Our story tonight is called Summer Afternoons, and it’s a story about the possibilities of a special part of the day. It’s also about an empty ginger ale bottle filled with windflowers, a walk by the railroad tracks, date bars, and park benches, and elevating the everyday.
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Welcome to bedtime Stories for Everyone, in which nothing much happens, you feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Catherine Nikolay. I write and read everything you hear and nothing much happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Witttersheim. We give to a different charity each week, and this week we are giving to a wider circle whose purpose is to end poverty for one individual and one family after another. Learn more about them in our show notes. For more nothing much in your life, we invite you to listen to our daytime show called Stories from the Village of Nothing Much, where you have a shot at actually hearing the story. It has lovely soundscapes, and I've been dropping some behind the scenes details on your favorite characters and storylines. There. You can subscribe to our premium feeds for bonus episodes. Nothing Much happens Today. The July bonus comes out. It's called Golden Hour and I love that story. Find more about all of it, as well as our sleepy Time wind down boxes in our show notes. Now, this is a tested and true technique for falling asleep and returning to sleep if you wake in the night. It works by occupying your mind just enough to keep it from wandering, giving it a job to do so that it stays put. And the job is just to listen. The story is simple and calm, and there's nothing to keep track of. I'll tell it twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. Don't hesitate to turn it back on. If you wake later and feel your brain beginning to gear up with time, you'll wake less go back to sleep more quickly, So be patient. If you're new to this, our story tonight is called Summer Afternoons, and it's a story about the possibilities of a special part of the day. It's also about an empty ginger ale bottle filled with wildflowers, a walk by the railroad tracks, date bars and park benches, and elevating the every day. Now, snuggle in, my friend. The day is done and all is well. Nothing more is needed from you. Take a deep, slow breath in through your nose and let it out through the mouth. Do it one more time, fill up, and let it go good. Summer afternoons. When I was a teenager, I loved the idea of afternoons. I even liked the word. It sounded languorous and unhurried, a nice, lo long word with plenty of possibility in it. Thinking back on it now, it was part of a phase I'd been going through of romanticism. I wore dresses with long, floaty skirts, and read poetry on park benches and daydreamed about how an ordinary afternoon could turn into an adventure. In all honesty, I've never quite left that phase behind. I still romanticize many moments of my day, still wander through dreamy possibilities in my mind, and still love the idea of afternoons not being an early riser. Mornings feel distinctly less inviting to me, but an afternoon implies some space a few hours after the thickest slice of the day, when you might stop into a cafe for a niced coffee or take a walk to clear your head. And what if on that walk you found a key with a number scratched into it, the start of a mystery that led you to a safety deposit box full of old newspaper clippings, the subject of which you match'd to a headstone in the old cemetery. I laughed out loud at that silly story, spinning part of my brain, the part that loved afternoons and what ifs. As I took my own slow ambling walk beside the railroad tracks. The day was warm, but there was a steady, strong breeze blowing that made even being in the full sun comfortable. I'd been helping out at the bakery to day, as I did a few days a week there early enough to rotate the trays of bagels and muffins in and out of the oven, to glaze doughnuts, and slice sandwich bread, and pack the strawberry rhubarb pies into their white boxes tied with string to see them through the morning rush and a bit beyond. Then, some time after one or two, as the tables emptied out as sold out items were written in chalk on our eighty six board might be done. The baker always offered to make me and anyone else who was hungry a sandwich at the end of our shifts, and honestly I've never turned her down. She'd been experimenting with fresh baked peta bread lately soft and a little chewy, cooked quickly inside a very hot oven, and today she slid a bunch of them open and filled the pockets inside with a thin sliced veggie sligh, carrots, broccoli, stems, cabbage, and red onions, all coated with green Goddess dressing. It was tangy and creamy, and she topped it with sliced avocado and flaky salt. Beside it, she'd set out date bar off cuts, the scraps that we trimmed away when we were dividing them up into perfect squares. With my plate in hand, I'd pulled up a chair beside another of my fellow helpers at the small table outside the back door of the bakery, and we'd both let out a deep sigh, that sigh of work well done and a bit of time to recharge. I'd gotten a ginger ale out of the fridge and it sweated in the warm air of the alley. In between bites, he asked me, what are you going to do with the rest of the afternoon. That was the moment this whole discourse on afternoon started. I'd smiled at the memory of those poetry books and park benches, about to take a sip of my ginger ale, when the spice of it had made me cough a bit. I sat my bottle down and he gently patted me on the back, as I promised I wasn't choking. I dabbed under my eyes, which had brimmed when the ginger got the better of me, telling him how I loved that word, and while I had no firm plans, i'd definitely get up to something. He chuckled at my recounting of my twirly skirts and told me his teenage face had been equally dramatic, but featured more eyeliner and box dyed black hair. I agreed that we'd been conveying something similar back in those days, just with different expressions. When my sandwich was finished and the plate busted away, I grabbed my ginger ale and a large piece of the date bar off cuts, waved goodbye to him, and made my way down the alley. That's when I'd wound through town, toward the end of Main Street to where the depot sat a block back. I liked to walk beside the railroad tracks, talk about romantic What if I hopped aboard a train headed due south of here and rode it for a day, got off in some place where no one knew who I was, and walked the streets of their down town. What if there was a help wanted sign in the window of their bakery and hot peta coming out of their oven when I walked in. Would it mean I was meant to stay? I swallowed the last bite of my date bar and washed it down with the last sip from my bottle. There was a small path through the woods, away from the tracks. I knew it well. I followed it down past that tree with the collection of pretty stones around its roots. I'd left perfect pine cones and the best giant red oak leaves there in the autumn. I picked a few stems of orange butterfly weed and purple chickory as I went, eating the stalks into my empty soda bottle. When I got home, i'd just add a bit of water and have flowers for the kitchen table. The path wove behind some old houses and through the leaves and branches. I heard a screen door bang shut. I stood still, listening to see if someone was coming out or going in. I was on public land, far enough from their back yards not to disturb anyone, but still I didn't want to startle or be startled. There was a rustling and footfalls a dozen yards in front of me, and I wondered how this person was spending their afternoon. Were they out here to pick the huckleberries that were ripe and ready through the woods. Were they on their way to a secret assignation, avoiding the streets and sidewalks so as to not be spotted. That's when I heard the door bang again and a young voice call Clover walkeyes and from the spot I had heard the rustling, a sudden silence, and then a quick raucous as Clover, who through the foliage I could just see was a golden retriever with a blue collar, spun on the spot and raced back to his house. As I walked on, I heard the screen door beying again, and I imagin'd Clover and his boy reaching for the leash from a hook in the hall, a walk with your dog, a sandwich with a friend, a day dream along the railroad tracks. They weren't the wildest adventures I'd ever imagined, but they left me with a deep warmth and contentment for my life right now, and who knew what I'd get up to tomorrow. Summer afternoons. When I was a teenager, I loved the idea of afternoons. I even liked the word it sounded languorous and unhurried, a nice long word with plenty of possibility in it. Thinking back on it now, it was part of a phase I'd been going through of romanticism. My war dresses with long, floaty skirts and read poetry on park benches and daydreamed about how an ordinary afternoon could turn into an adventure. In all honesty, I never quite left that phase behind. I still romanticize many moments of my day, still wander through dreamy possibility in my mind, and still love the idea of afternoons not being an early riser. Mornings feel distinctly uninviting, but an afternoon implies some space a few hours after the thickest slice of the day, when you might stop into a cafe for a niced coffee, or take a walk to clear your head. And what if ill that walk you found a key with a number scratched into it start of a mystery that led to a safety deposit box full of old newspaper clippings, the subject of which he matched with a headstone in the old cemetery. I laughed out loud at that silly story, spinning part of my brain, the part that loved afternoons and what ifs, Because I took my own slow ambling walk beside the railroad track. The day was warm, but there was a steady, strong breeze that made even being in full sun comfortable. I'd been helping out at the bakery today, as I did a few days a week. There early enough to rotate the trays of bagels and muffins in and out of the oven, to glaze doughnuts, and slice sandwich bread, and pack the strawberry rhubarb pies into the white boxes died with string to see them through the morning rush and a bit beyond. Then sometime after one or two, as the tables emptied out as sold out items were written in chalk on our eighty six board, I'd be done. The baker always offered to make me and anyone else who was hungry a sandwich at the end of our shifts, and honestly I've never turned her down. She'd been experimenting with fresh baked pew of bread, lately soft and a little chewy, cooked quickly inside a very hot oven, and today she slid a bunch of them open and filled the pockets inside with a thin sliced veggy slaw, carrots, broccoli, stems, cabbage and red onions, all coated with green Goddess dressing. It was hanging and creamy, and she topped it with sliced avocado and flaky salt. Beside it, she'd set out date bar off cuts, the scraps that we trimmed away when we were dividing them up into perfect squares. With my plate in hand, I'd pulled up a chair beside another of my fellow helpers at the small table outside the back door of the bakery, and we'd both let out a deep sigh, a sigh of work well done and a bit of time to recharge. I'd gotten a ginger ale out of the fridge and it sweated in the warm air of the alley. In between bites, he asked me, what are you going to do with the rest of the afternoon. That was the moment this whole discourse on afternoons started. I'd smiled as the memory of those poetry books and park benches came back to me. About to take a sip of ginger ale when the spice of it made me cough a bit. I set my bottle down and he gently patted me on the back, as I promised I wasn't choking. I'd dabbed under my eyes, which had brimmed when the ginger got the better of me, telling him how I loved that word afternoon, and while I had no firm plans, i'd definitely get up to something. He chuckled at my recounting of my twirly skirts and told me his teenage face had been equally dramatic, but featured more eye liner and box eyed black hair. I agreed that we'd been conveying something similar back in those days, just with different expressions. When my sandwich was finished and the plate bust away, I grabbed my ginger ale and a large piece of the date bar off cut, waved good bye to him, and made my way down the alley. That's when I'd wound through town, toward the end of Main Street to where the depot sat a block back. I like to walk beside the railroad tracks. Talk about romantic. What if I hopped aboard a train had a due south of here and rode it for a day, got off in some place where no one knew who I was, and walked the streets of their downtown. What if there was a help wanted sign in the window of their bakery and hot peta coming out of thereoven when I walked in. Would it mean I was meant to stay? I swallowed the last bite of my date bar and washed it down with the last sip from my bottle. There was a small path through the woods, away from the tracks. I knew it well. I followed it down past the tree with the collection of pretty stones around its roots. I'd left perfect pine cones and the best giant red oak leaves there in the autumn. I picked a few stems of orange butterflyweed and purple chickory as I went, feeding the stalks into my empty soda bottle. When I got home, I'd just add a bit of water, and i'd have flowers for the kitchen table. The path wove behind some old and through the leaves and branches. I heard a screen door bang shut. I stood still, listening to see if someone was coming out or going in. I was on public land, far enough from their backyards not to disturb anyone, but still I didn't want to startle nor be startled. There was a rustling and footfalls a dozen yards in front of me, and I wondered how this per person was spending their afternoon. Were they out here to pick the huckleberries that were ripe and ready through the woods. Were they on their way to a secret assignation, but avoiding the streets and sidewalks so as to not be spotted. That's when I heard the door bang again and a young voice call Clover, walkies. And from the spot i'd heard the rustling, a sudden silence, and then a quick ruckus as Clover, who through the foliage I could just see was a golden retriever with a blue collar, spun on the spot and raced back to his house. As I walked on and heard the screen door bang again, I imagined Clover and his boy reaching for the leash from a hook in the hall, a walk with your dog, a sandwich with a friend, a day dream along the railroad tracks. They weren't the wildest adventures I'd ever imagined, but they left me with a deep warmth and contentment for my life right now, and who knew what I'd get up to tomorrow. Sweet dreams