Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - When the Streetlights Come On

Episode Date: July 8, 2024

Our story tonight is called When the Streetlights Come On, and it’s a story about a trip to the mailbox through the last lit moments of the day. It’s also about bikes being wheeled into the garage for the night, things learned from the farmer’s almanac, layers of paint peeling away under your hand, and a tender way to shepherded home and sent to dreamland. We give to a different charity each week, and this week, we are giving to the Special Olympics. The Special Olympics' mission is to provide year-round sports training and athletic competition for children and adults with intellectual disabilities. 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 Catherine Nicolai. I write and read all the stories you'll 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 the Special Olympics, whose mission is to provide year-round sports training and athletic competition for

children and adults with intellectual disabilities. Learn more about them in our show notes. Thank you for letting us tuck you in at night. It's a responsibility and an honor that we take quite seriously. And if you find you need more support during the day, we have a quick 10-minute meditation podcast called First This, First this. You know, as in, first this, then that. And a soothing and energizing version of our stories for daytime use, called Stories from the Village of Nothing Much. All free and available wherever you are listening now. For ad-free and bonus episodes, subscribe to our premium feeds.

Thanks to recent subscribers, Marguerite, Lissa, William, and Katrina. Find everything, as well as our wind-down subscription box, in our show notes. Now, busy minds need a place to rest. That's how this works. I'll tell you a story, and you can rest your mind on it.

Just by listening, we'll shift you into your brain's task-positive mode, where sleep is possible. 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 try to muscle yourself back to sleep. Softly, softly is the approach, friends. Just turn an episode right back on, and you'll drop back off to sleep usually within seconds this is grown-up sleep training and for most folks best results come after a few weeks of regular use so be patient with the process.

Our story tonight is called When the Street Lights Come On, and it's a story about a trip to the mailbox through the last lit moments of the day. It's also about bikes being wheeled into the garage for the night, things learned from the farmer's almanac, layers of paint peeling away under your hand, and a tender way to be shepherded home and sent to dreamland. Now, settle in. It's time.

Turn things off. Set them down. You don't have to solve everything to know how you'll handle everything to be able to have some space from it it's okay if for right now you just let go

body heavy and relaxed muscles softening face jaw eyes eased and ready for sleep. Take a deep breath in through your nose and once more fill up and let it go good when the street lights come on

this far north the sun doesn't set in the midsummer till after nine. It made for long days, and especially on the hottest. A nap in the afternoon was often required. Retreating to a quiet bedroom after lunch and pulling down the blinds till it was shady and dim. Settling into cool sheets while the ceiling fan circled was one of my favorite parts of the day. Often, even if I didn't sleep, I might read for a while, doze while listening to some music, and just let my body rest out of the heat and brightness of the day for a while. We aren't meant, I don't think, to just go and go and go.

As important to me as all the things I did with my days were all the things I didn't do. All the times I refrained, I rested, I regrouped. And on the end of the long days, to be back out in the yard to tie up tomato plants, or to go for one last bike ride before the streetlights came on. Tonight, after dinner, I remembered I had a letter to mail. And while it could certainly spend the night in the mailbox at the end of the drive,

the red carrier flag flipped up to signal its presence for tomorrow's pickup. There was a collection box on a corner a few streets up, and a walk sounded like the perfect way to button up the day. As I set out, the sun was just above the horizon, and I stretched out my arm and measured the distance between the bottom of the sun and the edge of the land. Just a smidge more than the width of one finger, which meant a few minutes more than a quarter of an hour till it set. I'd learned that trick from the farmer's almanac, along with some understanding of the different kinds of dusk. Did you know that there are different dusks?

And not even just dusk. There are three categories of dusk, twilight, and dawn. Namely, nautical, astronomical, and somnolent. But I guess not everyone thought about the sky like I did. The nautical designation had to do with when the sun reached a particular position, so many degrees below the horizon.

The astronomical type was similar, though the degree measurements were different. During astronomical dusk, most celestial objects could be seen in a clear sky. Civil twilight, dusk, and dawn were the shortest version of these times of day, and often influence things like, well, when the streetlights came on. Looking up at the one closest to me, I saw that it hadn't happened yet. There were still kids out playing, though I think even they were winding down. The active games of the day were turning into quieter activities. I saw a few little ones drawing with sidewalk chalk or sitting on porch steps with books in their laps. I could smell spent barbecue grills cooling off and that mineral scent of sprinkler runoff on hot sidewalks. In my hand was the letter,

a bit of monthly correspondence with an old friend. It had taken my last stamp, and for a few minutes I'd thought I'd been all out, till I found a book with a single stamp left wedged into the corner of the drawer. It was a Halloween stamp featuring a jack-o'-lantern with a lit, toothy grin. And as I smoothed it into place, I'd smiled at it, thinking of my friend pulling this letter from the slot in her door and wondering if I'd been trying to send her a spooky message or just run out of stamps. At the next corner was the collection box, and as I stepped up to it, I remembered being a child, wanting

to be the one to pull the flap open, wanting to drop whatever piece of mail we had into it. Wanting to be the one to do all the things. To see how they worked. And if I'm honest, I still like it. Pushing down the lever on the toaster, sticking on a stamp, pushing the buttons that drop a candy bar through a vending machine. I hope that makes me more childlike than childish, but really I don't care. I never went numb to the little tactile joys of living. And there may be some secret there.

It delivers an extra spoonful of pleasure and interest to my days. The collection box was bright blue, and by the feel of the flap's handle, had been repainted many times. Where it was chipped, layers were revealed, and in the low light, I could just make out the sun-faded color of the previous paint jobs. It creaked a bit as I tugged it open and dropped my letter in, then let it swing shut. When I turned back to the street and extended my arm to the horizon again, I could see the edge of the sun sinking into it.

Dusk would turn to twilight, first civil, then nautical, then astronomical. On my way back home, the breeze picked up, and the touch of it on my shoulders and face was soft and cooling. An older gentleman with a little white dog on a leash passed me he nodded kindly and I smiled back

in a yard to one side I spotted a rabbit its ears laid relaxedly back on its shoulders, nibbling away at a patch of marigolds. Were marigolds the flowers that my grandmother dried at the end of the season, whose flower heads could be broken open to release a dozen silvery black seeds, like tiny matchsticks or slivers. I thought they had. A block from home, it happened. The streetlights came on. Not all at once,

but one after another. A second delay in between each one, starting at the park and winding its way down the street to me. It felt like being called home, like being gently shepherded. And I liked it. Lights were coming on inside houses. Bikes wheeled into garages for the night. And passing by my neighbor's house, I heard him through the screen door say to his son, Time to brush your home, to be guided through the rituals of bed, and to be lovingly tucked in. My turn next.

When the streetlights come on. This far north, the sun doesn't set in the midsummer till after nine. It made for long days, and especially on the hottest. A nap in the afternoon was often required. Retreating to a quiet bedroom after lunch and pulling down the blinds till it was shady and dim settling into cool sheets while the ceiling fan circled. What's one of my favorite parts of the day?

Often, even if I didn't sleep, I might read for a while, doze while listening to music, and just let my body rest out of the heat and the brightness of the day for a while. We aren't meant, I don't think, to just go and go and go. As important to me as all the things I did with my day were all the things I didn't do. All the times I refrained, I rested, I regrouped. And on the days I took a break,

I found myself better able to enjoy the end of the long days, to be back out in the yard to tie up tomato plants, or to go for one last bike ride before the streetlights came on. Tonight, after dinner, I remembered I had a letter to mail. And while it could certainly spend the night in the mailbox at the end of the drive, The red carrier flag flipped up to signal its presence for tomorrow's pickup. There was a collection box on a corner a few streets up, and a walk sounded like the perfect way to button up the day. As I set out,

the sun was just above the horizon, and I stretched out my arm and measured the distance between the bottom of the sun and the edge of the land. Just a smidge more than the width of one finger, which meant a few minutes more than a quarter of an hour till it set. I'd learned that trick from the farmer's almanac, along with some understanding of the different kinds of dusk.

Did you know that there are different dusks? And not even just dusk. There are three categories of dusk, twilight, and dawn. Namely, nautical, astronomical, and civil. I was a little surprised that the categories weren't something like poetic, nostalgic, and somnolent but I guess not everyone thought about the sky

like I did the nautical designation had to do with when the sun reached a particular position, so many degrees below the horizon. The astronomical type was similar, though the degree measurements were different.

During astronomical dusk, most celestial objects could be seen in a clear sky. Civil twilight, dusk, and dawn were the shortest versions of these times of day, and often influenced things like, well, when the streetlights came on. Looking up at the one closest to me, I saw that it hadn't happened yet. There were still kids out playing, though I think even they were winding down.

The active games of the day were turning into quieter activities. I saw a few little ones drawing with sidewalk chalk or sitting on porch steps with books in their laps. I could smell spent barbecue grills cooling off and that mineral scent of sprinkler runoff on hot sidewalks. In my hand was the letter, a bit of monthly correspondence with an old friend. It had taken my last stamp,

and for a few minutes I'd thought I'd been all out till I found a book with a single stamp left wedged into the corner of the drawer. It was a Halloween stamp featuring a jack-o'-lantern with a lit, toothy grin. And as I smoothed it into place, I'd smiled at it, thinking of my friend pulling this letter from the slot in her door and wondering if I'd been trying to send her a spooky message

or just run out of stamps. At the next corner was the collection box. And as I stepped up to it, I remembered being wanting to be the one to pull the flap open, wanting to drop whatever piece of mail we had into it, wanting to be the one to do all the things, to see how they worked. If I was honest, I still liked it. Pressing down the lever on the toaster,

sticking on a stamp, pushing the buttons that drop a candy bar through a vending machine. I hoped that made me more childlike than childish. But really, I didn't care. I never went numb to the little tactile joys of living.

I thought that there was some secret there. It delivered an extra spoonful of pleasure and interest to my days. The collection box was bright blue, and by the feel of the flap's handle, had been repainted many times. chipped. Layers were revealed. And in the low light, I could just make out the sun-faded color of the previous paint jobs. It creaked a bit as I tugged it open, and I dropped my letter in and let it swing shut. When I turned back to the street and extended my arm to the street and extended my arm

to the horizon again. I could see the edge of the sun sinking into it. Dusk would turn to twilight. First civil, then nautical, then astronomical. On my way back home, the picked up, and the touch of it on my face and shoulders was soft and cooling. An older gentleman with a little white dog on a leash past me. He nodded kindly, and I smiled back. In a yard to one side, spotted a rabbit, its ears laid relaxedly back on its shoulders, nibbling away at a patch of marigolds. Were marigolds the flowers

that my grandmother dried at the end of the season, whose flower heads could be broken open to release a dozen silvery black seeds like tiny matchsticks or slivers. I thought they had. A block from home, it happened. The streetlights came on. Not all at once, but one after another.

A second delay in between each one. Starting at the park and winding its way down the street to me. It felt like being called home, like being gently shepherded, and I liked it. Lights were coming on inside houses, bikes wheeled into garages for the night,

and passing by my neighbor's house, I heard him through the screen door say to his son, Time to brush your teeth, buddy. It made me smile and nearly put a hand on my heart as I turned up my own driveway. to be welcomed home, to be guided through the rituals of bed, and to be lovingly tucked in. Your turn next. Sweet dreams.