Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Winter Market

Episode Date: December 6, 2021

Our story tonight is called Winter Market, and it’s a story about a bustling marketplace on a bright December morning. It’s also about cups made on a spinning pottery wheel, pride in the skills and talent of one’s community, and hot chai and chestnuts from a street cart.So get cozy and ready to sleep. Buy the book Get beautiful NMH merch Get autographed copies Get our ad-free and bonus episodesPurchase Our Book: https://bit.ly/Nothing-Much-HappensSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Grownups, in which nothing much happens, you feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Catherine Nicolai. I read and write all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens, with audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. You've got a couple days left to order some of our lovely Nothing Much merch and still get it in time for Christmas. There's a pencil set, stickers, cozy socks, and even hoodies for the Bob Wittersheim enthusiast in your life.

You can also get autographed and dedicated copies of my book all at nothingmuchappens.com. Now, especially at night, you need a way to lift the needle off the record in your mind, to find some stillness and peace. And that's what this story is for. I'll read it twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. Just follow along with the sound of my voice. And before you know it, you'll be waking up tomorrow, feeling rested and refreshed. This is brain training. With practice, we're creating a reliable, automatic response in your nervous system. And all of that means that over time, you'll fall asleep faster and return to sleep more easily.

Now, time to switch off your light and set yourself up for good sleep. Let my voice keep watch over you. I'm taking this next shift. There's nothing you need to remember or stay on top of. You can let everything go. Take a slow, deep breath in through the nose and let it out through your mouth. Again, in... And out. Good.

Our story tonight is called Winter Market. And it's a story about a bustling marketplace on a bright December morning. It's also about cups made on a spinning pottery wheel, pride in the skills and talent of one's community, and hot chai and chestnuts from a street cart. Winter Market The booths were set up around the edge of the square, with more here and there along Main Street,

cluster down the corners, and a few even spilling into the park. We'd put them up the day before, and as I only use mine a few times a year, when I unpacked the parts and pieces, I stared at them for a few minutes, trying to remember how they went together. Luckily, my market neighbor,

whose canopy was already in place, lent a hand. The village had dropped off buckets full of sand to hold the poles in place, and he hauled a few over and helped me to click the supports together and tie the canvas to the frame. Mine had side flaps to help keep the heat in, or rather the cold out, as it was December and the chill was part of the experience. This morning, I'd woken up with excitement to show and sell my wares, to talk with customers and meet other vendors, and just be in the bustle of the market. My first job when I was a teenager and in need of some pocket money of the market. My first job, when I was a teenager and in need of some pocket money over the summer, had been at the farmer's market.

And while the mornings had come early, I'd quickly fallen in love with the fresh air, the people who chatted over the ears of corn and bouquets of wildflowers in a way that I just knew they didn't at the grocery store. And the people who proudly grew the food that fed so many. Maybe that was why, even though I only did a few markets a year,

they always felt like going home. I doubled up my socks as I got dressed, put on a few layers under my coat, and made sure I had a hat that went over my ears and gloves to keep my fingers warm. I usually filled my plaid thermos with tea or hot cider, but last year I hadn't drunk any of it because there had been so many good things to try from the street carts that I'd completely forgotten it in my bag. So this year, instead, I put some extra dollars in my pocket

and backed the car full of my crafts out onto the street and drove to downtown. I was a potter. I made vases, pitchers, mugs, and bowls. I used clay from a quarry a few towns over, spun my pieces on my wheel in the spare room behind my kitchen, and fired them off in my very own kiln in the basement. I'd been making pottery since my freshman year of high school,

when I'd signed up for art class. Drawing and painting had never felt natural to me. Not saying I couldn't have learned, but there was something about the tactile experience, smoothing and shaping the clay that was a hundred times more accessible to me. And I looked forward to third period every day. I made the basic first projects that many students start with. Pinch pots and hand-coiled mugs. Small and sometimes unrecognizable molded animals and birds and reliefs carved with tiny loop and ribbon tools. My friend and table mate had made a sculpture, but comedy and tragedy masks stuck back to back with a hollow space between them. She filled the space with scrunched up newspaper, which would burn to nothing in the kiln, and cleverly stuck a few balls of clay in the paper.

When the piece came out, she shook it, and it rang like a bell as the balls bounced around inside. I was still inspired by that kind of creative thinking, and looking for my own ways to do more than what was expected with my pieces. booth. I carefully loaded a few boxes onto my dolly, a small purchase I'd made a few years ago and found was more than worth its price. I eased the dolly up over the curb and made my way past many other artists and makers to my spot. I took a few trips, but soon I was unloading my plates and bowls, putting them out on the tables and shelves I'd set up the night before. My helpful neighbor came over to see my wares,

and I went to his tent to look at the jewelry he made with reclaimed metals he bought at tag sales and swap meets. There was so much creativity and talent right here in our little town. I was proud of all of us as I went to find something to drink. The village put out braziers on the street corners, and they were beginning to be stoked up. I watched a woman with a wheelbarrow full of logs and kindling go from one to the next, building fires. The public hadn't arrived yet,

but most of the tents were up and ready, and I strolled through a few. There were lots of handicrafts, especially for the holidays. Tree skirts and hand-painted bulbs, mobiles of stars and angels, and embroidered stockings. There was a whole street full of greenery,

fresh-cut from the Christmas tree farm. I could smell the fresh pine boughs bound together into garlands that could be bought by the foot, or made into arrangements with pine cones and red ribbons for front porch pots. I definitely wanted a few of those. I laughed, thinking that, as per usual, however much I might make selling my own pieces, I'd probably only break even today. Oh well, there were no people I'd rather spend my money with than my fellow

makers in my own little town. I smelled hot chai and stepped up to a cart where a big copper pot full of it was steaming. I watched as the tea maker lifted ladlefuls of it a foot into the air and let it pour back into the pot, frothing it with the movement. I could smell cardamom and cinnamon and strong black tea. I ordered two cups, thinking I might take one to my market neighbor. The cups warmed my hands as I walked back.

The sun was rising higher and its bright light shone through the cold morning. I closed my eyes for a moment and felt it shining on my face. I noticed more people arriving and I thought I better get back to my tent to greet my customers. There was a man with a grill-topped cart, embers glowing and hot, and I watched him score shiny black chestnuts with a small knife and pop them onto the grill.

Oh, I'd have to come back for some of those later. When I rounded the corner at my tent, I found my neighbor coming toward me. He had two cups in his hands as well, and we laughed as our eyes met. Obviously, we'd both had the same idea. Well, it was likely to be a very good day at the market. Winter Market

The booths were set up around the edge of the square, with more here and there along Main Street, clustered on the corners, and a few even spilling into the park. We'd put them up the day before, and as I only use mine a few times a year, when I unpacked the parts and pieces, I stared at them for a few minutes,

trying to remember how they went together. Luckily, my market neighbor, whose canopy the poles in place, and he hauled a few over and helped me to click the supports together and tie the canvas to the frame. Mine had side flaps to help keep the heat in, or rather, the cold out, as it was December, and the chill was part of the experience. This morning, I had woken up with excitement

to show and sell my wares, to talk with customers and meet other vendors, and just be in the bustle of the market. My first job, when I was a teenager and in need of some pocket money over the summer, had been at the farmer's market. And while the mornings had come early, I'd quickly fallen in love with the fresh air, the people who chatted over the ears of corn and bouquets of wildflowers in a way that I just knew they didn't at the grocery store. And the people who proudly grew the food that fed so many.

Maybe that was why, even though I only did a few markets a year, they always felt like going home. I doubled up my socks as I got dressed, put on a few layers under my coat, and made sure I had a hat that went over my ears and gloves to keep my fingers warm. I usually filled my plaid thermos with tea or hot cider, but last year I hadn't drunk any of it, because there had been so many good things to try from the street carts that I'd completely forgotten it in my bag.

So this year, instead, I put some extra dollars in my pocket and backed the car full full of my crafts, out onto the street and drove to downtown. I was a potter. I made vases, pitchers, mugs, and bowls. I used clay from a quarry a few towns over. Spun my pieces on my wheel in the spare room behind my kitchen. And fired them off in my very own kiln in the basement.

I'd been making pottery since my freshman year of high school, when I'd signed up for an art class. drawing and painting, had never felt natural to me. Not saying I couldn't have learned, but there was something about the tactile experience of smoothing and shaping the clay that was a hundred times more accessible to me. And I looked forward to third period every day. I made the basic first projects that many students start with. Pinch pots and hand-coiled mugs. Small and sometimes unrecognizable

molded animals and birds and reliefs carved with tiny loop and ribbon tools. My friend and table mate had made a sculpture. The comedy and tragedy masks stuck back to back with a hollow space between them. She filled the space with scrunched up newspaper

which would burn away to nothing in the kiln and cleverly stuck a few balls of clay in the paper when the piece came out she shook it and it rang like a bell as the balls bounced around inside. I was still inspired by that kind of creative thinking, and looked for my own ways to do more than what was expected with my pieces. When I found a spot downtown, not too far from my booth, I carefully loaded a few boxes onto my dolly, a small purchase I'd made a few years ago and found was more than worth its price.

I eased the dolly up over the curb and made my way past many other artists and makers to my own spot. It took a few trips, but soon I was unloading my plates and bowls and putting them out on the tables and shelves I'd set up the night before. my helpful neighbor came over to see my wares and i went to his tent to look at the jewelry he made with reclaimed metals he bought at tag sales and swap meets there was so much creativity and talent right here in our little town. I was proud of all of us as I went to find something to drink. The village put out braziers on the street corners, and they were beginning to be stoked up. I watched a woman with a wheelbarrow full of logs and kindling

go from one to the next, building fires. The public hadn't arrived yet, but most of the tents were up and ready, and I strolled through a few. There were lots of handicrafts, especially for the holidays. Tree skirts and hand-painted bulbs, mobiles of stars and angels, and embroidered stockings. Then there was a whole street full of greenery, fresh cut from the Christmas tree farm.

I could smell the fresh pine boughs bound together into garlands that could be bought by the foot or made into arrangements with pine cones and red ribbons for front porch pots. I definitely wanted a few of those. I laughed, thinking that, as per usual, however much I might make selling my own pieces, I'd probably only break even today. Oh well.

There were no people I'd rather spend my money with than fellow makers in my own little town. I smelled hot chai and stepped up to a cart where a big copper pot full of it was steaming. I watched as the tea maker lifted ladlefuls of it a foot in the air, and let it pour back into the pot, frothing it with the movement. I could smell cardamom and cinnamon and strong black tea. I ordered two cups, thinking I might take one to my market neighbor. The cups warmed my hands as I worked my way back. The sun was rising higher, and its bright light shone through the cold morning. I closed my eyes for a moment

and felt it shining on my face. I noticed more people arriving and thought I better get back to my tent to greet my customers. There was a man with a grill-topped cart, embers glowing and hot, and I watched him score shiny black chestnuts with a small knife and pop them onto the grill. Oh, I'd have to come back for some of those later. When I rounded the corner at my tent, I found my neighbor coming toward me. He had two cups in his hands as well.

And we laughed as our eyes met. Obviously, we'd both had the same idea. Well, it was likely to be a very good day at the market sweet dreams