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: All stories are written and read by me, Katherine Nikolay,
Speaker 1: with audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. Thank you for listening
Speaker 1: and for sharing your stories with anyone you know who
Speaker 1: likes relaxation and good sleep. You can also follow us
Speaker 1: on Instagram and Facebook for an extra bit of coziness. Now,
Speaker 1: let me say something about how to use this podcast.
Speaker 1: I have a story to tell you, and the story
Speaker 1: is simple, without much action, but full of relaxing detail.
Speaker 1: Our mind's race, you know this, and this story is
Speaker 1: a way to move your mind off the expressway and
Speaker 1: on to an exit ramp toward a serene, resting spot.
Speaker 1: I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little
Speaker 1: slower the second time through. If you find that you're
Speaker 1: still awake at the end of the second telling, don't worry.
Speaker 1: Just take yourself back through any of the details of
Speaker 1: the story that you remember. This even works if you
Speaker 1: wake in the middle of the night. Just use the
Speaker 1: details to get right back on the exit ramp, and
Speaker 1: before you know it, you'll be drifting off to peaceful sleep. Now,
Speaker 1: it's time to turn off the light and set aside
Speaker 1: anything you've been working on or looking at. Adjust your pillows,
Speaker 1: and pull your blanket up over your shoulder. All of
Speaker 1: this preparation that you're doing before you even close your
Speaker 1: eyes is setting you up for an excellent night's sleep.
Speaker 1: Sometimes it even helps to say to yourself, I'm to
Speaker 1: fall asleep and I'll sleep sound all night. Take a
Speaker 1: deep breath in through your nose and let it out
Speaker 1: with a soft sigh. Good. Let's do that again. Breathe
Speaker 1: in and out. Our story tonight is called at the
Speaker 1: Farmer's Market on a fall morning, and it's a story
Speaker 1: about the abundance of autumn and the bustle of a
Speaker 1: busy neighborhood market. It's also about the feeling of looking
Speaker 1: forward to the winter and of looking back to being
Speaker 1: a child at the farmer's market on a fall morning.
Speaker 1: It used to be that Saturday mornings were for sleeping
Speaker 1: till noon, and sometimes for piecing together the night before
Speaker 1: from blurry memories. But I guess I've grown up a bit,
Speaker 1: because now I look forward to being up early and
Speaker 1: to having the whole day laid out in front of
Speaker 1: me to plan and enjoy. And now I was up
Speaker 1: and sitting on the back porch, wrapped in a blanket,
Speaker 1: with a cup of tea in my hands, enjoying its
Speaker 1: fragrant steam rising against my cheek in the autumn chill.
Speaker 1: I'd been watching a squirrel gathering acorns and hiding them
Speaker 1: away in her secret spots in the yard. I guessed
Speaker 1: we were making the same plans this morning, gathering the
Speaker 1: harvest and thinking ahead to winter. I was on my
Speaker 1: way to the farmer's market to fill my bags with
Speaker 1: all the good things that came with the end of
Speaker 1: the summer and the peak of the autumn. The market
Speaker 1: was busy by the time I arrived, and I circled
Speaker 1: for a few minutes looking for a spot to park.
Speaker 1: I'd nearly ridden my bike instead and left the card home,
Speaker 1: but I knew myself too well. I would surely buy
Speaker 1: more than I could ever carry on my bike, especially
Speaker 1: now that pumpkins and squashes were filling up the market stalls.
Speaker 1: I slipped my car into a spot and stepped out
Speaker 1: into the crisp morning. At the edge of the lot,
Speaker 1: there were a circle of tall trees, their leaves starting
Speaker 1: to turn and fall in the morning breeze. At their
Speaker 1: feet was an old tilting bench and the bank of
Speaker 1: a creek running swiftly by. I took a minute, with
Speaker 1: my market bags tucked under my arm, to squat down
Speaker 1: on a flat rock by the water and watch it
Speaker 1: flow past. The water was cool, and I let my
Speaker 1: fingers trail through it and smelled the mixture of the
Speaker 1: fresh water with the spicy morning air. I took a
Speaker 1: few deep breaths, then turned back to the market and
Speaker 1: followed the stream of people and kids and dogs to
Speaker 1: the overflowing stalls. I knew from experience that the best
Speaker 1: strategy was to walk the length of the market, just
Speaker 1: looking first, not buying till I knew what was available
Speaker 1: and where the best bits were. But that's just not
Speaker 1: who I am. I'm not good at waiting, especially when
Speaker 1: surrounded by so much abundance. I've made peace with that,
Speaker 1: and now I just accept that I'll buy too much
Speaker 1: and struggle to get it back to the car. Mums
Speaker 1: were stacked along the walkway and up on old milk crates,
Speaker 1: some with their buds fully open and others still tucked
Speaker 1: in their blossoming aways off yet behind them on broad
Speaker 1: wooden benches or jars of sunflowers, and pots of zinnias
Speaker 1: and pansies, decorative cabbages and purple kale. I paid for
Speaker 1: a few things and arranged to pick them up on
Speaker 1: the way out, and then headed over to the banks
Speaker 1: of vegetables and stacks of pumpkins. There were still tomatoes
Speaker 1: coming in, and I bought some for canning. I bought long,
Speaker 1: lumpy yams and a sugar pumpkin to roast and puree
Speaker 1: into a soup. I bought a whole branch of Brussels
Speaker 1: sprouts and butternut squashes and charred with bright yellow stems.
Speaker 1: My bags were heavy on my shoulders, but I persisted
Speaker 1: and made my way past the open air stalls into
Speaker 1: the enclosed market with the bustling crowd. I bought a
Speaker 1: jar of pumpkin butter, great stuff, which I had bought before,
Speaker 1: and could be used to turn a humble piece of
Speaker 1: toast into something like pumpkin pie for breakfast. Sign me up.
Speaker 1: At the far end of the market was a bakery
Speaker 1: whose sweet smells permeated clear to the parking lot. The
Speaker 1: line for their goods was a few patrons deep, and
Speaker 1: I used my time waiting to drink in the yeasty,
Speaker 1: hot smell of fresh bread and pastries and cookies. I
Speaker 1: had a distinct memory of being a child, maybe five
Speaker 1: or six at the time, and standing in the exact
Speaker 1: same spot holding my mother's hand as she bought a
Speaker 1: dozen chocolate chip cookies in a white paper bag. I
Speaker 1: noticed stacks of the same bags held in place against
Speaker 1: the breeze with a rock beside the register. All these
Speaker 1: years later, little having changed here, And as the baker
Speaker 1: turned her expectant face to me and took my order,
Speaker 1: she slipped a loaf of can cinnamon bread into one.
Speaker 1: I paid my few dollars, shifted the bags onto my shoulders,
Speaker 1: and stepped back out into the brisk open air. As predicted,
Speaker 1: it took two trips to get everything buckled into the car,
Speaker 1: remembering my mums and pansies. As I was tucking in
Speaker 1: the stems and closing the hatch door, I noticed a squat,
Speaker 1: shiny cart, a sort of mini food truck, parked at
Speaker 1: the far end of the lot, and I could smell
Speaker 1: coffee and hot cider. I felt into my pocket and
Speaker 1: found I still had a few dollars left, so I
Speaker 1: bought myself a coffee and sat at a picnic table,
Speaker 1: people watching while I drank it. Someone was playing a
Speaker 1: guitar somewhere nearby, and some friends were gossiping outside the
Speaker 1: double doors of the main building, a girl telling a
Speaker 1: friend a story that had them both giggling till one
Speaker 1: was wiping her eyes had thrown back in a roar
Speaker 1: of laughter. A few feet away, an older couple held
Speaker 1: hands and walked in slow, patient steps past the vegetable vendors.
Speaker 1: The chill of the day was working its way up
Speaker 1: into my legs, so I stood up and, taking the
Speaker 1: last few SIPs of my coffee, headed back to the
Speaker 1: car to see what the rest of my Saturday would become.
Speaker 1: At the farmer's market on a fall morning, It used
Speaker 1: to be that Saturday mornings were for sleeping till noon,
Speaker 1: and sometimes for piecing together the night before from blurry memories.
Speaker 1: But I guess I've grown up a bit, because now
Speaker 1: I look forward to being up early and to having
Speaker 1: the whole day laid out in front of me to
Speaker 1: plan and enjoy. And now I was up and sitting
Speaker 1: on the back porch, wrapped in a blanket, with a
Speaker 1: cup of tea in my hands. Enjoying its fragrant steam
Speaker 1: rising up against my cheek in the autumn chill. I'd
Speaker 1: been watching a squirrel gather acorns and hiding them away
Speaker 1: in her secret spots in the yard. I guessed we
Speaker 1: were making the same plans this morning, gathering the harvest
Speaker 1: and thinking ahead to winter. I was on my way
Speaker 1: to the farmer's market to fill my bags with all
Speaker 1: the good things that come with the end of the
Speaker 1: summer and the peak of the autumn. The market was
Speaker 1: busy by the time I arrived, and I circled for
Speaker 1: a few minutes looking for a spot to park. I'd
Speaker 1: nearly ridden my bike instead and left the car at home,
Speaker 1: but I knew myself too well. I would surely buy
Speaker 1: more than I could ever carry on my bike, especially
Speaker 1: now that pumpkins and squashes were filling up the market stalls.
Speaker 1: I slipped my car into a spot and stepped out
Speaker 1: into the crisp morning. At the edge of the lot,
Speaker 1: there was a circle of tall trees, their leaves starting
Speaker 1: to turn and fall in the morning breeze. At their
Speaker 1: feet was an old tilting bench, and the bank of
Speaker 1: a creek running swiftly by. I took a minute with
Speaker 1: my market bags tucked under my arm to squat down
Speaker 1: on a flat rock by the water and watch it
Speaker 1: flow past. The water was cool, and I let my
Speaker 1: fingers trail through it and smelled the mixture of the
Speaker 1: fresh water with a spicy morning air. I took a
Speaker 1: few deep breaths, then turned back to the market and
Speaker 1: followed the stream of people and kids and dogs to
Speaker 1: the overflowing stalls. I knew from experience that the best
Speaker 1: strategy was to walk the length of the market, just
Speaker 1: looking first, not buying till I knew what was available
Speaker 1: and where the best bits were. But that's just not
Speaker 1: who I am. I'm not good at waiting, especially when
Speaker 1: surrounded by so much abundance. I've made peace with that,
Speaker 1: and now I just accept that I'll buy too much
Speaker 1: and struggle to get it back to the car. Mums
Speaker 1: were stacked along the walkway and up on old milk crates,
Speaker 1: some with their buds fully open and others still tucked
Speaker 1: in their blossoming aways off. Yet behind them on broad
Speaker 1: wooden benches were jars of sunflowers and pots of zinnias
Speaker 1: and pansies, decorative cabbages and purple kale. I paid for
Speaker 1: a few things and arranged to pick them up on
Speaker 1: the way out. Then headed over to the banks of
Speaker 1: vegetables and stacks of pumpkin. There were still tomatoes coming in,
Speaker 1: and I bought some for canning. I bought long, lumpy
Speaker 1: yams and a sugar pumpkin to roast and puree into
Speaker 1: a soup. I bought a whole branch of Brussels sprouts
Speaker 1: and butternut squashes and charred with bright yellow stems. My
Speaker 1: bags were heavy on my shoulders, but I persisted and
Speaker 1: made my way past the open air stalls into the
Speaker 1: enclosed market with the bustling crowd. I bought a jar
Speaker 1: of pumpkin butter, great stuff, which I had bought before,
Speaker 1: and could be used to turn a humble piece of
Speaker 1: toast into something like pumpkin pie for breakfast. Sign me up.
Speaker 1: At the far end of the market was a bakery
Speaker 1: whose sweet smells permeated clear to the parking lot. The
Speaker 1: line for their goods was a few patrons deep, and
Speaker 1: I used my time waiting to drink in the yeasty,
Speaker 1: hot smell of fresh bread and pastries and cookies. I
Speaker 1: had a distinct memory of being a child, maybe five
Speaker 1: or six at the time, and standing in the exact
Speaker 1: same spot holding my mother's hand as she bought a
Speaker 1: dozen chocolate chip cookies in a white paper bag. I
Speaker 1: noticed stacks of the same bags held in place against
Speaker 1: the breeze with a rock beside the register. All these
Speaker 1: years later, little having changed here, And as the baker
Speaker 1: turned her expectant face to me and took my order,
Speaker 1: she slipped a loaf of pecan cinnamon bread into one.
Speaker 1: I paid my few dollars, shifted the bags onto my shoulders,
Speaker 1: and stepped back out into the brisk, open air. As predicted,
Speaker 1: it took two trips to get everything buckled into the car,
Speaker 1: remembering my mums and pansies. As I was tucking in
Speaker 1: the stems and closing the hatch door, I noticed a
Speaker 1: squat shiny cart, a sort of many food truck, parked
Speaker 1: at the far end of the lot, and could smell
Speaker 1: coffee and hot cider. I felt into my pocket and
Speaker 1: found I still had a few dollars left, so I
Speaker 1: bought myself a coffee and sat at a picnic table,
Speaker 1: people watching while I drank it. Some one was playing
Speaker 1: a guitar somewhere near by, and some friends were gossiping.
Speaker 1: Outside the double doors of the main building, a girl
Speaker 1: was telling a friend a story that had them both
Speaker 1: giggling till one was wiping her eyes, head thrown back
Speaker 1: in a roar of laughter. A few feet away, an
Speaker 1: older couple held hands and walked in slow, patient steps
Speaker 1: past the vegetable vendors. The chill of the day was
Speaker 1: working its way up into my legs, so I stood
Speaker 1: up and, taking the last few SIPs of my coffee,
Speaker 1: headed back to the car to see what the rest
Speaker 1: of my Saturday would become. Sweet dreams