Speaker 1: Welcome to bedtime stories for grown ups in which nothing
Speaker 1: much happens, you feel good, and then you fall asleep.
Speaker 1: I'm Catherine Nikolay. I read and write all the stories
Speaker 1: you hear on Nothing Much Happens Audio Engineering is by
Speaker 1: Bob Whittersheim. If you love these stories, there is a
Speaker 1: whole world waiting for you in my book, also called
Speaker 1: Nothing Much Happens, with fifty two stories, sixteen of which
Speaker 1: will never be on the podcast, it takes you through
Speaker 1: a whole year in the village of Nothing Much. And
Speaker 1: along with the stories, you'll find recipes and guided meditations
Speaker 1: and the most charming illustrations that will make you want
Speaker 1: to climb right into the pages and stay awhile. Get
Speaker 1: yours from your favorite bookseller or at Nothing Much Happens
Speaker 1: dot com. Now I have a story to tell you,
Speaker 1: and it is meant to simply be a soft landing
Speaker 1: spot for your mind, a way to re out your
Speaker 1: thoughts away from the day and toward a place that
Speaker 1: feels safe and calm and enjoyable. Just a reminder you
Speaker 1: deserve to feel good. If your self care plan doesn't
Speaker 1: include enjoyment and pleasure, you're missing something fundamental. I'll read
Speaker 1: the story twice, and I'll go a little slower on
Speaker 1: the second reading. Just follow along with the sound of
Speaker 1: my voice, and before you know it, probably before I'm
Speaker 1: more than a couple minutes in, you'll be deeply asleep.
Speaker 1: If you wake in the middle of the night, think
Speaker 1: back through any of the details of the story that
Speaker 1: you can remember, and you'll drop right back off. Seriously,
Speaker 1: I have been using this technique my whole life, and
Speaker 1: now I've heard from thousands of you who agree it works.
Speaker 1: So turn off your light, put down anything you've been
Speaker 1: looking at. It is time for sleep. Slide down into
Speaker 1: your sheets and get as cozy and comfortable as you can.
Speaker 1: Feel your body becoming really heavy, every muscle relaxing. Now,
Speaker 1: take a slow breath in through your nose and let
Speaker 1: it out through your mouth again in let it out good.
Speaker 1: Our story tonight is called People Watching and the Coffee Shop,
Speaker 1: and it's a story about the view from a table
Speaker 1: in the back corner. It's also about found family, a
Speaker 1: neatly shoveled sidewalk, and simple ways to feel connected. People
Speaker 1: Watching and the Coffee Shop. It had snowed steadily for
Speaker 1: the past few days. A few inches would fall at
Speaker 1: some point in the night or afternoon, and then mother
Speaker 1: nature would stop and give us a chance to catch
Speaker 1: up before beginning again. We'd put on our thick gloves
Speaker 1: and tall boots and step out into our driveways with
Speaker 1: our shovels and start to clear it away. I hadn't minded.
Speaker 1: There is something about a simple chore and that is
Speaker 1: quite satisfying. There are lots of kinds of work that,
Speaker 1: after hours of effort, you step back and you can't
Speaker 1: see that you've done anything. But when I shoveled the
Speaker 1: drive and the sidewalks, it was immediately apparent that it
Speaker 1: was a job well and thoroughly done. In the early fall,
Speaker 1: when I'd had a cord of firewood to stack in
Speaker 1: the garage, I'd been just as happy, one wheelbarrow lowered
Speaker 1: at a time, setting it in neat rows that at
Speaker 1: the end had gotten taller than me. I could have
Speaker 1: done it all day, folding bath towels into identical rectangles,
Speaker 1: stacking firewood, setting up a dozen jars of canned tomatoes
Speaker 1: in the pantry, or shoveling the sidewalks until they were clear.
Speaker 1: It all gave me a feeling that while there were
Speaker 1: lots of things in the world that, at least to me,
Speaker 1: didn't seem to add up. Here were little pockets of
Speaker 1: order when harmony. I was thinking of this as I
Speaker 1: shoveled of a phrase my grandmother used to say when
Speaker 1: she finished tidying up a room and stopped with her
Speaker 1: hands on her hips to look at her work. Apple
Speaker 1: pie order, she called it. After the pavement was clear,
Speaker 1: I'd spread out some salt to keep the ice away.
Speaker 1: I propped my shovel by the door. No use in
Speaker 1: putting it away. The skies were low, with thick clouds
Speaker 1: full of more snow. I had a sudden craving for
Speaker 1: a cup of something hot and a bit of people watching.
Speaker 1: There was a coffee shop on a corner just a
Speaker 1: few blocks up, and when I walked by, I saw
Speaker 1: that my favorite table was free in the back corner.
Speaker 1: I got myself a peppermint hot chocolate and took it
Speaker 1: back to the table, taking off my gloves and wrapping
Speaker 1: my fingers around the cup to ease the chill out
Speaker 1: of them. I liked this spot because I could see
Speaker 1: all the way down one street and up another. I
Speaker 1: could watch people on the sidewalk bundled up as they passed,
Speaker 1: the snow catching in their hair, and their breath thick
Speaker 1: in the air as they talked. I also liked this
Speaker 1: spot because it was beside a table of grouchy, gossipy
Speaker 1: old men. At any time of day, there were nearly
Speaker 1: always three or four of them sitting at their table.
Speaker 1: They seemed to come and shifts and relieve each other.
Speaker 1: Now and then I'd look in the window morning or night,
Speaker 1: and I'd see them. There were one or two with
Speaker 1: their reading glasses low on their noses, eyes on a
Speaker 1: newspaper spread out on the table, not saying much, but
Speaker 1: somehow just as vital a part of the group discussion
Speaker 1: with their silence. Then there were a couple, the ones
Speaker 1: that sat with their backs to the wall facing out
Speaker 1: to the street, that kept a steady debate going about
Speaker 1: everything from world events to which flavor of coffee cake
Speaker 1: was best at the bakery, which, just so you know,
Speaker 1: is their cinnamon apple cake with extra crumb. I'd been
Speaker 1: in coffee shops all over the world, and this table
Speaker 1: and its occupants were universal. They had been there in
Speaker 1: each one on busy bustling avenues and cities, along cobblestone
Speaker 1: streets and small villages, and even on neighborhood park benches
Speaker 1: beside hand pushed car arts. At any time on nearly
Speaker 1: any continent, you can find a retirement of coffee or
Speaker 1: tea drinking elders with plenty to say. I sipped my
Speaker 1: cocoa and smiled as they talked and griped. It's not
Speaker 1: that you stop needing grandparents at some point in your
Speaker 1: adult life, but sadly you do stop having them. And
Speaker 1: I decided as I sat there that I'd adopt a
Speaker 1: couple of these men as additional grandfathers. I picked out
Speaker 1: a quiet one with bushy, overgrown eyebrows, who was shaking
Speaker 1: creases out of his paper, and a hot tempered one
Speaker 1: who was prodding his neighbor with his elbow, trying to
Speaker 1: persuade him to his point of view. I'd keep tabs
Speaker 1: on them over the winter, whenever I stopped in for
Speaker 1: a drink, maybe learning which newspaper was a favorite, whether
Speaker 1: they took their coffee with milk or sugar. I'd eavesdrop
Speaker 1: and maybe learn something, or just feel the comfort of
Speaker 1: their conversation in the background of my day. It made
Speaker 1: me laugh to myself, wondering if one day decades in
Speaker 1: the future, I'd be pushing my cart through the aisles
Speaker 1: of a grocery store, taking my glasses out to read
Speaker 1: a label on a box, while a young person watching
Speaker 1: from the other end of the aisle silently adopted me
Speaker 1: as their grandparent. We just don't stop kneeding each other.
Speaker 1: And I guessed in a very big picture sense that
Speaker 1: was the point. The sun would set in another half hour,
Speaker 1: and as I sat there, the sky began to turn
Speaker 1: a lovely, vibrant pink. The coffee machines hissed and hummed.
Speaker 1: I watched people come in and stump snow off their
Speaker 1: shoes and fish through their pockets and bags for dollars
Speaker 1: and change. Just as I finished my hot chocolate, and
Speaker 1: the pink sky had faded into a purplish gray, it
Speaker 1: began to snow again. I gave the table of grandfathers
Speaker 1: a smile. As I wrapped myself back up and went
Speaker 1: out into the snow, A few clouds moved overhead, and
Speaker 1: a waxing crescent moon shone bright above me. I turned
Speaker 1: toward home and began to walk. The cold air opened
Speaker 1: my eyes wide, and I watched the clouds moving, the
Speaker 1: cars going past and the porch lights coming on. In
Speaker 1: an apartment building across the street. I saw someone step
Speaker 1: out on their balcony with a blanket pulled around their shoulders.
Speaker 1: Their eyes were turned up at the sky, and we
Speaker 1: both together and separately, looked at the moon. I kept walking.
Speaker 1: I could smell the wood smoke from the chimneys of
Speaker 1: the houses around me. I turned onto my street and
Speaker 1: saw that my apple pie ordered sidewalks were covered in
Speaker 1: a fresh inch of snow. Ah well, I'd have another
Speaker 1: chance tomorrow, people watching and the coffee shop. It had
Speaker 1: snowed steadily for the past few days. A few inches
Speaker 1: would fall at some point in the night or afternoon,
Speaker 1: and then mother nature would stop and give us a
Speaker 1: chance to catch up before beginning again. We'd put on
Speaker 1: our thick gloves and tall boots and step out into
Speaker 1: our driveways with our shovels and start to clear it away.
Speaker 1: I hadn't minded. There is something about a simple chore
Speaker 1: that is quite satisfying. There are lots of kinds of
Speaker 1: work that, after hours of effort, you step back and
Speaker 1: you can't see that you've done anything. But when I
Speaker 1: shoveled the drive and the sidewalks, it was immediately apparent
Speaker 1: that it was a job well and thoroughly done. In
Speaker 1: the early fall, when I'd had a cord of firewood
Speaker 1: to stack in the garage, I'd been just as happy,
Speaker 1: one wheelbarrow load at a time, setting it in neat
Speaker 1: rows that by the end had gotten taller than me.
Speaker 1: I could have done it all day, folding bath towels
Speaker 1: into identical rectangles, stacking firewood, setting up a dozen jars
Speaker 1: of canned tomatoes in the pantry, or shoveling the sidewalks
Speaker 1: until they were clear. It all gave me a feeling
Speaker 1: that while there were lots of things in the world that,
Speaker 1: at least to me, didn't seem to add up, here
Speaker 1: were little pockets of order and harmony. I was thinking
Speaker 1: of this as I shoveled of' a phrase my grandmother
Speaker 1: used to say when she finished tidying up a room,
Speaker 1: I stopped with her hands on her hips to look
Speaker 1: at her work. Apple pie order, she called it. After
Speaker 1: the pavement was clear, and I'd spread out some salt
Speaker 1: to keep the ice away, I propped my shovel by
Speaker 1: the door. No use in putting it away. The skies
Speaker 1: were low with thick clouds full of more snow. I
Speaker 1: had a sudden craving for a cup of something hot
Speaker 1: and a bit of people watching. There was a coffee
Speaker 1: shop on a corner just a few blocks up, and
Speaker 1: when I walked by, I saw that my favorite table
Speaker 1: was free in the back corner. I got myself a
Speaker 1: peppermint hot chocolate and took it back to the table,
Speaker 1: taking off my gloves and wrapping my fingers around the
Speaker 1: cup to ease the chill out of them. I liked
Speaker 1: this spot because I could see all the way down
Speaker 1: one street and up another. I could watch people on
Speaker 1: the sidewalk, bundled up as they passed, the snow catching
Speaker 1: in their hair and their breath thick in the air
Speaker 1: as they talked. I also liked this spot because it
Speaker 1: was beside a table of grouchy, gossipy old men. At
Speaker 1: any time of day, there were nearly always three or
Speaker 1: four of them sitting at their table. They seemed to
Speaker 1: come in shifts and relieve each other. Now and then
Speaker 1: I'd look in the window morning or night and I'd
Speaker 1: see them. There were one or two with their reading
Speaker 1: glasses low on their noses, eyes on a newspaper spread
Speaker 1: out on the table, not saying much, but somehow just
Speaker 1: as vital a part of the group discussion with their silence.
Speaker 1: Then there were a couple, the ones that sat with
Speaker 1: their backs to the wall facing out to the street,
Speaker 1: that kept a steady debate going about everything from world
Speaker 1: events to which flavor of coffee cake was best at
Speaker 1: the bakery, which, just so you know, is their cinnamon
Speaker 1: apple cake with extra crumb. I'd been in coffee shops
Speaker 1: all over the world, and this table and its occupants
Speaker 1: were universal. They had been there in each one, on
Speaker 1: busy bustling avenues in cities, along cobblestone streets, in small villages,
Speaker 1: and even on neighborhood park benches beside hand push carts.
Speaker 1: At any time on nearly any continent, you can find
Speaker 1: a retirement of coffee or tea drinking elders with plenty
Speaker 1: to say. I sipped my cocoa and smiled as they
Speaker 1: talked and griped. It's not that you stopped kneading grandparents
Speaker 1: at some point in your adult life, but sadly you
Speaker 1: do stop having them. I decided as I sat there,
Speaker 1: that I'd adopt a couple of these men as additional grandfathers.
Speaker 1: I picked out a quiet one with bushy, overgrown eyebrows
Speaker 1: who was shaking the creases out of his paper, and
Speaker 1: a hot tempered one who was prodding his neighbor with
Speaker 1: his elbow, trying to persuade him to his point of view.
Speaker 1: I'd keep tabs on them over the winter, whenever I
Speaker 1: stopped in for a drink, may be learning which newspaper
Speaker 1: was a favorite, or whether they took their coffee with
Speaker 1: milk or sugar. I'd eavesdrop and maybe learn something or
Speaker 1: just feel the comfort of their conversation in the background
Speaker 1: of my day. It made me laugh to myself, wondering
Speaker 1: if one day, decades in the future, I'd be pushing
Speaker 1: my cart through the aisles of a grocery store, taking
Speaker 1: my glasses out to read a label on a box,
Speaker 1: while a young person watching from the other end of
Speaker 1: the aisle silently adopted me as their grandparent. We just
Speaker 1: don't stop needing each other. When I guessed in a
Speaker 1: very big picture sense, that was the point. The sun
Speaker 1: would set in another half hour, and as I sat there,
Speaker 1: the sky began to turn a lovely vibrant pink. The
Speaker 1: coffee machines hissed and hummed. I watched people come in
Speaker 1: and stump snow off their shoes and fish through their
Speaker 1: pockets and bags for dollars and change. Just as I
Speaker 1: finished my hot chocolate and the pink sky had faded
Speaker 1: into a purplish gray, it began to snow again. I
Speaker 1: gave the table of grandfathers a smile. As I wrapped
Speaker 1: myself back up and went out into the snow, A
Speaker 1: few clouds moved overhead, and a waxing crescent moon shone
Speaker 1: bright above me. I turned toward home and began to walk.
Speaker 1: The cold air opened my eyes wide, and I watched
Speaker 1: the clouds moving, the cars going past, and porch lights
Speaker 1: coming on. In an apartment building across the street, I
Speaker 1: saw someone step out on their balcony with a blanket
Speaker 1: pulled around their shoulders. Their eyes were turned up at
Speaker 1: the sky, and we both together and separately, looked at
Speaker 1: the moon. I kept walking. I could smell the wood
Speaker 1: smoke from the chimneys of the houses around me. I
Speaker 1: turned onto my street I saw that my apple pie
Speaker 1: ordered sidewalks were covered in a fresh inch of snow.
Speaker 1: Ah well, I'd have another chance tomorrow. Sweet dreams,