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Hi, I'm Katherine Nicolai, and if you're looking for something gentle to listen to that isn't news or true crime or self-improvement, I made this for you.
Stories from the Village of Nothing Much is like easy listening, but for fiction.
Cozy, warm, calm stories about ordinary moments that feel a little magical.
They're grounding, soothing and quietly uplifting without being cheesy, relaxing without putting you to sleep, and just dreamy enough to remind you that there's still sweetness in everyday life.
Perfect for your commute while you're tidying up or when you want a little escape that feels simple and good.
Search for stories from the village of Nothing Much wherever you listen.
Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Everyone, in which nothing much happens.
You feel good, and then you fall asleep.
I'm Catherine Nicolai.
I write and read all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens.
Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim.
And this week we are giving to the International Institute of Minnesota.
They help immigrants and refugees make Minnesota their home.
Their comprehensive offerings include refugee resettlement, English education, workforce and leadership development, college prep, and immigration and citizenship assistance.
You can learn more about them in our show notes.
My new audiobook On the Street Where You Live is available for pre-order now.
Anywhere you get your audiobooks.
We have a full cast of really special voices joining me, including Mara Wilson, Juan Munoz and Cabana Holdbrook-Smith, to name a few.
I play the innkeeper, and the entire piece is so lovely and enjoyable.
A nervous system reset through storytelling.
We have the link to that, as well as to our premium feed and merch in our show notes.
Now, I have a story to tell you.
It is a soft place to rest your mind.
And I think it works best if you imagine yourself in it.
So, as you listen and follow along with the sound of my voice, pull the details of it around you like a blanket.
And before you know it, you'll be in deep, restorative sleep.
I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through.
If you wake in the middle of the night, you could listen again or just pull those details back into your mind.
Think through any part of the story that you can remember and you'll drop right back off.
Our story tonight is called The Ducks in the Middle, and it's a story about a walk over snowy fields on a midwinter day.
It's also about a collection of old watches in the back of the closet, stepping into a ray of sunshine and how it feels to have a friend watching out for you.
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It's time.
Turn off your light.
Set everything down.
You have done enough for today.
Now it is time to sleep.
Take a deep breath in through your nose and out through your mouth.
Again, slow in with sound out.
Good.
The ducks in the middle.
The fields were still covered with snow.
Snow that sloped. into windblown drifts and followed the curve of the farmland beneath it.
When I looked out from my bedroom window in the dim morning light, the fields looked like sections of a quilt, all in shades of gray and white, but with shared, tidy shapes fitting together.
We were still more than a month away from even thinking about planting.
Well, no one could stop me from thinking about it, but the actual doing of it was certainly a ways off.
I had a pile of seed catalogs on the kitchen table and I'd been flipping through them over my meals.
When I found a page of particular interest, I'd press my thumb tightly into the crease of the catalog, breaking the spine open at that spot.
So it would sit flat.
And let me take in the details.
Besides daydreaming about seedlings, I'd been finding other ways to pass the time over these quiet months.
I'd cleaned out my closet, Something I'd been promising myself I would do for a long time.
I'd sorted out what I wanted to keep and what I was ready to give away.
And now, there was a lot of space in there.
And I didn't think I'd be filling it back up again.
Everything I'd kept was something I enjoyed wearing.
And it made me think that my wardrobe was better off with fewer but more loved pieces in it.
I'd even gone through the shelves of boxes in the back and found a collection of watches I'd inherited twenty years before.
There were wristwatches, some on slim bands with small, delicate faces and others with wide metal straps and worn numerals, and even one pocket watch that still sprung open when I pressed its knob.
I'd sat on the floor in the closet for a while and tried winding them up to see which ones still ran, and a few of them did.
I'd set the box on my desk again, thinking that I might use the rest of the winter learning how to get them telling time again, polishing up their bezels and lugs.
When I walked past, I could hear their quiet ticking from inside, and I liked the sound.
Have you ever thought about sounds that haven't been heard in a long time?
A bell in a box in an attic that hasn't rung in decades?
A gong in a temple that's gone ages without a visitor to strike it.
A viola that's been in its case since its aged owner was young.
Could sounds age?
Would they resonate just as they had?
And would anyone remember enough to say?
Winter thoughts.
I'd also been going for a walk almost every day.
I found that if I bundled up properly, even the very coldest days, were worth heading out into.
But today was a cold one.
Not the coldest we'd had, but I would need every piece of my winter kit.
I'd found that the best time of the day for my walk was right after lunch.
A full belly helped me keep warm, and the fresh air gave me a bit of energy to carry into the rest of the day.
Today I'd made a pot of black-eyed peas in a spicy broth with torn leaves of chard and roasted tomatoes.
When my bowl was empty and set in the sink, I started to suit up in the back hallway beside the door.
I stepped into my boots and pulled on my coat.
It was a long one, and once I'd zipped it up it hung just below the tops of my boots, so I was already covered nearly head to toe.
Then I pulled a long scarf around my neck, winding and tying it so the wind wouldn't whip it away.
I settled a knitted hat down over my ears and lastly took my gloves from the shelf.
Being so bundled up always made me laugh a little.
I felt like an astronaut about to take a spacewalk.
And opening the door to the silent white fields of my farm.
I guess it did seem a bit like I was stepping onto an alien landscape.
The quiet was so complete.
No birdsong, and even the sound of shifting tree branches on the highest limbs were muffled by the snow, so that nothing echoed.
I could hear my own breath, and the soft crinkle of the snow under my boots.
It wasn't quite a sunny day, rather than the low screen of thick, unmoving clouds we'd had lately.
There were a dozen or so fluffy ones scattered across the sky.
I took the path toward the barn and could see a spot a few minutes' walk in front of me where the sunshine touched down to the snow.
I walked for pleasure, for enjoyment.
So I went at the pace that felt best to me.
Sometimes it was quick, and even became a jog or a run, and sometimes it was very slow.
Today, that beam of sunshine in front of me had put a spring in my step, and I strode purposely toward it.
When I stepped into the light, I stood for a minute unwinding my scarf and lifting my chin to let the sun warm my skin.
I breathed in and out.
I closed my eyes and listened to the quiet, rolled my shoulders down my back, I hummed a little a song that had been playing while I ate and swayed from foot to foot.
I was alone out here, but I wouldn't have minded if I'd been observed.
It felt like the most natural thing in the world, to dance in the sun.
After a while, I re-wrapped my scarf and started walking again.
I liked to take the path that went along the edge of the fields and into the trees.
In a few months, the snow would melt and permeate the soil, and we'd be busy with work from dawn till dusk.
For now, I enjoyed the break.
As I came through the line of trees, the path dipped a bit, and I was careful with my steps.
Here, the land wasn't even and clear like up in the fields.
There were rocks and tree branches and fallen logs.
The trail skirted closer to a creek, a very narrow one that I could step across when the water was low, and I followed it for a while.
On the other side, I spotted a long, ancient log, and on it a neat row of ducks.
The log was as dark as fresh soil and dusted with snow.
I stopped to watch the ducks.
Their wings were folded back. and they were sleeping.
Most of them with their heads rotated back and their bills tucked under their wings.
But a couple just tucked their heads back and dropped their bills onto their chests.
I noticed that the duck at the end of the row was turned, his whole body facing the opposite direction.
And I remembered something I'd read about that.
Some mammals only put half of their brain to sleep.
It had a name, in fact.
Hmm.
A unihemispheric sleep.
Dolphins did it too.
It let them breathe air while sleeping.
As for ducks well, when they lined up, the ducks on either end would face in opposite directions and sleep with one eye open to keep watch over the group.
Then, at a certain point, with some instinctive signal, they would stand and turn around and switch to the other half of their brain, the other eye.
I didn't want to wake them, so I stepped away quietly.
But I thought of how good that sleep must be for the ducks in the middle to know they were being watched over and protected as they slept.
They could rest every part of themselves, something we all need sometimes. the ducks in the middle.
The fields were still covered with snow, snow that sloped into wind-blown drifts and followed the curve of the farmland beneath it.
When I looked out from my bedroom window in the dim morning light, The fields looked like sections of a quilt, all in shades of gray and white and with shared tidy shapes fitting together.
We were still more than a month away from even thinking about planting.
Well, No one could stop me from thinking about it, but the actual doing of it was certainly a ways off.
I had a pile of seed catalogs on the kitchen table and I'd been flipping through them over my meals.
When I found a page of particular interest, I'd press my thumb tightly into the crease of the catalog, breaking the spine open at that spot so it would sit flat.
And let me take in all the details.
Besides daydreaming about seedlings, I'd been finding other ways to pass the time over these quiet months.
I'd cleaned out my closet, something I'd been promising myself I would do for a long time.
I'd sorted out what I wanted to keep and what I was ready to give away.
And now there was a lot of space in there.
And I didn't think I'd be filling it back up again.
Everything I'd kept was something I enjoyed wearing.
And it made me think that my wardrobe was better off with fewer but more loved pieces in it.
I'd even gone through the shelves of boxes in the back and found a collection of watches I'd inherited 20 years before.
There were wristwatches, some on slim bands with small, delicate faces and others with wide metal straps and worn numerals, and even one pocket watch that still sprung open when I pressed its knob.
I'd sat on the floor in the closet for a while and tried winding them up to see which ones still ran, and a few of them did.
I'd set the box on my desk, thinking that I might use the rest of the winter learning how to get them telling time again, polishing up their bezels and lugs.
When I walked past, I could hear their quiet ticking from inside, and I liked the sound.
Have you ever thought about sounds that haven't been heard in a long time?
A bell in a box in an attic that hasn't rung in decades.
A gong in a temple that's gone ages without a visitor to strike it.
A viola that's been in its case since its aged owner was young.
Could sounds age?
Would they resonate just as they had?
And would anyone remember enough to say?
Winter thoughts.
I'd also been going for a walk almost every day found that if I bundled up properly, even the very coldest days were worth heading out into.
And today was a cold one.
Not the coldest we'd had, but I would need every piece of my winter kit.
I'd found that the best time of the day for my walk was right after lunch.
A full belly helped keep me warm, and the fresh air gave me a bit of energy to carry into the rest of the day.
Today I'd made a pot of black-eyed peas and a spicy broth with torn leaves of chard and roasted tomatoes.
When my bowl was empty and set in the sink, I started to suit up.
In the back hallway beside the door, I stepped into my boots, and pulled on my coat.
It was a long one, and once I'd zipped it up it hung just below the tops of my boots, so I was already covered nearly head to toe.
Then I pulled a long scarf around my neck, winding and tying it so the wind wouldn't whip it away.
I settled a knitted hat down over my ears and lastly took my gloves from the shelf.
Being so bundled always made me laugh a little.
I felt like an astronaut about to take a spacewalk.
And opening the door to the silent white fields of my farm.
I guess it did seem a bit like I was stepping onto an alien landscape.
The quiet was so complete, no birdsong, and even the sound of shifting tree branches on the highest limbs were muffled by the snow so that nothing echoed.
I could hear my own breath and the soft crinkle of the snow under my boots.
It wasn't quite a sunny day, but rather than the low screen of thick, unmoving clouds we'd had lately, there were a dozen or so fluffy ones scattered across the sky.
I took the path toward the barn and could see a spot a few minutes' walk in front of me where the sunshine touched down to the snow.
I walked for pleasure, for enjoyment.
So I went at the pace that felt best to me.
Sometimes it was quick, and even became a jog or a run.
And sometimes it was very slow.
Today, that beam of light in front of me put a spring in my step, and I strode purposely toward it.
When I stepped into it, I stood for a minute unwinding my scarf and lifting my chin to let the sun warm my skin.
I breathed in and out.
I closed my eyes and listened to the quiet and rolled my shoulders down my back.
I hummed a little, a song that had been playing while I ate, and swayed from foot to foot.
I was alone out here, I wouldn't have minded if I'd been observed.
It felt like the most natural thing in the world to dance in the sun.
After a while, I re-wrapped my scarf and started walking again.
I liked to take the path that went along the edge of the fields and into the trees.
In a few months, the snow would melt and permeate the soil, and we'd be busy with work from dawn till dusk.
For now, I enjoyed the break.
As I came through the line of trees, the path dipped a bit, and I was careful with my steps.
Here the land wasn't even and clear, like up in the fields.
There were rocks and tree branches and fallen logs.
The trail skirted closer to a creek, a very narrow one that I could step across when the water was low, and I followed it for a while.
On the other side, I spotted a long, ancient log, and on it a neat row of ducks.
The log was as dark as fresh soil and dusted with snow.
I stopped to watch the ducks.
Their wings were folded back and they were sleeping.
Most of them with their heads rotated back and their bills tucked under their wings.
But a couple just tucked their heads back and dropped their bills onto their chests.
I noticed that the duck at the end of the row was turned, his whole body facing the opposite direction.
And I remembered something I'd read about that.
Some mammals only put half of their brain to sleep at a time.
It had a name, in fact.
A unihemispheric sleep.
Dolphins did it, too.
It let them breathe air while sleeping.
As for ducks well, when they lined up, the ducks on either end would face in opposite directions and sleep with one eye open to keep watch over the group.
Then, at a certain point, with some instinctive signal, they would stand and turn around and switch to the other half of their brain, the other eye.
I didn't want to wake them, so I stepped away quietly.
But I thought of how good that sleep must be for the ducks in the middle.
To know they were being watched over and protected as they slept.
They could rest every part of themselves.
Something we all need sometimes.
Sweet dreams.
Sweet dreams.
