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 Wittersheim. Nothing Much Happens is a proud member of
Speaker 1: the Curious Cast podcast network. Let's get ready to sleep.
Speaker 1: I'll read you a simple, cozy story. It's a place
Speaker 1: to rest your mind, and when your mind rests, your
Speaker 1: body inevitably will follow. I'll read the story twice, and
Speaker 1: I'll go a little slower on the second read. Just
Speaker 1: follow along with the sound of my voice and the
Speaker 1: cozy details of the story. Pull them around yourself as
Speaker 1: you would a soft blanket, and if you wake in
Speaker 1: the night, take yourself back into the story, thinking back
Speaker 1: through any bit you can remember. This trains your brain
Speaker 1: to return to sleep mode, and the more you practice it,
Speaker 1: the easier you will find it. Now it's time to
Speaker 1: switch off the light. Set aside anything you've been looking
Speaker 1: at or working on, adjust your pillows and comforter until
Speaker 1: you feel completely at ease. If you sometimes clench your
Speaker 1: jaw as you sleep, try resting the tip of your
Speaker 1: tope at the place where your upper teeth meet the
Speaker 1: gums on the inside. That will help to keep your
Speaker 1: jaw relaxed. Now you are about to fall asleep. You
Speaker 1: will sleep deeply all night. Take a deep breath in
Speaker 1: through your nose and sigh out of the mouth again.
Speaker 1: Breathe in and out good. Our story tonight is called
Speaker 1: Hearts and Flowers, and it's a story about showing someone
Speaker 1: what's in your heart. It's also about a Valentine's Stay
Speaker 1: card signed with the FOH, a shopful of flowers, and
Speaker 1: the moment that you decide to take a risk. Hearts
Speaker 1: and Flowers. I'd been standing in line at the market,
Speaker 1: a basket in my hands, overflowing with all my favorite
Speaker 1: things to put into vegetable soup. I was wrapped in
Speaker 1: my scarf and coat and watching the family in front
Speaker 1: of me as they unloaded their cart onto the checkout belt.
Speaker 1: They had a little boy, maybe seven or eight. He'd
Speaker 1: been talking about science class and dancing around the cart
Speaker 1: in the unembarrassed way that children are smart enough to do.
Speaker 1: He stopped suddenly in front of a shelf of Valentines,
Speaker 1: and I watched his face as he looked at the
Speaker 1: cards and candy. He looked like he was thinking hard.
Speaker 1: He picked up a box of those tiny candy hearts,
Speaker 1: the ones with messages printed on their pastel, chalky faces.
Speaker 1: He shook the box and the hearts rattled inside. He
Speaker 1: peeked over at his dad, who was quietly watching from
Speaker 1: the register. He lifted an eyebrow, and the little boy
Speaker 1: tilted his head in a silent question and answer. His
Speaker 1: dad gave him a tiny nod, and the boy slipped
Speaker 1: the box onto the belt, beside a can of tomatoes
Speaker 1: and a box of spaghetti. The boy tucked his hands
Speaker 1: in his coat pockets and stood with back against the cart.
Speaker 1: I thought he might be planning just how and when
Speaker 1: and to whom he was going to give that box
Speaker 1: of candy hearts. I remembered those class Valentine stay parties
Speaker 1: in elementary school, paper lunch sacks taped to the edge
Speaker 1: of your desk with your name in red crayon sketched
Speaker 1: out on the brown paper, and walking through the rose
Speaker 1: dropping envelopes into the sacks on the plate of cupcakes
Speaker 1: on the teacher's desk for after. I remembered the deliberation
Speaker 1: the night before thumbing through the cards to find just
Speaker 1: the right one for that particular classmate, writing my name
Speaker 1: with careful, curly cues, and adding an extra sticker to
Speaker 1: the envelope. Would they notice. The family was packing up
Speaker 1: their groceries, and as the box of candy came across
Speaker 1: the scanner, the boy's father scooped it up and handed
Speaker 1: it to him. He slipped it into the pocket of
Speaker 1: his coat with a small nod, and his father turned
Speaker 1: back to the register with a smile on his face.
Speaker 1: As they pushed their cart out to the car, the
Speaker 1: smile went from his face to mine, and I put
Speaker 1: a box of candy on the belts with my own groceries,
Speaker 1: thinking that if that little boy could be brave with
Speaker 1: his heart, I could too. Now that box of hearts
Speaker 1: sat on my desk for a week. It caught my
Speaker 1: eye whenever I passed by. And today, as I sat
Speaker 1: at my desk, riding in my planner, my fingers gently
Speaker 1: drumming on the pink cardboard, I looked out my window
Speaker 1: to see a delivery person standing on my neighbor's front
Speaker 1: step a bouquet of flowers in her hands. I watched
Speaker 1: her ring the bell and sat with that warm bloom
Speaker 1: of excitement for someone else's joy. As I waited for
Speaker 1: my neighbor to open her door, I watched her face
Speaker 1: as she did, the second of confusion that shifted to delight,
Speaker 1: and the unstoppable smile that lit up her face. She
Speaker 1: signed for the flowers and nearly took the pen back
Speaker 1: with her into her house, laughing. She returned it, blushing
Speaker 1: and flustered. I looked at those candy hearts and slipped
Speaker 1: them into my pocket and headed out. There was a
Speaker 1: flower shop on an alley downtown. The windows were full
Speaker 1: of vases of long stemmed roses and lilies about to bloom.
Speaker 1: I pushed through the old oak door, and the scent
Speaker 1: of all those mixed blossoms struck me. There were layers
Speaker 1: of different kinds of sweetness, and under that the smell
Speaker 1: of water and soil and green plants. Could the smell
Speaker 1: of flowers be a kind of medicine, like a tincture
Speaker 1: or salve for lifting spirits and elevating thoughts. It was
Speaker 1: a busy place on this February afternoon, and as I
Speaker 1: browsed through the cases of flowers and shelves of house plants,
Speaker 1: I moved around others on the same errand there was
Speaker 1: an older gentleman dressed in a tweed suit, dapper and proud,
Speaker 1: with shined shoes and a pocket square folded just so
Speaker 1: in his breast pocket. The florist was wrapping up a
Speaker 1: bouquet for him, tucking baby's breath and pink and yellow
Speaker 1: tulips in crape paper and tying it with a glossy ribbon.
Speaker 1: While he waited, he sidled up to me. As I
Speaker 1: was looking at the pots of exotic plants and succulents.
Speaker 1: There was one that I had at first mistaken for
Speaker 1: a venus flytrap, whose arrow shaped leaves were fringed with
Speaker 1: tiny green clamshells that seemed likely to clap together at
Speaker 1: a touch. The gentleman cleared his throat and said, calan
Speaker 1: cooey da Gramontiana, or mother of thousands. I tilted my
Speaker 1: head in question, and he reached out to touch the
Speaker 1: leaf tipped with plantlets. As he did, a few small
Speaker 1: buds fell easily from the plant to land in the
Speaker 1: soil below. That's how her children leave the nest and
Speaker 1: grow up, he said. The florists called over to say
Speaker 1: his bouquet was ready, and I gave him a smile
Speaker 1: as he took it and left. I went back to
Speaker 1: looking for just the right flower, something that felt akin
Speaker 1: to the person I would give it to. That's the
Speaker 1: heart of romance, isn't it showing some one that you
Speaker 1: are paying attention to who they are and reflecting it
Speaker 1: back with appreciation and a bit of excitement. It wasn't
Speaker 1: I supposed any different then, looking through my stack of
Speaker 1: Valentine's cards in second grade to find just the right
Speaker 1: one to add that extra stick or two. There was
Speaker 1: a vase of feathery flowers and shades of light pink
Speaker 1: and cream and deep red. They were a bit like
Speaker 1: a fern who had given up on being just green
Speaker 1: and bloomed in a lacy, soft plume. The floorist caught
Speaker 1: my eye and I asked for all of them to
Speaker 1: be wrapped up in tissue and tied with a satin ribbon.
Speaker 1: This was no time for doing things by half. As
Speaker 1: I walked through the streets on my way to a
Speaker 1: particular stoop, I thought about the little boy dropping that
Speaker 1: box of candy in a paper sack taped to a
Speaker 1: school desk, and my neighbor opening her door and the
Speaker 1: gentleman in the shop with his flowers in love. We
Speaker 1: must risk some hurt, but better that than holding inside
Speaker 1: something that should be shared. I stepped up to the
Speaker 1: door and made my heart brave and ring the bell
Speaker 1: hearts and flowers. I'd been standing in line at the market,
Speaker 1: a basket in my hands, overflowing with all my favorite
Speaker 1: things put into vegetable soup. I was wrapped in my
Speaker 1: scarf and coat and watching the family in front of
Speaker 1: me as they unloaded their cart on to the check
Speaker 1: out belt. They had a little boy, maybe seven or eight.
Speaker 1: He'd been talking about science class and dancing around the
Speaker 1: cart in the unembarrassed way that children are smart enough
Speaker 1: to do. He stopped suddenly in front of a shelf
Speaker 1: of Valentines, and I watched his face as he looked
Speaker 1: at the cards and candy. He looked like he was
Speaker 1: thinking hard. He picked up a box of those tiny
Speaker 1: candy hearts, the ones with messages printed on their pestel
Speaker 1: chalky faces. He shook the box and the hearts rattled inside.
Speaker 1: He peeked over at his dad, who was quietly watching
Speaker 1: from the register. He lifted an eyebrow and the little
Speaker 1: boy tilted his head in a silent question and answer.
Speaker 1: His dad gave him a tiny nod, and the boy
Speaker 1: slipped the box onto the belt, beside a can of
Speaker 1: tomatoes and a box of spaghetti. The boy tucked his
Speaker 1: hands in his coat pockets and stood with back against
Speaker 1: the cart. I thought he might be planning just how
Speaker 1: and when and to whom he was going to give
Speaker 1: that box of candy. Hearts. I remembered those class Valentine's
Speaker 1: Day parties in elementary school, paper lunch sacks taped to
Speaker 1: the edge of your desk with your name in red
Speaker 1: crayon sketched out on the brown paper, and walking through
Speaker 1: the rose dropping envelopes into the sacks and a plate
Speaker 1: of cupcakes on the teacher's desk for after. I remembered
Speaker 1: the deliberation the night before, thumbing through the cards to
Speaker 1: find just the right one for that particular classmate, writing
Speaker 1: my name with careful, curly cues, and adding an extra
Speaker 1: sticker to the envelope. Would they notice? The family was
Speaker 1: packing up their groceries, and as the box of candy
Speaker 1: came across the scanner, the boy's father scooped it up
Speaker 1: and handed it to him. He slipped it into the
Speaker 1: pocket of his coat with a small nod, and his
Speaker 1: father turned back to the register with a smile on
Speaker 1: his face. As they pushed their cart out to the car,
Speaker 1: the smile went from his face to mine, and I
Speaker 1: put a box of candy on the belt with my
Speaker 1: own groceries, thinking that if that little boy could be
Speaker 1: brave with his heart, I could too. Now that box
Speaker 1: of hearts sat on my desk for a week. It
Speaker 1: caught my eye whenever I passed by. And today, as
Speaker 1: I sat at my desk writing in my planner, my
Speaker 1: fingers gently drumming on the pink cardboard, I looked out
Speaker 1: my window to see a delivery person standing on my
Speaker 1: neighbor's front step a bouquet of flowers in her hands.
Speaker 1: I watched her ring the bell and sat with that
Speaker 1: warm bloom of excitement for someone else's joy as I
Speaker 1: waited for my neighbor to open her door. I watched
Speaker 1: her face as she did, the second of confusion that
Speaker 1: shifted to delight, and the unstoppable smile that lit up
Speaker 1: her face. She signed for the flowers and nearly took
Speaker 1: the pen back with her into her house, laughing. She
Speaker 1: returned it blushing, and flustered. I looked at those candy
Speaker 1: hearts and slipped them into my pocket and headed out.
Speaker 1: There was a flower shop on an alley down town.
Speaker 1: The windows were full of vases of long stemmed roses
Speaker 1: and lilies about to bloom. I pushed through the old
Speaker 1: oak door, and the scent of all those mixed blossoms
Speaker 1: struck me. There were layers of different kinds of sweetness,
Speaker 1: and under that the smell of water and soil, and
Speaker 1: in green plants. Could the smell of flowers be a
Speaker 1: kind of medicine, like a tincture or salve for lifting
Speaker 1: spirits and elevating thoughts. It was a busy place on
Speaker 1: this February afternoon, and as I browsed through the cases
Speaker 1: of flowers and shelves of houseplants, I moved around others
Speaker 1: on the same Errand there was an older gentleman dressed
Speaker 1: in a tweed suit, dapper and proud, with shine shoes
Speaker 1: and a pocket square folded just so in his breast pocket.
Speaker 1: The florist was wrapping up a bouquet for him, tucking
Speaker 1: baby's breath and pink and yellow tulips and grape paper
Speaker 1: and tying it with a glossy ribbon. While he waited,
Speaker 1: he sidled up to me as I was looking at
Speaker 1: the pots of exotic plants and succulents. There was one
Speaker 1: that I had first mistaken for a venus fly trap,
Speaker 1: whose arrow shaped leaves were fringed with tiny green clam
Speaker 1: shells that seemed likely to clap together at a touch.
Speaker 1: The gentleman cleared his throat and said, Calanchoe de Gramontiana,
Speaker 1: or mother of thousands. I tilted my head in question,
Speaker 1: and he reached out to touch the leaf tipped with plantlets.
Speaker 1: As he did, a few small buds fell easily from
Speaker 1: the plant to land in the soil below. That's how
Speaker 1: her children leave the nest and grow up, he said.
Speaker 1: The florist called over to say his bouquet was ready,
Speaker 1: and I gave him a smile as he took it,
Speaker 1: and I went back to looking for just the right flower,
Speaker 1: something that felt akin to the person I would give
Speaker 1: it to. That's the heart of romance, isn't it showing
Speaker 1: someone that you are paying attention to who they are
Speaker 1: and reflecting it back with appreciation and a bit of excitement.
Speaker 1: It wasn't I supposed any different than looking through my
Speaker 1: stack of Valentine's cards in second grade de fine, just
Speaker 1: the right one to add that extra stick or two.
Speaker 1: There was a vase of feathery flowers and shades of
Speaker 1: light pink and cream and deep breath. They were a
Speaker 1: bit like a fern who had given up on just
Speaker 1: being green, and balloomed in a lacy, soft plume. The
Speaker 1: florist caught my eye and I asked for all of
Speaker 1: them to be wrapped up in tissue and tied with
Speaker 1: a satin ribbon. This was no time for doing things
Speaker 1: by half. As I walked through the streets on my
Speaker 1: way to a particular stoop, I thought about the little
Speaker 1: boy dropping that box of candy in a paper sack
Speaker 1: taped to a school desk, and my neighbor opening her door,
Speaker 1: and the gentleman in the shop with his flowers in love.
Speaker 1: We must risk some hurt, but better that than holding
Speaker 1: inside something that should be shared. I stepped up to
Speaker 1: the door and made my heart brave and ring the bell.
Speaker 1: Sweet dreams.