Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - The Evening of the 4th (Encore)

Episode Date: July 2, 2026

Originally aired July 7, 2025 (Season 16, Episode 2) Our story tonight is called The Evening of the 4th, and it’s a story about a day-long event that ends with a picnic and a concert on the grass. It’s also about hand pies and potato salad, a busy kitchen full of aproned volunteers and the sound of the instruments tuning up on the patio. Thyme and lemon zest, and the satisfaction of sharing good times with your neighbors. Subscribe to our ⁠Premium channel⁠. The first month is on us.💙 ⁠⁠⁠Pre-register for the Village of Nothing Much app⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠. Use code VILLAGE-FOUNDER for 25% off for life. Pre-order Kathryn’s new book ⁠⁠⁠⁠On the Street Where You Live⁠⁠⁠⁠. ⁠⁠⁠⁠NMH merch, autographed books, and more⁠⁠⁠⁠ Listen to our daytime show ⁠⁠⁠⁠Stories from the Village of Nothing Much⁠⁠⁠⁠ ⁠⁠⁠⁠Sit Meditation with Kathryn⁠⁠⁠⁠ ⁠⁠⁠⁠Pay it forward subscription⁠⁠⁠⁠ Follow us on ⁠⁠⁠⁠Instagram⁠⁠⁠⁠ Visit ⁠⁠⁠⁠Nothing Much Happens⁠⁠⁠⁠ for more Village fun. Spend some time at The Inn with this playlist! Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Get more, nothing much happens with bonus episodes, extra long stories, and ad-free listening, all while supporting the show you love. Subscribe now. If you're looking for something a little more lively and outspoken, Tukes takes might be right up your alley. LeKendra Tukes shares bold, unfiltered takes on reality TV and real life with a mix of humor and honesty that's really engaging. Find Tukes takes wherever you listen. Welcome to bedtime stories for everyone, in which nothing much happens. You feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Catherine Nikolai. I write and read all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. Before we begin, one quick note, We're just one week away from launching the Nothing Much Happens app, and I couldn't be more excited.

It's a cozy little corner of the world where you'll find our complete library of stories and meditations, my yoga classes, creative courses, live events, delightful surprises, and a warm community already thousands strong built around rest, creativity, and kindness. If you join before launch, you'll save 20% off with our founder's pricing. we'd love to welcome you to the village. Visit nothing much happens.com to learn more. Now, busy minds need a place to rest and a way to become less busy.

That's what I have for you. A soft, positive technique for settling your thoughts and sending you to sleep. As this is a form of brain training, come with some patience if you are new to it. and know that the response will become stronger over time. All you need to do is listen.

I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake later in the night, don't hesitate to restart the episode. Our story tonight is called the Evening of the Fourth, and it's a story about a day-long event that ends with a picnic and a concert on the grass. It's also about hand pies and potato salad,

a busy kitchen full of apron volunteers, the sound of instruments tuning up on the patio, time in lemon zest, and the satisfaction of sharing good times with your neighbors. Lights out, y'all. Let it sink in, that the day is over. It was what it was. And now we are here. Nothing left to do or keep track of. Nothing needed from you. You have done enough. Take a deep breath in through your nose. Let it out your mouth.

Nice. One more. Breathe in. And out. Good. The evening of the fourth. From inside the kitchens. I could hear the band tuning up, our small but beloved village orchestra, a scrappy group of all ages musicians with just enough instruments to qualify, was set up on the stone patio. I could hear the cello's voice. As it fell into tune beside the French horn and clarinet, I leaned closer to the window. inching it open a bit more and heard the occasional scratch of a chair leg

sliding over the stone. A music stand pulled closer and the murmur of voices as they prepared to play. The day had taken quite a bit of planning, but everything seemed to be falling into place. We were here at the village museum, this great, old house, with acres of lawns and gardens, and a reflecting pond full of coy, all of which were now being toured and enjoyed by what seemed to be nearly every one of the village residents. There had been an arts and crafts fair earlier in the day, with booths and stands, set up in the carriage house. There was face painting for the kids, and some of us adults. I myself had a few butterflies, fluttering across my cheek, and lemonade and snacks, around nearly

every corner. The day had been well attended, but the crowd grew even bigger for this evening's concert on the lawn and picnic. I'd been here since the morning, baking and helping with the kitchen duties, and what fun it was to work. And this grand old houses, restored kitchens, there was a huge open hearth, beautiful but unlit in today's heat, spacious marble-topped counters to work on, gleaming, copper pans hanging from hooks and open shelves with beautiful ceramic mixing bowls and porcelain platters. A baker's dream. My kitchen was turning out a lot of food today. Cookies and hand pies for the snack tables, but also entire packed picnic baskets for tonight's dinner.

My partner in Dineing was my good friend chef, who was usually cooking up magical meals at the inn on the lake. We'd worked together a few summers back on a wedding. And ever since then, we'd been finding new culinary adventures to Sharon. They oversaw the savories. I superintended the sweets and bake goods, and we'd each brought a few volunteers to help. The innkeeper herself had been assigned about a hundred pounds of potatoes to peel

for chef's potato salad, and had been a very good sport about it. I'd supplied her with a couple of lemon tarts to keep her strength up. We'd made chickpea salad sand, on soft chibata, topped with dressed arugula and toasted sesame seeds, along with the potato salad, which was the traditional type, with pickles and onion. There was pasta salad, full of ripe cherry tomatoes and basil, and an herbie olive oil dressing.

I'd made a new recipe. corn muffins flavored with lemon zest and thyme. They were just a tad sweet and went perfectly with the rest of the meal. They could even serve as dessert. When spread with the whipped maple cream, I'd packed into jam jars. Coolers outside were stocked with ice cream bars we'd made ahead. Coconut and raspberry. swirled together and dipped in dark chocolate

to send everyone home with a sweet taste in their mouths. There had been moments when we'd scrambled. There always are in a kitchen during a big event. But the mood had stayed sunny, even when we were all working like mad. Now as the band began to play, I shooed the others out to enjoy themselves, to eat and share in the entertainment.

I wiped down a stretch of marble and rinsed my cloth under the tap. We'd have a good bit of cleaning still to do, but had all agreed to come back tomorrow to button everything up. I hung the cloth on a hook and dimmed the lights. noticing the colors of the sunset through the tall windows. I didn't take my apron off, not yet. I just needed to go out onto the lawn and see for myself that folks were enjoying their meals.

That no one needed anything further, that we hadn't forgotten anything. The halls of the great house were quiet, and dim. They held the energy of the moment after the busyness. The lull between preparation and cleanup. It felt soft and cool. I passed the solarium, the twinkle lights glowing among the leafy trees and bright peddled flowers. Through open French doors from the drawing room, I stepped out onto the patio. I stood for a moment, my hands on my hips, scanning across the sloping lawn, to take in the clumps of visitors, sitting on blankets or benches, chewing slowly as they

listen to the music. I recognized the composition. It was an original, composed by the band teacher at the high school for a parade a few years back. It had since become a sort of village theme. It was played on the organ at baseball games. I'd heard it over the speakers at the finish line of the village 5K, and a jangly version of it could be heard omitting from ice cream trucks as they slowly rolled through town streets, I couldn't help the beaming proud smile that spread over my face. I was proud of this day

on the event we'd worked so hard to put on and I was proud to be part of this little village. That played so well together. I started to stride through the crowd, bending down to say hello to friends and bakery customers that I recognized. I checked to see what people thought of the muffins, of the Chibata bread, the hand pies and tarts. I took compliments, even the ones meant for chef, graciously,

nodding my acknowledgement with a cheeky smile. I saw an arm waving at me from a bowing. blanket on the edge of the yard and ambled over to find chef unpacking a very full basket. Come on, they said, family meal. I chuckled. Yes, it was our turn to eat. I finally untied my apron and lifted it off my neck. I kicked off my shoes and settled down on the blanket beside them. They fixed me a plate and handed it over, and we found paper cups to fill with lemonade and toast each other. The food was delicious. The air was cool and full of sweet music, and the stars were just beginning to shine. The evening of the fourth, from inside the kitchens,

I could hear the band tuning up, our small but beloved, village orchestra, a scrappy group of all-age musicians, with just enough instruments to qualify. Was set up on the stone patio, I could hear the cello's voice as it fell into tune beside the French horn. and clarinet leaned closer to the window, minching it open a bit more, and heard the occasional scratch of a chair leg, sliding over the stone, a music stand pulled closer,

and the murmur of voices as they prepared to play. The day had taken quite a bit of planning, but everything seemed to be falling into place. We were at the village museum, a great old house with acres of lawns and gardens and a reflecting pond full of coy,

all of which were now being toured and enjoyed by what seemed to be nearly every one of the village residents. There had been an arts and crafts fair earlier in the day, with booths and stands set up in the carriage house. There was face painting for the kids,

and some of us adults. I myself had a few butterflies fluttering across my cheek and lemonade and snacks around nearly every corner. The day had been well attended, but the crowd grew even bigger for this evening's concert on the lawn and picnic. I'd been here since the morning.

Baking and helping with the kitchen duties. And what fun it was. To work in this grand old houses, restored kitchens. There was a huge open hearth, beautiful, but unlit in today's heat. spacious marble-topped counters to work on, gleaming copper pans, hanging from hooks and open shelves with beautiful ceramic mixing bowls and porcelain platters. A baker's dream. The kitchen was turning out a lot of food today.

Cookies and hand pies. for the snack tables, but also entire packed picnic baskets for tonight's dinner. My partner in dineing was my good friend chef, who usually was cooking up magical meals at the inn on the lake. we'd worked together a few summers back on a wedding. And ever since then, we'd been finding new culinary adventures to share in. They oversaw the savories. I superintended the sweets and baked goods,

and we'd each brought a few volunteers to help. The innkeeper herself had been assigned about a hundred pounds of potatoes to peel for chefs potato salad and had been a very good sport about it. I'd supplied her with a couple of lemon tarts to keep her strength up. We'd made chickpea salad sandwiches. on soft chibata, topped with dressed arugula and toasted sesame seeds, along with the potato salad, which was the traditional type, with pickles and onion. There was pasta salad, full of ripe cherry tomatoes and basil, and an herby olive oil dressing. I'd made a new recipe, corn muffins, flavored with lemon zest and thyme.

They were just a tad sweet and went perfectly with the rest of the meal. They could even serve as dessert when spread with the whipped maple cream. I'd packed into small jam jar. Coolers outside were stocked with ice cream bars that we'd made ahead. Coconut and raspberry swirled together and dipped in dark chocolate to send everyone home with a sweet taste in their mouths. There had been moments when we'd scrambled. There always are in kitchens during a big event. But the mood had stayed sunny, even when we were all working like mad.

Now, as the band began to play, I shooed the others out to enjoy themselves. to eat and share in the entertainment. I wiped down a stretch of marble and rinsed my cloth under the tap. We'd have a good bit of cleaning to do, but had all agreed to come back tomorrow to button everything up. I hung the cloth on a hook and dimmed the lights,

noticing the colors of the sunset. Through the tall windows, I didn't take my apron off. Not yet. I just needed to go out onto the lawn and see for myself that folks were enjoying their meals, that no one needed anything further,

that we hadn't forgotten anything, The halls of the great house were quiet and dim. They held the energy of the moment after the busyness, the lull between preparation and cleanup. It felt soft and cool. I passed the salarium, the twinkle lights, glowing among the leafy trees and bright peddled flowers. through open French doors from the drawing room.

I stepped out onto the patio. I stood for a moment, my hands on my hips, scanning across the sloping lawn to take in the clumps of visitors, sitting on blankets or benches, chewing slowly as they listen to the music. I recognize,

the composition. It was an original composed by the band teacher at the high school. For a parade, a few years back, it had since become a sort of village theme. It was played on the organ at baseball games. I'd heard it over the speakers at the finish line. of the village 5K, and a jangly version of it could be heard emitting from ice cream trucks as they slowly rolled through town. I couldn't help the beaming proud smile that spread over my face. I was proud of this day and the event that we'd worked so hard to put on. And I was proud to be part of this little village that played so well together. I started to stride through the crowd, bending down to say hello to friends and bakery customers that I recognized.

I checked to see what people thought of the muffins, of the chabada bread, the hand pies and tarts. I took compliments, even the ones meant for chef, graciously. Notting my acknowledgement with a cheeky smile. I saw an arm waving from a blanket on the edge of the yard, and ambled over to find chef, unpacking a very full basket. Come on, they said. Family meal.

I chuckled. Yes, it was our turn to eat. I finally untied my apron and lifted it off my neck. I kicked off my shoes and settled down beside them. They fixed me a plate and handed it over, and we found paper, cups to fill with lemonade and toast each other. The food was delicious. The air was cool and full of sweet music and the stars were just beginning to shine. Sweet dreams.