Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - The Village Races

Episode Date: July 15, 2024

Our story tonight is called The Village Races, and it’s a story about a group of runners setting out on a bright, sunny morning. It’s also about butterflies and bagels, lucky numbers and picnic blankets, and the joy of being a part of something you’re proud of. We give to a different charity each week, and this week, we are giving to Lasagna Love. Their mission is simple: feed families, spread kindness, and strengthen communities.    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 podcasts or follow the link below: nothingmuchhappens.com/premium-subscription. Listen to our new show, Stories from the Village of Nothing Much, on your favorite podcast 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 Katherine Nicolai. I create all the stories 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 Lasagna Love. Their mission is simple.

Feed families. Spread kindness. Strengthen communities. Thank you for listening and for sharing what we do with others. In the ever-changing and financially complex world that is podcasting, we strive to bring you content you can trust. Family-friendly, inclusive, and soothing stories that you can rely on. Rating and reviewing us helps. And subscribing to our premium feeds really helps.

We have bonus episodes and ad-free content there. Links to that and our other shows and our new wind-down subscription box are all in our show notes. Now, has this ever happened to you? You're reading in bed, maybe even in a really uncomfortable position, but you can't keep your eyes open. The book is falling in your face. Finally, you give up, turn off the light, get as comfortable as you can, and then you can't sleep? What happens in those few moments is that your brain lost its job and went from task-positive mode back to the rambling default mode. And it's hard to sleep there. So this story is just a small, soft task for your brain.

A place to keep it busy while you sneak off to sleep. 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 and you feel that ramble mode re-engage, it is particularly pernicious in the middle of the night because your amygdala is on, but your prefrontal cortex isn't. So stuff seems disproportionately scary.

Just turn a story right back on. I promise, all will be well. You'll go right back to sleep. Our story tonight is called The Village Races, and it's a story about a group of runners setting out on a bright, sunny morning. It's also about butterflies and bagels, lucky numbers and picnic blankets, and the joy of being a part of something you're proud of. now it's time lights out campers cozy in get the right pillow in the right spot and pull your blanket up over your shoulder you have done enough for today. Nothing remains but rest.

Draw a deep, slow breath in through the nose. And sigh it out. Nice. Again, fill up. And let it go. Good. The village races. I wasn't running this year, but I was still excited to wake up today one of the water stations on the route. The day before, I'd worked the check-in desk, a card table set up behind the high school where runners could sign in

and get their bib and t-shirt. I and a few others checked names off the list on clipboards and rifled through boxes set out in the open hatchback of someone's car to match names with numbers. Some of the runners were bold and excited, already wearing their medals from prior years

and making jokes with friends in line. Others were nervous, asking questions about where to park, what to bring, and letting us know that this was their first race. One young man, tapping his fingers on his bib packet and biting one lip, asked if I'd run the race before. I told him I had, but that the first year I'd walked most of it and still had a lot of fun. He let out a quiet sigh, saying he was worried he'd be walking too. And I told him that was just fine and actually could be a fun way to slow down and enjoy the scenery. And that folks clapped for everyone who made it over the finish line. Even if they did that in the golf cart, we kept ready for anyone who might need it.

He nodded, I think a little relieved, and looked down at his bib. His face broke open in a wide smile, and he looked back up at me. Oh my gosh, 54. That's my lucky number. Oh, that settles it, I said, matching his smile. You're going to have a great race.

After the bibs were handed out, we piled into the car and drove the route, stopping to put out signs showing where to turn. At one corner, a butterfly bush was waving in the breeze, and when I set the prongs of the metal sign into the grass and stepped my foot onto its crossbar to drive it securely in. I looked over and spotted an orange and black butterfly,

but not a monarch. I went into slow motion, pressing my foot into the crossbar till I felt the sign stabilize in my hands and moving as slowly as I could to get a closer look. There are many butterflies that share these colors besides monarchs. The Viceroy, the Compton tortoiseshell, the tawny emperor, and the silvery checkerspot. But I was almost certain that what I was looking at now was, yes, it It was an exceedingly elegant flutterby, with a zigzag of black and other dots and markings over its golden wings, and I hadn't seen one in ages. I was a lifelong lepidopterist, the admiring kind, not the collecting kind. And when I was lucky enough to spot a beauty like this, I tried my best just to be very observant, to watch how the forewing dipped into its inner angle

and flared out into the hind wing, where it landed and how long it stayed. My friends in the car were watching me with curiosity and luckily didn't tap the horn to get me moving. Instead, a window rolled down, and a head poked out to say, in a low voice, What's up, Buttercup? I giggled, and the butterfly drifted away onto its next adventure. I climbed back into the car to recount what I'd seen.

We agreed it was a good omen. We hoped it meant that the race day weather would be clear and not too hot, that all our runners would cross the finish line happy and with no turned ankles. And when I woke today, it seemed so far that our predictions had been right on. Clear blue skies looked down on the village

as I took up my position at the water station. We filled paper cups, some with water, some with sports drink and laid them out in long rows at the edge of our table and set up a trash barrel a few yards further down the route we had a few handmade signs

that we waved to cheer folks on as they went by. Even in our small village, most of the people who would pass by would be complete strangers. But we would cheer them on with the same joy and pride that we'd show to our friends and neighbors. We checked our watches and just as they showed 9 a.m. we heard horns honking

and the big bell in the tower at City Hall tol out. The race was starting. It began at the high school, and I thought of that young man I'd met the day before, bouncing up and down on his toes, pulling energy up into his limbs as he waited his turn to set off in the crowd. I'd keep an eye out for him. From the high school, the crowd would make its way through the neighborhoods north of town, take a turn at the library, and come down through the park. We were right there at the halfway mark with our drinks and signs.

They'd go around the pond and come into town on Main Street. The roads were all closed off for them, and even though I couldn't see from where we were, I knew the whole route was lined with more folks with signs and bells, clapping and calling for the runners. They would wind through downtown, crossing it to the depot,

coming down a few blocks and crossing it again to reach the finish line at the farmer's market, where we had booths set up to serve bagels from the bakery and fresh juice from the cafe. A stage had been erected, and a band was waiting to play for the crowd. After the race, runners and their families would stretch out on picnic blankets and listen and eat and relax together.

I heard a shout from another volunteer a block away. The first runners were turning the corner at the library and headed toward us. We jumped and cheered. From the first time I'd volunteered for the village races, I'd been overcome by how much joy I'd felt for my little town and our residence. I'd expected to have a good time, to feel good, about giving a bit of my time to help make the day possible. But I hadn't expected how full of pride I'd be, how in love I'd fallen with the people racing by.

Since then, I'd been a regular at not just the races, but the autumn festival, the December candle walk, and the spring park cleanup. The trickle of early runners gave way to a crowd, and I edged out to them with cups of water balanced on my open palm

so they could easily snatch them up without slowing down too much. We called out that they were at the halfway mark and doing great. I spotted the young man I'd met the day before, and as he passed, I called out to him, keep going, 54. He pumped a fist into the air.

And I smiled, thinking of the lucky number and the great spangled fritillary on the butterfly bush and the bright blue skies. I felt so lucky to be a part of it all, even if I wasn't running today. I felt like I had won. The Village Races I wasn't running this year, but I was still excited to wake up today and think about those shining, accomplished faces

that would be crossing the finish line downtown in a few hours. And though I wouldn't be lacing up my own shoes, I was signed up to help out at one of the water stations on the route. The day before, I'd worked the check-in desk, a card table set up behind the high school, where runners could sign in and get their bib and t-shirt. I, and a few others, checked names off the lists on clipboards and rifled through boxes set out in the open hatchback of someone's car to match names with numbers. Some of the runners were bold and excited, already wearing their medals from prior years and making jokes with friends in line. Others were nervous, asking questions about where to park,

what to bring, letting us know this was their first race. One young man tapping his fingers on his bib packet and biting one lip asked if I'd run the race before I told him I had

but that the first year I'd walked most of it and still had a lot of fun. He let out a quiet sigh, saying he was worried he'd be walking too. And I told him that was just fine, and that it could actually be a fun way to slow down and enjoy the scenery, and that folks clapped for everyone who made it over the finish line, even if they did that in the golf cart, we kept ready for anyone who might need it. He nodded, I think, a little relieved, and looked down at his bib. His face broke open in a wide smile, and he looked back up at me.

Oh my gosh, 54. That's my lucky number. Oh, that settles it, I said, matching his smile. You're going to have a great race. After the bibs were handed out, we piled into the car and drove the route, stopping to put out signs showing where to turn. At one corner, a butterfly bush was waving in the breeze and when I set the prongs of the metal sign in the grass and stepped my foot onto its crossbar to drive it securely in, I looked over and spotted an orange and black butterfly,

but not a monarch. I went into slow motion, pressing my foot into the crossbar till I felt the sign stabilize in my hands and moving as slowly as I could to get a closer look. There are many butterflies that share these colors besides monarchs. The Viceroy, the Compton tortoiseshell,

the tawny emperor, and the silvery checker spot but I was almost certain that what I was looking at now was yes it was a great

spangled fritillary it was an exceedingly elegant flutterby with a zigzag of black and other dots and markings over its golden wings, and I hadn't seen one in ages. I was a lifelong lepidopterist, the admiring kind, not the collecting kind. And when I was lucky enough to spot a beauty like this, I tried my best just to be very observant, to watch how the forewing dipped into its inner angle and flared out into its hind wing, where it landed and how long it stayed. My friends in the car were watching me with curiosity and luckily didn't tap the horn to get me moving. Instead, a window rolled down,

and I had poked out to say in a low voice, What's up, Buttercup? I giggled, and the butterfly drifted away onto its next adventure. I climbed back into the car to recount what I'd seen. We agreed it was a good omen. We hoped it meant that the race day weather would be clear and not too hot, that all our runners would cross the finish line happy and with no turned ankles. And when I woke today,

it seemed, so far, that our predictions had been right on. Clear blue skies looked down on the village as I took up my position at the water station. We filled paper cups, some with water, some with sports drink,

and laid them out in long rows at the edge of our table, and set up a trash barrel a few yards further down the route. We had handmade signs that we'd wave to cheer folks on as they went by. Even in our small village, most of the people who would pass us would be complete strangers. But we would cheer them with the same joy and pride we'd show to our friends and neighbors. We checked our watches,

and just as they showed 9 a.m., we heard horns honking and the big bell in the tower at City Hall tol out. The race was starting. It began at the high school, and I thought of that young man I'd met the day before,

bouncing up and down on his toes, pulling energy up his limbs as he waited his turn to set off in the crowd. I'd keep an eye out for him. From the high school, the crowd would make its way through the neighborhoods north of town, take a turn at the library, come down through the park. We were right there at the halfway mark with our drinks and signs.

They'd go around the pond and come into town on Main Street. The roads were all closed off for them, and even though I couldn't see from where we were, I knew the whole route was lined with more folks, signs and bells, clapping and calling for the runners. They would wind through blocks and crossing it again to reach the finish line at the farmer's market where we had booths set up

to serve bagels from the bakery and fresh juice from the cafe. A stage had been erected and a band was waiting to play for the crowd. After the race, runners and their families would stretch out on picnic blankets and listen and eat and relax together.

I heard a shout from another volunteer a block away. The first runners were turning the corner at the library and headed toward us. We jumped and cheered. From the first time I'd volunteered for the village races, I'd been overcome by how much joy I'd felt for my little town and our residents. to have a good time, to feel good about giving a bit of my time to help make the day possible. But I hadn't expected how full of pride I'd felt, how in love I'd fallen with the people racing by. Since then I'd been a regular at not just the races, but the autumn festival, the December candle walk, and the spring park cleanup. The trickle of early runners gave way

to a crowd and I edged out to them with cups of water balanced on my open palm so they could easily snatch them up without slowing down too much. We called out that they were at the halfway mark and doing great.

I spotted the young man I'd met the day before, And as he passed, I called out to him to keep going, 54. He pumped a fist into the air, and I smiled, thinking of the lucky number, the great, spangled fritillary on the butterfly bush. And the bright blue skies. I felt so lucky to be a part of it all.

Even if I wasn't running today, I felt like I had won. Sweet dreams.