Get more.
Nothing Much Happens with bonus episodes, extra long stories and ad-free listening, all while supporting the show you love.
Subscribe now.
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 Katherine Nicolai.
I write and read all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens.
Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim.
We are bringing you an encore episode tonight, meaning that this story originally aired at some point in the past.
It could have been recorded with different equipment in a different location.
And since I'm a person and not a computer, I sometimes sound just slightly different.
But the stories are always soothing and family-friendly.
And our wishes for you are always deep rest and sweet dreams.
In the complex and ever-changing world of podcasting, the most meaningful way to help us keep these stories coming if that's something that matters to you is to become a premium subscriber.
It costs about 10 cents a day.
And I spent a few minutes trying to figure out what a person could even buy with ten cents.
Maybe a single button in a thrift shop.
Possibly a small piece of candy.
Even a nail or a screw costs more.
So it's a small thing, but it makes a big difference.
And you get a lot for it.
Our entire catalog with no ads.
Dozens of bonus and extra long episodes with more coming every month.
If you're interested, There are links in our show notes or head to good old nothingmuchappens.com.
Now, here is how you will fall asleep.
Just by listening to my voice, by following along with the general shape of the story I have for you.
We will shift your brain out of its tendency to wander.
We'll give it a place to land.
And each time you listen, you'll train it to respond more quickly and easily.
The shift from default mode to task positive mode will send you on your way to Snoozeville.
I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through.
If you wake later in the night, don't hesitate to turn a story back on.
Our story tonight is called The Lilac Booth, and it's a story about a spring morning at a familiar farmhouse.
It's also about bullfrogs and garden clogs.
Old faces collected from friends, armfuls of fresh flowers, driving with the windows down on a warm day, and the small decisions that add up to a new path in life.
Now, it's time to rest.
Devices down and lights out.
Settle as comfortably as you can into your bed and feel how good it is to be about to fall asleep.
You have done enough for the day.
Officially, it was enough.
There's nothing to do now but sleep.
Take a deep breath in through your nose.
Let it out your mouth.
Nice.
One more.
Breathe in.
And out.
Good.
The lilac booth.
My favorite time of year was here.
The short weeks at the end of April and through the beginning of May.
But a step outside my back door would deliver me a long fall of the sweetest smelling air these acres held.
And that's saying something, because life out here on the edge of the woods near a creek, where bullfrogs jug a rum and foxes sleep among the ferns,
Where stars stand out brightly against the midnight sky is already pretty sweet.
It's strange how a casual left turn down a dirt road many years ago had led me to this new life.
I'd been out on a springtime caper.
And I do mean that in the thieving sense of the word.
Listen, I return my grocery cart to the corral.
I don't open other people's mail.
And I'm more likely to leave a penny than take one.
But there is one area of my life where I have been known to be downright criminal.
I am a lilac thief, or at least I was when I came to that crossroads all those years ago and turned
If you've ever leaned into a bouquet of lilac blossoms and breathed in the incredible scent of them, You might understand what drove me to pack a pair of garden gloves, some snippers and a basket into the back of my getaway car and sneak out into the country.
I had a few favorite spots I'd already hit that day.
There was a tree behind the library, a spot beside the highway and a bush that grew through a fence near my house where I could snag a few blooms, but I wanted more.
Lilacs only bloom once a year, and the window is short.
So I'd driven further out of town, taken random turns with no plan in mind.
I remember it was early enough in the spring.
That sunlight still felt like a novelty and I'd had to fumble around in my glove box for some sunglasses.
I'd rolled my windows down and thrust my arm into the breeze.
I drove past an old, abandoned farmhouse and saw a whole row of lilac trees lining one side of the yard.
I craned my neck as I passed, trying to spot signs of life.
But no, the house clearly hadn't had a resident in ages.
A tree was growing up through part of the front porch and the driveway was full of tumbleweeds and fallen branches.
But in the same way you can look into a person's eyes and fall in love at first sight, something about the house called out to me as if I'd been there before, as if I'd finally come home.
And after that first timid step onto the drive, the first cautious cutting of a lilac stem, I came back many times.
Not just to gather flowers, but to check on the house.
I wanted to see it in different seasons.
To watch the leaves fall from its ancient poplar trees.
In winter, I wanted to see how the snow lay on the roof.
Once, after a heavy rain, I came to see if the creek had risen over its banks.
And it had, just by a bit. and the sound of the rushing water was louder than I'd ever heard it.
Then a couple lilac seasons back.
I was out with my basket when I finally bumped into someone, a kind older woman with her hair tied in a scarf and the top down on her car.
I'd been caught purple-handed, and she chuckled from the drive.
Red-faced, I owned up to my thievery and apologized.
But she insisted it made her happy to know the blooms weren't going to waste.
She'd inherited the old place. and couldn't use it herself.
Did I know of anyone who might be interested in buying?
I smiled as I thought about that day now.
It had been a long road, But the house had come back to life.
Renovations and repairs, fresh plaster and paint.
I stood in my garden clogs in the early morning outside in the yard and looked up at the window of my bedroom.
It was pushed up to let in the fresh air, and the curtain was dancing in the breeze.
I flexed my hand switching the snippers to the other one and stretching out my fingers.
I'd been clipping for a while and still had a ways to go.
The lilacs were blooming all around my little property.
Since moving in, I'd planted even more bushes and trees.
I had the classic pale purple flowers, the ones you most likely think of when you hear the word lilac, but also white lilacs wine-colored variegated, deep purple edged in white, blue and even yellow lilacs.
That variety was called Primrose and was one of my favorites.
Several large buckets sat on the back deck, already full of clipped blooms.
But I wanted to fill more. for this latest lilac project.
I'd gone from thief to grower, even adding signs along the front drive inviting others to stop and pick some for themselves.
And now, I was bringing the lilacs to the people, and I was excited.
I liked having folks stop by to smell the flowers, but I wanted to share them with even more people.
A flower that blooms only once a year and then just for a week or two, teaches you that time is precious, but things must be enjoyed or lost.
So I'd booked a booth at the farmer's market for the day, and we'd be spreading the love of lilacs with everyone we could.
I said we because, thankfully, I had help for the endeavor.
The lilac booth was a fundraiser for a park project in the village.
The money raised would help plant milkweed and buy sand for puddling spaces for monarch butterflies during migration.
It was for the park across from the elementary school, a place I went frequently.
When I saw a pamphlet about their expansion project, the whole idea had come together.
Volunteers were helping me cut and prepare the lilacs and sell them at the market today.
They were here among the trees with me now.
The goal was for each person to pick three buckets worth.
Then we'd load up the van and head to the booth before it opened in the late morning.
We collected scads of donated vases from friends and family and we'd make bouquets of the different colored blooms to entice market-goers.
I snipped another branch with several clumps of rosy-hued flowers, and dew fell from the petals and leaves above me, giving me a brief shower.
I chuckled.
And I thought of how far I'd come from those days, riding around town swiping stems, and how a random turn on a country road can change your life.
The lilac booth.
My favorite time of year was here.
The short weeks at the end of April and through the beginning of May when I step outside my back door would deliver me a lungful of the sweetest smelling air these acres held.
And that's saying something.
Because life out here on the edge of the woods near a creek, where bullfrogs jug a rum and foxes sleep among the ferns, where the stars stand out brightly against the midnight sky, is already pretty sweet.
It's strange how a casual left turn down a dirt road many years ago had led me to this new life.
I'd been out on a springtime caper.
And I do mean that in the thieving sense of the word.
Listen, I return my grocery cart to the corral.
I don't open other people's mail, and I'm more likely to leave a penny than take one.
But there is one area of my life where I have been known. to be downright criminal.
I am a lilac thief.
Or at least I was when I came to that crossroads. all those years ago and turned.
And if you've ever leaned into a bouquet of lilac blossoms and breathed in the incredible scent of them, You might understand what drove me to pack a pair of garden gloves, some snippers and a basket into the back of my getaway car and sneak out into the country.
I had a few favorite spots I'd already hit that day.
There was the tree behind the library.
A spot beside the highway and a bush that grew through a fence near my house where I could snag a few blooms, but I wanted more.
Lilacs only bloom. once a year, and the window is short.
So I'd driven further out of town, taking random turns with no plan in mind.
I remember it was early enough in the spring that bright sunlight still felt like a novelty, and I'd had to fumble around in my glove box for some sunglasses.
I'd rolled the windows down and thrust my arm into the breeze.
I drove past an old, abandoned farmhouse and saw a whole row of lilac trees lining one side of the yard.
I craned my neck as I passed, trying to spot signs of life.
But No, the house clearly hadn't had a resident in ages.
A tree was growing up through part of the front porch and the driveway was full of tumbleweed and fallen branches.
But in the same way that you can look into a person's eyes and fall in love at first sight,
Something about the house called out to me.
As if I'd been there before.
As if I'd finally come home.
And after that first timid step onto the drive, the first cautious cutting of a lilac stem, I came back many times.
Not just to gather flowers, but to check on the house.
I wanted to see it in different seasons.
To watch the leaves fall from its ancient poplar trees.
In winter, I wanted to see how the snow lay on the roof.
And once, after a heavy rain, I came to see if the creek had risen over its banks.
It had, just by a bit.
And the sound of the rushing water was louder than I'd ever heard it.
Then, a couple lilac seasons back, I was out with my basket when I finally bumped into someone.
A kind, older woman with her hair tied in a scarf and the top down on her car.
She spotted me with an armful of flowers.
I'd been caught purple-handed, and she chuckled from the drive.
Red-faced, I owned up to my thievery and apologized.
But she insisted.
It made her happy to know the blooms weren't going to waste.
She'd inherited the place and couldn't use it.
Did I know of anyone who might be interested in buying?
I smiled as I thought about that day now.
It had been a long road, but the house had come back to life.
Renovations and repairs.
Fresh plaster and paint.
I stood in my garden clogs in the early morning.
Outside in the yard. and looked up at the window of my bedroom.
It was pushed up to let in the fresh air, and the curtain was dancing in the breeze.
I flexed my hand, switching the snippers to the other one and stretching out my fingers.
I'd been clipping for a while and still had a ways to go.
The lilacs were blooming all around my little property.
Since moving in, I planted even more bushes and trees.
I had the classic pale purple flowers, the ones you most likely think of when you hear the word lilac, but also white lilacs wine-colored variegated, deep purple edged in white, and even yellow lilacs.
That variety was called primrose and was one of my favorites.
Several large buckets sat on the back deck already full of clipped blooms.
But I wanted to fill a few more for this latest lilac project.
I'd gone from thief to grower, even adding signs along the front drive inviting others to stop and pick some for themselves.
Now, I was bringing the lilacs to the people, but I was excited.
I liked having folks stop by to smell the lilacs, but I wanted to share them with even more people.
A flower that blooms only once a year and then just for a week or two, teaches you that time is precious, that things must be enjoyed or lost.
So I booked a booth at the farmer's market for the day, and we'd be spreading the love of lilacs with everyone we could.
I said we, because thankfully I had help for this endeavor.
The lilac booth was a fundraiser for a park project in the village.
The money raised would help plant milkweed and buy sand for puddling spaces for monarch butterflies during migration.
It was for the park across from the elementary school, a place I went frequently.
When I saw a pamphlet about their expansion project, The whole idea had come together.
Volunteers were helping me cut and prepare the lilacs and to sell them at the market today.
They were here among the trees with me now.
The goal was for each person to pick three buckets worth.
Then we'd load up the van. and head to the booth before it opened in the late morning.
We'd collected scads of donated vases from friends and family and we'd make bouquets of the different colored blooms to entice market goers.
I snipped another long branch with several clumps of rosy-hued flowers, and dew fell from the petals and leaves above me, giving me a brief shower.
I chuckled and thought of how far I'd come from those days, riding around town swiping stems, and how a random turn on a country road can change your life.
Sweet dreams.
