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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 Nicolai.
I write and read all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens.
Audio Engineering is by Bob Widdersheim.
We give to a different charity each week.
And this week we are giving to First Book, addressing the needs of the whole child, supporting their education, basic needs and wellness, all of which are essential to educational equity.
You can learn more about them in our show notes.
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Now, here is how this works.
We need to give your mind something to focus on, a place to rest, and that's what bedtime stories do.
Just by listening, you will actually shift brain activity in a way that allows sleep to happen, and build a more reliable response over time.
So just follow along with my voice, and before you know it, you'll be waking up tomorrow, feeling refreshed and ready for a good day.
I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through.
If you wake later in the night, just turn on an episode, catch your brain before it revs up, and you'll drop right back off.
Our story tonight is called The Fountain in the Square, and it's a story about a place to make a wish as the season tips to summer.
It's also about local lore and shared customs. Cool running water.
Light falling through leaves.
Marbles and theater games.
And remembering something by adding to the world.
It is dedicated to the memory of my friend, Sarah Kramer.
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That's cornbreadhemp .com, slash nothingmuch, and use code nothingmuch. It's time.
Lights out, campers.
Get settled in your sheets.
This is a moment to prioritize your own comfort.
And you might not have a lot of experience with that.
But we're changing that right now.
So get the right pillow, in the right spot, pull your comforter up over your shoulder, and feel your whole body relax.
Take a deep breath in through your nose.
And sigh from your mouth.
Again, breathe in and out.
Good. the fountain in the square.
Where Main Street crosses Elm, there is a patch of green grass, a circle of benches and planters, and an old patinated fountain.
The grass was coming in nicely by now, thick and soft, and dotted here and there with clover flowers.
Brick pavers, cracked a bit and pushed up by roots and places, make a path around the And the planters are full of petunias that, in a couple of months, will be laggy and overgrown.
But right now are fresh and bright and beautiful.
The fountain sits at the center of it all.
A tall, curved piece of bronze or copper shaped like a rounded door with a single spout pouring into a deep basin that rises from the ground up past my knees.
The water itself came straight from our city source, so it was clean and safe to drink, and I often saw people stopping to fill water bottles from it.
The metal had turned over the years to a soft, minty green, textured with layers of patina, and along the basin were carved birds and fish.
A wing of one of the birds was a local good luck charm, and had been rubbed to a glossy shine by the hands of many, many people over the decades.
It was a tradition for students to rub the wing before their spring exams. So at this time of year, it stood out brightly among the rest of the metal. while many fountains are full of coins, cast in as a wish is made, ours had somehow developed a different custom.
We – and no one knew when it had started, or why – dropped marbles into our fountain.
They still marked wishes and hopes, were still dropped in with closed eyes, like the moment before you blow out birthday candles.
But our little village had somehow decided, without ever talking about it, that the appropriate carrier for those dreams were small glass spheres, were not coins.
In fact, a few of the shops on the square sold little pouches of them, propped in piles by the register, just for this.
It meant the bottom of the fountain was full of them, And when you looked down into it, you saw a kaleidoscope of colors.
Blue and green clearies.
Cat's eyes. Agates, swirls, and Bennington's.
Cane cuts and gooseberries and the one -off, end -of -day marbles.
I suspected kids who tossed coins instead didn't know all those names and types.
It was like a bit of local dialect.
When you realize you, your family, your neighborhood, use different words for something than everyone else.
A small sign of belonging, with no discernible beginning, but meaningful nonetheless.
I didn't have a marble in my pocket today, but I hadn't come to make a wish.
There was a small plaque on the side of the fountain, and I'd spotted it last time I was here.
I wasn't exactly sure what it meant.
There was no date, but it felt like a memorial.
And since I'd seen it, I'd been thinking of it.
It just said 4SK, yes and, with three dots, which might have been an ellipsis or meant something else.
I'd brought with me a small polishing cloth and some gentle dish soap.
I didn't want to take any of the patina off the plaque, but did want to clear away the layer of dust and dirt that had settled on it.
I wet my cloth at the spout.
The water felt cool and refreshing on my hands.
We were just on the edge of hot weather.
It was warm today, but in the shade, if the wind blew, it might still chill you just a bit.
I thought of how good it would be, on a truly hot summer day, to let this water run over my wrists.
I squeezed a bit of soap onto my cloth, and worked it into a lather, then started to clean the plaque.
It took a few minutes of scrubbing.
There were some stubborn spots where pollen and rainwater had mixed to stain the surface, but I was patient.
I rinsed the cloth, every now and then, and started again, with a bit more soap.
And soon it was shining like new.
I rinsed all of the soap out of my cloth and wrung it out tightly until it was barely damp, wiped the plaque one more time to clear away the last film of moisture, and stepped back I thought about the phrase, yes, and… Recognizing it from my high school theater days.
When our troupe had warmed up by playing Zip, Zap, Sop in the corridor by the band room and tried to tell a story as a group, one word at a time.
We'd learned the principle of yes and as a way to support your scene partners and move the story forward. If you stepped into a scene and were told, for example, that this snowstorm that was trapping us all in the grocery store was actually the shedding fur of a dog the size of a mountain, You didn't say, that doesn't make any sense.
Dogs don't get that big.
No, that derailed the whole experience.
It stopped the story in its tracks.
Instead, you said, yes, and we have just 10 minutes to find his squeaky toy somewhere in the canned goods.
You took what you were given and helped push it a little further.
Was that what SK did?
Took what the moment gave them and leveled up?
I had a feeling it was.
I sat on one of the benches and laid my polishing cloth out on the seat beside me to let it dry completely in the sunshine.
The sound of the fountain was steady and soothing, ringing out like a set of wind chimes moving in the breeze.
I tipped my head back and let my eyes close.
I've always been fascinated by the way sunlight looked through my eyelids.
Even as a child, I would stop mid -play in the yard, to close my eyes and lift my face and watch the light flash and change.
A breeze must have been blowing up high in the trees.
Every now and then, a shadow flickered across my face.
I took slow, deep breaths, feeling so calm and content here by the fountain.
A sound brought me back, and I tipped my chin down and blinked my eyes open.
A child, maybe 5 or 6, stood at the edge of the fountain, and behind him a few feet waited an older woman smiling down at him.
She spotted me on the bench and gave me a quick wink.
The little boy held a marble in his hand, hovering it above the basin and the fountain.
I couldn't help the smile that spread over my face, witnessing this rite of passage that I, too, had first partaken in at about his age.
His lips were moving and his eyes were closed, and when he froze for a moment, she encouraged him to, go on, drop it in." And his fingers opened.
There was a plop, and he leaned over the edge to watch it fall, to gather with the other marbles in the basin's bottom.
She reached out her hand to him, and he reached up to it.
And off they went. I tipped my face back to the sun, wondering what he had wished, and whispered to myself, the fountain in the square.
Where Main Street crosses Elm, there is a patch of green grass.
A circle of benches and planters.
and an old patinated fountain.
The grass was coming in nicely by now, thick and soft, and dotted here and there with clover flowers.
Brick pavers, cracked a bit and pushed up by roots in places, make a path around the benches.
And the planters are full of petunias that in a couple of months will be laggy and overgrown.
But right now are fresh, and bright, and beautiful.
The fountain sits at its center.
A tall, curved piece of bronze or copper, shaped like a rounded door with a single spout pouring into a deep basin that rises from the ground up past my knees.
The water itself came straight from our city source.
It was clean and safe to drink, and I often saw people stopping to fill water bottles from it.
The metal had turned over the years to a soft, minty green, textured with layers of patina, and along the basin were carved birds and fish.
A wing of one of the birds was a local good luck charm, and had been rubbed to a glossy shine by the hands of many, many people over decades.
It was a tradition for students to rub the wing before their spring exams. So at this time of year, it stood out brightly among the rest of the aged metal. While many fountains are full of coins, cast in as a wish is made, ours had somehow developed a different custom.
We—and no one knew when it had started or why—dropped marbles into our fountain.
They still marked wishes and hopes, were still dropped in with closed eyes, Like the moment before you blow out birthday candles.
But our little village had somehow decided, without ever talking about it, that the appropriate carrier for those dreams, or small glass spheres on not -coins.
In fact, a few of the shops on the Square sold little pouches of them, propped in piles by the registers, just for this.
It meant the bottom of the fountain was full of them.
And when you looked down into it, you saw a kaleidoscope of colors.
Blue and green clearies, cat's eyes, agates, swirls, and Bennington's, cane cuts and gooseberries, and the one -off, end -of -day marbles.
I suspected kids who tossed coins, instead, didn't know all those names and types.
It was like a bit of local dialect.
When you realize your family, your neighborhood, you use a different word for something.
than everyone else.
The small sign of belonging, with no discernible beginning, but meaningful, nonetheless.
I didn't have a marble in my pocket today.
But I hadn't come to make a wish.
There was a small plaque on the side of the fountain that I'd spotted last time I was here.
I wasn't exactly sure what it meant.
There was no date, but it felt like a memorial.
And since I'd seen it, I'd been thinking of it.
It just said, for S -K—yes, and—with three dots, which might have been an ellipsis, or meant something else.
I'd brought with me a small polishing cloth and some gentle dish soap.
I didn't want to take any of the patina off the plaque, but did want to clear away the layer of dust and dirt.
that had settled on it.
I wet my cloth at the spout.
The water felt cool and refreshing on my hands.
We were just on the edge of hot weather.
It was warm today, but in the shade, if the wind blew, it might still chill you just a bit.
I thought of how good it would be on a truly hot summer day… to let this water run over my wrists.
I squeezed a bit of soap onto my cloth and worked it into a lather, then started to clean the plaque.
I took a few minutes of scrubbing.
There were some stubborn spots where pollen and rainwater had mixed to stain the surface.
But I was patient. I rinsed the cloth every now and then.
Started again with a bit more soap.
And soon it was shining like new.
I rinsed all of the soap out of my cloth, And wrung it out tightly, until it was barely damp.
Wiped the plaque one more time, to clear away the last film of moisture, and stepped back to admire it.
I thought about the phrase, yes and, recognizing it from my high school theater days.
When we'd warmed up by playing zip zap zop in the corridor by the bandroom.
And then tried to tell a story as a group, one word at a time.
We learned the principle of Yes, and as a way to support your scene partners and move the story forward. If you stepped into a scene and were told, for example, that this snow storm that was trapping us all in the grocery store, was actually the shedding fur of a You didn't say, That doesn't make any sense.
Dogs don't get that big.
No. That derailed the whole experience.
Stopped the story in its tracks.
Instead, you said, Yes.
And we have just 10 minutes to find his squeaky toy.
It's somewhere in the canned goods.
You took what you were given, and helped push it a little further.
Was that what SK did?
Took what the moment gave them, and leveled up?
I had a feeling it was.
I sat on one of the benches and laid my polishing cloth out on the seat beside me to let it dry completely in the sunshine.
The sound of the fountain was steady and soothing.
Ringing out like a set of wind chimes, moving in the breeze.
I tipped my head back and let my eyes close.
I've always been fascinated By the way sunlight looked through my eyelids.
Even as a child, I would stop mid -play in the yard, to close my eyes and lift my face, and watch the light flash and change.
A breeze must have been blowing, up high in the trees.
Every now and then, a shadow flickered across my face.
I took slow, deep breaths, feeling so calm and content here by the fountain.
A sound brought me back, and I tipped my chin down and blinked my eyes open.
A child, maybe five or six, stood at the edge of the fountain.
And behind him a few feet, waited an older woman, smiling down at him.
She spotted me on the bench, gave me a quick wink.
The little boy held a marble in his hand, hovering it above the basin of the fountain.
I couldn't help the smile that spread over my face, witnessing this rite of passage that I too had first partaken in at about his age.
His lips were moving, and his eyes were closed, and when he froze for a moment, she encouraged him to go on, drop it in.
His fingers opened and there was a plop.
He leaned over the edge to watch it fall and gather with the others in the basin's bottom.
She reached out her hand to him, and he reached up to it, and off they went.
I tipped my face back to the sun, wondering what he had wished for, And whispered to myself, Yes.
And Sweet dreams.
