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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 Katherine Nicolai.
I write and read all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens.
Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim.
We give to a different charity each week.
And this week we are giving to the Southern Poverty Law Center, working in partnership with communities to advance the human rights of all people.
You can learn more about them in our show notes.
For ad-free episodes, subscribe to our premium feed at nothingmuchappens.com.
Just by listening to the sound of my voice and following along with the soft shape of the story, we will train your brain to reliably settle and sleep.
I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through.
If you wake in the night, just press play again.
Our story tonight is called Concert in the Park.
And it's a story about a warm evening spent enjoying live music.
It's also about tiger lilies and elephant ears, stone benches and sneakers and the memories that melodies can bring to the surface.
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So settle in and pull your blanket up over your shoulder.
I'll be here watching over as you drift off.
You aren't alone.
You are guarded.
Take a deep breath in through your nose.
Let it out your mouth.
Nice.
One more.
Breathe in.
And out.
Good.
A concert in the park.
It was a sunny day in the middle of the week, near the start of the summer.
I'd gotten home from work and puttered around in the yard for a while, then cut a vase's worth of tiger lilies and set them on the table by the front door, pulling out one extra bloom and setting it into a bud vase to sit on my bedside table.
I'd had a sweetheart years ago who always did this for me.
A vase of flowers on the table and one blossom by the bed.
And I'd found it to be so romantic and cheerful. that I'd kept the habit for myself ever since.
Romance and cheer are important, even when you're by yourself.
I poured a glass of iced tea and watched cars going past from the kitchen window.
I got lost in my imagination for a moment, staring out at the traffic.
One car going straight, another turning, when I stood wondering where they were going on this lovely afternoon.
I had that flash of understanding that sometimes happens when we step outside our own perspectives that every person is the main character of their own story and we move in and out of the frame of others' stories as supporting characters or background players.
But we never really know any story but our own.
I set my glass down and my gaze fell on the calendar stuck with a magnet to the side of the fridge.
Weeks ago, I'd written in today's block of space, Concert in the Park, 6 p.m.
I looked at my watch and saw that it was a quarter till.
I'd have just enough time to walk into town and find a spot on a bench by the stage.
I pulled my bag over my shoulder and tied my sneakers on and started in a brisk pace toward the park.
It felt good to walk fast and feel the warm air skimming over my skin.
I looked into front yards as I passed, noticing different flowers and ground cover and leafy green perennials.
There was an old house on a corner just by the park that had giant stone planters on either side of the front walkway.
And I stopped a moment to appreciate the elephant ears growing on long, slim stems.
Their leaves were arrow-shaped and soft, with bright veins that I knew by the end of the summer would look impossibly big.
I looked forward to watching them grow on my walks.
I circled past the pond and around to a sunken space, shaped like a clamshell. with built-in benches, and a stage covered with a canopy of thin wooden slats laced over by a climbing vine.
The band was already playing, a four-piece jazz band, with drums, a stand-up bass, piano and horn.
The benches around me were filling up with a combination of families and couples and people like me who came on purpose to listen, and others who had, by happy accident, heard the music on their way out of work and walked over to enjoy.
I leaned my back against the cool stone of the bench behind me and closed my eyes to listen.
The music followed a few familiar paths that I recognized from the old jazz records I'd been listening to since I was a child, then veered off into unfamiliar patterns and rhythms and circled back and veered away again.
I looked up at the stage and watched the piano player and the horn player.
They were watching each other, sometimes nodding in agreement, as if to say yes, good idea, more of that.
Every now and then, one of them would crack a sudden smile and laugh.
And I realized that someone in the band had somehow just told a musical joke.
They were speaking a language that was foreign to me and I couldn't translate it or say what the joke was.
But what I could hear was beautiful nonetheless.
I watched a little boy a few rows in front of me.
He was watching the bass player as she thumped up and down the neck of the instrument with confident, strong fingers.
As the horn blew and the melody turned in spirals in the air, she spun her bass on its end pin and caught it again in time to pluck out the next bit of rhythm.
The little boy clapped his hands and swung his legs in time with the music.
I thought of a moment when I'd felt something similar.
A different kind of concert a few years before.
It was in an old, roomy theater with creaking wooden seats and an expansive ceiling full of symmetrical painted murals framed in moldings that were already a hundred years old.
A friend had pulled a few strings for me, knowing that this particular concert was a moment I dreamed of.
She'd gotten me a seat, dead center, in the very front row.
And when the man had walked on stage and sat down with his cello, I could have nearly reached out and touched him.
I'd expected to be enthralled by his playing, to be enraptured by the acoustics produced in the old theater.
What I hadn't counted on were the tears that slipped down my cheeks, the feeling of my breath being taken from my body, the way I almost couldn't keep track of the notes as they thrummed through my chest.
I gulped and pressed my hand over my heart and sat still so as to not break the spell while he played.
I'd never had an experience quite like that before.
This man hadn't just been speaking a language I didn't know.
He seemed himself to have come from a different planet and was showing us what language was like on the other side of the cosmos.
Not everyone could make music like that.
In fact, only a few in a generation can.
But that didn't diminish the joy of this simple concert in the park or the power of a string of notes to cut through thought and make us present.
There was a clarinet player somewhere in my neighborhood whom I sometimes heard when I was out for a walk, music coming from an open window in an upstairs room.
The playing was sometimes squeaky and halting, but it was also patient and persistent and I was always glad to hear it.
It made me think back to my own days in school band.
I joked sometimes that I had played eighth chair flute, even though there were only five of us.
The truth was that because it hadn't come quickly to me, I'd given it up.
In my immature brain, I figured that if I couldn't be the best, I would quit. the folly of youth.
I was glad that years had passed and given me their wisdom.
That now I could see that I didn't have to be the best.
But there was a whole lot of joy and meaning and learning to be had in the act of simply playing.
I helped the boy.
Swinging his legs and clapping along to the music would be a bit wiser than I had when his turn for school band came around.
Though I reminded myself everyone has their own journey to understanding.
Everyone has their own story to tell.
A concert in the park.
It was a sunny day in the middle of the week, near the start of the summer.
I'd gotten home from work and puttered around in the yard for a while, then cut a vase's worth of tiger lilies and set them on the table by the front door, pulling out one extra bloom and setting it into a bud vase for my bedside table.
I'd had a sweetheart years ago, who always did this for me.
A vase of flowers on the table, and one blossom by the bed.
And I'd found it to be so romantic. and cheerful that I'd kept the habit for myself ever since.
Romance and cheer are important, even when you're by yourself.
I poured a glass of iced tea and watched cars going past from the kitchen window.
I got lost in my imagination for a moment, staring out at the traffic one car going straight, another turning.
And I stood wondering where they were going on this lovely afternoon.
I had that flash of understanding that sometimes happens when we step outside our own perspectives.
That every person is the main character of their own story.
And we move in and out of the frame of others' stories as supporting characters or background players.
But we never really know any story but our own.
I set my glass down and my gaze fell on the calendar stuck with a magnet to the side of the fridge.
Weeks ago, I'd written in today's block of space.
Concert in the park.
6 p.m.
I looked at my watch and saw that it was a quarter till.
I'd still have just enough time to walk into town and find a spot on a bench by the stage.
I pulled my bag over my shoulder and tied my sneakers on and started in a brisk pace toward the park.
It felt good to walk fast. and feel the warm air skimming over my skin.
I looked into front yards as I passed, noticing different flowers and ground cover and leafy green perennials.
There was an old house on a corner just by the park that had giant stone planters on either side of the front walkway.
And I stopped a moment to appreciate the elephant ears growing on long, slim stems.
Their leaves were arrow-shaped and soft, with bright veins.
And I knew by the end of the summer, they would look impossibly big.
I looked forward to watching them grow on my walks.
I circled past the pond and around to a sunken space, shaped like a clamshell, with built-in benches. and a stage covered with a canopy of thin wooden slats, laced over by a climbing vine.
The band was already playing. a four-piece jazz band with drums, a stand-up bass, piano, and horn.
The benches around me were filling up with a combination of families and couples and people like me who came on purpose to listen, and others who had, by happy accident, heard the music on their way out of work and walked over to enjoy.
I leaned my back against the cool stone of the bench behind me and closed my eyes to listen.
The music followed a few familiar paths that I recognized from the old jazz records I'd been listening to since I was a child.
Then they veered off into unfamiliar patterns and rhythms and circled back and veered away again.
I looked up at the stage. and watched the piano player and the horn player.
They were watching each other, sometimes nodding in agreement, as if to say yes, good idea, more of that.
Every now and then, one of them would crack a sudden smile and laugh.
And I realized that someone in the band had somehow just told a musical joke.
They were speaking a language that was foreign to me and I couldn't translate it or say what the joke was.
But what I could hear was beautiful nonetheless.
I watched a little boy, a few rows in front of me.
He was watching the bass player as she thumped up and down the neck of her instrument with confident, strong fingers.
As the horn blew and the melody turned in spirals in the air, She spun her bass on its end pin and caught it again in time to pluck out the next bit of rhythm.
The little boy clapped his hands. and swung his legs in time with the music.
I thought of a moment when I'd felt something similar, a different kind of concert, a few years before.
It was in an old, roomy theater with creaking wooden seats and an expansive ceiling full of symmetrical painted murals framed in moldings that were already a hundred years old.
A friend had pulled a few strings for me, knowing that this particular concert was a moment I'd dreamed of.
She'd gotten me a seat dead center in the very front row.
And when the man had walked on stage and sat down with his cello, I could have nearly reached out and touched him.
I'd expected to be enthralled by his playing, to be enraptured by the acoustics produced in the old theater.
What I hadn't counted on were the tears that slipped down my cheeks.
The feeling of my breath being taken from my body.
The way I almost couldn't keep track of the notes as they thrummed through my chest.
I gulped and pressed my hand over my heart and sat still so as to not break the spell while he played.
I'd never had an experience quite like that before.
This man hadn't just been speaking a language I didn't know.
He seemed himself to have come from a different planet and was showing us what language was like on the other side of the cosmos.
Not everyone could make music like that.
In fact, only a few in every generation can.
But that didn't diminish the joy of this simple concert in the park or the power of a string of notes to cut through thought and make us present.
There was a clarinet player somewhere in my neighborhood whom I heard sometimes when I was out for a walk, the music coming from an open window in an upstairs room.
The playing was sometimes squeaky and halting, but it was also patient and persistent and I was always glad to hear it.
It made me think back to my own days in school band.
I joked sometimes that I had played eighth chair flute even though there were only five of us.
The truth was that because it hadn't come quickly to me, I'd given it up.
In my immature brain, I figured that if I couldn't be the best, I would quit.
The folly of youth.
I was glad that years had passed and given me their wisdom.
But now I could see that I didn't have to be the best.
That there was a whole lot of joy and meaning and learning to be had in the act of simply playing.
I hoped the boy swinging his legs and clapping along to the music would be a bit wiser than I had when his turn for school band came around.
Though, I reminded myself.
Everyone has their own journey to understanding.
Everyone has their own story to tell.
Sweet dreams.
