being an early riser, mornings feel

distinctly uninviting. But an afternoon implies some space. A few hours after the thickest slice of the day, when you might stop into a cafe for an iced coffee, or take a walk to clear your head. And what if, on that walk, you found a key with a number scratched into it, the start of a mystery

that led to a safety deposit box full of old newspaper clippings, the subject of which he matched with a headstone in the old cemetery. I laughed out loud at that silly, story-spinning part of my brain, the part that loved afternoons and what-ifs, as I took my own slow, ambling walk beside the railroad tracks. The day was warm, but there was a steady, strong breeze that made even being in full sun comfortable. I'd been helping out at the bakery today, as I did a few days a week. There early enough to rotate the trays of bagels and muffins in and out of the oven,

to glaze doughnuts and slice sandwich bread and pack the strawberry rhubarb pies into their white boxes dyed with string, to see them through the morning rush and a bit beyond. Then, sometime after one or two, as the tables emptied out, as sold out items were written in chalk on our 86 board, I'd be done. The baker always offered to make me and anyone else who was hungry a sandwich at the end of our shifts.

And honestly, I've never turned her down. She'd been experimenting with fresh-baked pita bread lately, soft and a little chewy, cooked quickly inside a very hot oven. And today, she slit a bunch of them open and filled the pockets inside with a thin, sliced veggie slaw. Carrots, broccoli stems, cabbage, and red onions, all coated with green goddess dressing. It was tangy and creamy,

and she topped it with sliced avocado and flaky salt. Beside it, she'd set out date-bar offcuts, the scraps that we trimmed away when we were dividing them up into perfect squares. With my plate in hand, I'd pulled up a chair beside another of my fellow helpers at the small table outside the back door of the bakery, and we'd both let out a the fridge, and it sweated in the warm air of the alley. In between bites, he asked me, What are you going to do with the rest of the afternoon?

That was the moment this whole discourse on afternoons started. I'd smiled as the memory of those poetry books and park benches came back to me. About to take a sip of ginger ale when the spice of it made me cough a bit. I set my bottle down, and he gently patted me on the back, as I promised I wasn't choking. I dabbed under my eyes, which had brimmed when the ginger got the better of me, telling him how I loved that word, afternoon.

And while I had no firm plans, I'd definitely get up to something. He chuckled at my recounting of my twirly skirts and told me his teenage phase had been equally dramatic, but featured more eyeliner and box-dyed black hair. I agreed that we'd been conveying something similar back in those days, just with different expressions. When my sandwich was finished and the plate bust away, I grabbed my ginger ale and a large piece of the date bar off-cut, waved goodbye to him and made my way down the alley. That's when I'd wound through town, toward the end of Main Street, to where the depot sat a block back. I like to walk beside the railroad tracks, talk about romantic.

What if I hopped aboard a train headed due south of here and rode it for a day, got off in some place where no one knew who I was, and walked the streets of their downtown. What if there was a help wanted sign in the window of their bakery and hot pita coming out of their oven when I walked in. Would it mean I was meant to stay? I swallowed the last bite of my date bar and washed it down with the last sip from my bottle. There was a small path through the woods, away from the tracks. I knew it well. I followed it down past the tree with the collection of pretty stones around its roots. I'd left perfect pine cones and the best giant red oak leaves there in the autumn. I picked a few stems of orange butterfly weed and purple chicory as I went, feeding the stalks into my empty soda bottle. When I got home, I'd just add a bit of water, and I'd have flowers for the kitchen

table. The path wove behind some old houses, and through the leaves and branches I heard a screen door bang shut. I stood still, listening, to see if someone was coming out or going in. I was on public land, far enough from their backyards not to disturb I didn't want to startle, nor be startled. There was a rustling and footfalls a dozen yards in front of me, and I wondered how this person was spending their afternoon. Were they out here to pick the huckleberries that were ripe and ready through the woods?

Were they on their way to a secret assignation, but avoiding the streets and sidewalks so as to not be spotted. That's when I heard the door bang again and a young voice call. Clover, walkies, and from the spot I'd heard the rustling, a sudden silence, and then a quick ruckus, as clover, who through the foliage I could just see, was a golden retriever with a blue collar, spun on the spot and raced back to his house. As I walked on and heard the screen door bang again,

I imagined Clover and his boy reaching for the leash from a hook in the hall. A walk with your dog. A sandwich with a friend, a daydream along the railroad tracks. They weren't the wildest adventures I'd ever imagined, but they left me with a deep warmth and contentment for my life right now. And who knew what I'd get up to tomorrow?

Sweet dreams.