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 write and read all the stories
Speaker 1: you hear on Nothing Much Happens Audio Engineering is by
Speaker 1: Bob Wittersheim. My book, also called Nothing Much Happens, is
Speaker 1: available wherever books are sold. Thank you for your support.
Speaker 1: Now I have a story to tell you, and it
Speaker 1: is meant to simply be a soft landing spot for
Speaker 1: your mind, a way to reroute your thoughts away from
Speaker 1: the day and toward a place that feels safe and
Speaker 1: calm and enjoyable. Just to remind you deserve to feel good.
Speaker 1: If your self care plan doesn't include enjoyment and pleasure,
Speaker 1: you're missing something fundamental. I'll read the story twice, and
Speaker 1: I'll go a little slower on the second reading. Just
Speaker 1: follow along with the sound of my voice, and before
Speaker 1: you know it, probably before I'm more than a couple
Speaker 1: minutes in, you'll be deeply asleep. If you wake in
Speaker 1: the middle of the night, think back through any of
Speaker 1: the details of the story that you can remember, and
Speaker 1: you'll drop right back off. Seriously, I have been using
Speaker 1: this technique my whole life. And now I've heard from
Speaker 1: thousands of you who agree it works. Our story tonight
Speaker 1: is called People Watching and the Coffee Shop, and it's
Speaker 1: a story about the view from a table in the
Speaker 1: back corner. It's also about found family, a neatly shoveled sidewalk,
Speaker 1: and simple ways to feel connected. Now turn off your light,
Speaker 1: put down anything you've been looking at. It is time
Speaker 1: for sleep. Slide down into your sheets and get as
Speaker 1: cozy and comfortable as you can. Feel your body becoming
Speaker 1: really heavy, every muscle relaxing. Now, take a slow breath
Speaker 1: in through your nose and let it out through your
Speaker 1: mouth again, in, let it out. Good People Watching and
Speaker 1: the Coffee Shop. It had snowed steadily for the past
Speaker 1: few days. A few inches would fall at some point
Speaker 1: in the night or afternoon, and then mother nature would
Speaker 1: stop and give us a chance to catch up before
Speaker 1: beginning again. We'd put on our thick gloves and tall
Speaker 1: boots and step out into our driveways with our shovels
Speaker 1: and start to clear it away. I hadn't minded. There
Speaker 1: is something about a simple chore that is quite satisfying.
Speaker 1: There are lots of kinds of work that after hours
Speaker 1: of effort. You step back and you can't see that
Speaker 1: you've done anything. But when I shoveled the drive and
Speaker 1: the sidewalks, it was immediately apparent that it was a
Speaker 1: job well and thoroughly done. In the yearly fall, when
Speaker 1: I'd had a cord of firewood to stack in the garage,
Speaker 1: I'd been just as happy, one wheelbarrow load at a time,
Speaker 1: setting it in neat rows that at the end had
Speaker 1: gotten taller than me. I could have done it all day,
Speaker 1: folding bath towels into identical rectangles, stacking firewood, setting up
Speaker 1: a dozen jars of canned tomatoes in the pantry, or
Speaker 1: shoveling the sidewalks until they were clear. It all gave
Speaker 1: me a feeling that while there were lots of things
Speaker 1: in the world that, at least to me, didn't seem
Speaker 1: to add up, here were little pockets of order and harmony.
Speaker 1: I was thinking of this as I shoveled of a
Speaker 1: phrase my grandmother used to say when she finished tidying
Speaker 1: up a room and stopped with her hands on her
Speaker 1: hips to look at her work. Apple pie order. She
Speaker 1: called it. After the pavement was clear, I'd spread out
Speaker 1: some salt to keep the ice away. I propped my
Speaker 1: shovel by the door, no use in putting it away.
Speaker 1: The skies were low with thick clouds full of more snow.
Speaker 1: I had a sudden craving for a cup of something
Speaker 1: hot and a bit of people watching. There was a
Speaker 1: coffee shop on a corner just a few blocks up,
Speaker 1: and when I walked by, I saw that my favorite
Speaker 1: table was free in the back corner. I got myself
Speaker 1: a peppermint hot chocolate and took it back to the table,
Speaker 1: making off my gloves and wrapping my fingers around the
Speaker 1: cup to ease the chill out of them. I liked
Speaker 1: the 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 busy,
Speaker 1: bustling avenues and cities, along cobblestone streets and small villages,
Speaker 1: and even on neighborhood park benches beside hand pushed 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 stop needing 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 creases out of his paper, and a
Speaker 1: hot tempered one who was prodding his neighbor with his elbow,
Speaker 1: trying to persuade him to his point of view. I'd
Speaker 1: keep tabs on them over the winter, whenever I stopped
Speaker 1: in for a drink, maybe learning which newspaper was a favorite,
Speaker 1: whether they took their coffee with milk or sugar. I'd
Speaker 1: eavesdrop and maybe learn something or just feel the comfort
Speaker 1: of their conversation in the background of my day. It
Speaker 1: made me laugh to myself, wondering if one day, decades
Speaker 1: in the future, I'd be pushing my cart through the
Speaker 1: aisles of a grocery store, taking my glasses out to
Speaker 1: read a label on a box, while a young person
Speaker 1: watching from the other end of the aisle silently adopted
Speaker 1: me as their grandparent. We just don't stop needing 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 stomp snow off their shoes,
Speaker 1: and fish through their pockets and bags for dollars in change.
Speaker 1: Just as I finished my hot chocolate and the pink
Speaker 1: sky had faded into a purplish gray, it began to
Speaker 1: snow again. I gave the table of grandfathers a smile.
Speaker 1: As I wrapped myself back up and went out into
Speaker 1: the snow, A few clouds moved overhead, and a waxing
Speaker 1: crescent moon shone bright above me. I turned toward home
Speaker 1: and began to walk. The cold air opened my eyes wide,
Speaker 1: and I watched the clouds moving, the cars going past,
Speaker 1: and the porch lights coming on. In an apartment building
Speaker 1: across the street, I saw some one step out on
Speaker 1: their balcony with a blanket pulled around their shoulders. Their
Speaker 1: eyes were turned up at the sky, and we both
Speaker 1: 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 on to my street
Speaker 1: and saw that my apple pie ordered sidewalks were covered
Speaker 1: in a fresh inch of snow. Ah well, I'd have
Speaker 1: another chance tomorrow. People watching and the coffee shop. It
Speaker 1: had snowed steadily for the past few days. A few
Speaker 1: inches 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. I've 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 eye 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 busy,
Speaker 1: 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 stop needing 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 pick'd 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, maybe learning which newspaper was
Speaker 1: a favorite, or whether they took their coffee with milk
Speaker 1: or sugar. I'd evesdrop and maybe learn something or just
Speaker 1: feel the comfort of their conversation in the background of
Speaker 1: my day. It made me laugh to myself, wondering if
Speaker 1: one day, decades in the future, I'd be pushing my
Speaker 1: cart through the aisles of a grocery store, taking my
Speaker 1: glasses out to read a label on a box, while
Speaker 1: a young person watching from the other end of the
Speaker 1: aisle silently adopted me as their grandparents. We just don't
Speaker 1: stop needing each other well, I guessed in a very
Speaker 1: big picture sense. That was the point. The sun would
Speaker 1: 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 cars going past, and porch lights coming on.
Speaker 1: In an apartment building across the street, I saw someone
Speaker 1: step out on their balcony with a blanket pulled around
Speaker 1: their shoulders. Their eyes were turned up at the sky,
Speaker 1: and we both together and separately, looked at the moon.
Speaker 1: I kept walking. I could smell the wood smoke from
Speaker 1: the chimneys of the houses around me. I turned onto
Speaker 1: my street and saw that my apple pie or ordered
Speaker 1: sidewalks were covered in a fresh inch of snow. Ah well,
Speaker 1: M'd have another chance tomorrow. Sweet dreams,