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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 Wittersheim.
We give to a different charity each week, and this week we are giving to Dogs Matter.
They provide and promote a safe and healthy environment for pets of those in recovery.
Learn more about them in our show notes.
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This is a form of brain training.
We're conditioning a response that will improve over time.
All you need to do is listen.
I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through.
Our story tonight is called The Garden Center or The Left-Handed Snail.
And it's a story about a quiet corner of the plant nursery where a slow-moving community is coming together.
It's also about push brooms and dropped leaves, shadows in the gloaming and something rarer than a four-leaf clover.
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Go to Shopify.com slash nothingmuch.
That's Shopify.com slash nothingmuch.
Now, settle in.
Be at ease.
The day was what it was, and now we are here.
Take a deep breath in through your nose.
Let it out your mouth.
Nice.
One more.
Breathe in.
And out.
Good.
The garden center, or the left-handed snail.
The last half hour of the workday was often my favorite in the garden center.
While helping people pick out the perfect peony bush or find their new favorite pair of work gloves did offer its own kind of satisfaction.
There was nothing like the calm quiet that came as customers thinned out and the sun began to set.
It wasn't just because, when I reshelved misplaced pots and pushed carts into the corral at this point in the workday, they tended to stay put.
It was the feeling that the care I gave to the space would see the perennials and water plants through the night, like I was tucking them into bed knowing they would be snug till the sun rose.
There was a small stack of items behind my counter and I scooped them up and began walking through the cinder block aisles to put them back in their proper places.
A set of garden spikes that had been returned when they proved surplus to needs a few flowerpot saucers that had been the wrong size.
A cracked birdbath basin that would go on the discount shelf.
As I worked, I found a few other orphaned products and misplaced plants. and re-homed them.
The center is mostly open to the air, at least the part I oversaw is.
It is an extension of the hardware store and has a pass-through on one side, so customers can go back and forth.
We have a few spots under awnings for rainy days and a storage shed, but otherwise we get to be in the fresh air and sunshine nearly every day of the summer.
There are so many upsides to that that I would never have traded it for another workplace.
But it did mean that wind blew in wrappers and old leaves, that there could be mud puddles near the topsoil pallets and that a workday without a wide-brimmed hat would be a very hot one.
I'd only made that mistake once.
I took the push broom down from a hook on the shed wall and started to sweep up anything.
The wind had carried in plus the dropped leaves and petals discarded by our plants during the day.
The rhythm of the broom, the shuffle of the bristles in deliberate sweeps slow slow, then fast, fast to push a pile together was a soothing part of the evening soundtrack, along with the clang of the gate closing for the last time and the sprinklers coming on.
When the sweeping was done, I filled a small watering can and walked through a section of delicate seedlings and young starts.
Their roots weren't well developed yet and the strong spray of the sprinklers could flatten and dislodge them from the soil, so I watered them by hand.
I did the same with our orchids, which could be finicky. and exacting in their needs.
I spoke to them as I meted out moisture in tiny amounts.
Yes, yes, I said.
I know.
I'm being careful.
You can trust me.
When I had a feeling they did.
I was the only one on the staff who managed to coax them into reblooming.
By the time I'd finished, the gloaming had gathered and I smiled as I watched the solar-powered lights come on like fireflies flashing to life.
They shone from the ground up onto the fence that wrapped around the yard and glowed from under the water in our ponds.
Thrown shadows of stems and vines flickered over me as I passed under the hanging baskets.
So many petunias and million bells, verbena and begonias, their trailing tendrils dragged over my shoulders like party streamers.
I checked the gates, both locked.
My colleagues waved from the parking lot as they climbed into their cars.
I liked being the last to go, and not just because of the serenity of being alone around the plants and under the stars as they emerged.
I had a job to do that was just mine, mostly because it was a bit of a secret.
I'd begun a relocation program a few months back, when the first shipments of spring shrubs had shown up and I'd found they'd brought with them a few hitchhikers.
Snails are often seen as pests in a garden, but among the right kind of greenery they are more friend than foe.
Their movement aerates soil and improves water absorption.
They prefer struggling plants to healthy ones any day of the week.
So in a well-tended garden they work to clean up rather than destroy.
Still young plants.
Tender new shoots are too tempting even for them, so they do need to be relocated when they show up there.
And I decided to relocate ours to their own section of the center, where they wouldn't be bothered or cause any of their own.
Snails need a bit of damp.
They don't swim, though I very much enjoy the idea of them in tiny floaty inner tubes.
But they need moisture so they don't dry out.
And shade.
They love a bit of moss.
Places to hide and rest during the sunny hours.
Beside the shed, at its back corner, I'd made them their own little world to preside over.
The soil there was already darker.
The wide roof of the shed keeps the sun away and because the ground is soft, No one tries to stack anything there.
I used the broken pieces of a big terracotta planter that had tipped over when it came off the truck to construct some shady hiding spots for them.
The saucer had remained intact, and I sprinkled in a teeny bit of water for them.
There was also an old log who knows where it had come from with soft, bright green moss growing in the ridges of its waterlogged bark.
They happily ate the dropped leaves from the plants I'd swept up.
And each night I scattered a few handfuls of them around their tiny neighborhood.
I was their caregiver, and admittedly a bit protective of them.
I checked in on them every evening, made sure their needs were met, but also spent a few moments admiring their pretty, tawny shells, the iridescent tones of their bodies in the low light.
I only ever saw a dozen or so at a time.
But there were more hiding in different spots.
Still I was fairly sure I knew just about all of them noticed when one was missing or when a new snail had moved in.
And it was a habit.
I'd always had to check the spiral of their shells, like one might count the leaves on a clover, in case it might be one of the lucky variety.
Because it is extremely rare, like one in 40,000.
But there are snails whose shells spiral, in the opposite direction of all their siblings.
They are called sinistral or left-handed snails.
And when you look down at them from the top, you will see the pretty coil of their casing on the left side of their bodies rather than on the right, where it is in the other 39999 of their kind.
I'd never seen one, didn't even know anyone who had. but I always looked.
It reminded me of my grandmother, who'd once seen a story on the news about a miniaturist who had carved a teeny tiny drawer into the edge of a penny, one that actually slid in and out and had tragically lost it when it got mixed in with a handful of change.
She'd checked every penny that she came across for the rest of her life. so I checked the snails.
I peeked under the terracotta slabs, all around the log and near the water source.
No newcomers, I said with a sigh and reached for a trowel I'd left plunged halfway into the soil the last time I'd tended to them.
When I turned it around, in the cup of its blade was a small pebble-colored creature, a touch bigger than a green pea.
And as I peered in closer, my breath caught in my chest.
I turned the trowel this way and that, checking several times that Yes, I was seeing this right or left rather,
I sat under the stars for a while.
The trowel and my new left-handed snail friend on the grass beside me. and looked up at the stars.
I pulled my knees up into my chest and looped my arms around them.
What a wonder I thought to be at this particular moment in the world's story and see and touch and know the things I did.
The garden center or the left-handed snail.
The last half hour of the workday. was often my favorite in the garden center.
While helping people pick out the perfect peony bush or find their new favorite pair of work gloves did offer its own kind of satisfaction.
There was nothing like the calm quiet that came as customers thinned out and the sun began to set.
It wasn't just because, when I reshelved misplaced pots and pushed carts into the corral at this point in the workday, they tended to stay put.
It was the feeling that the care I gave to the space would see the perennials and water plants through the night, like I was tucking them in for bed, knowing they would be snug till the sun rose again.
There was a small stack of items behind my counter and I scooped them up and began walking through the cinderblock aisles to put them back in their proper places.
A set of garden spikes that had been returned. when they proved surplus to needs.
Flour pot saucers that had been the wrong size.
A cracked birdbath basin that would go on the discount shelf.
As I worked, I found a few other orphaned products and misplaced plants and rehomed them.
The center is mostly open to the air, at least the part I oversaw is.
It is an extension of the hardware store and has a pass-through on one side, so customers can go back and forth.
We have a few spots under awnings for rainy days and a storage shed, But otherwise we get to be in the fresh air and sunshine nearly every day of the summer.
There are so many upsides to that, that I would never have traded it. for another workplace.
But it did mean that wind blew in wrappers and old leaves, that there could be mud puddles near the topsoil pallets.
And that a workday without a wide-brimmed hat would be a very hot one.
I'd only made that mistake once the push broom down from a hook on the shed wall and started to sweep up anything.
The wind had carried in plus the dropped leaves and petals discarded by our plants during the day.
The rhythm of the broom, the shuffle of the bristles in deliberate sweeps Slow, slow then fast, fast to push a pile together was a soothing part of the evening soundtrack.
Along with the clang, of the gate closing for the last time and the sprinklers coming on.
When the sweeping was done, I filled a small watering can and walked through a section of delicate seedlings and young starts.
Their roots weren't well developed yet, and the strong spray of the sprinklers could flatten and dislodge them from the soil.
So I watered them by hand.
I did the same with our orchids, which could be finicky and exacting in their needs.
I spoke to them as I meted out moisture in tiny amounts.
Yes, yes, I said.
I know.
I'm being careful.
You can trust me.
And I had a feeling that they did.
I was the only one on the staff. who managed to coax them into reblooming.
By the time I'd finished, the gloaming had gathered and I smiled as I watched the solar-powered lights coming on like fireflies flashing to life.
They shone from the ground up onto the fence that wrapped around the yard and glowed from under the water in our ponds.
Thrown shadows of stems and vines flickered over me as I passed through the hanging baskets.
So many petunias and million bells, verbena and begonias, their trailing tendrils dragged over my shoulders like party streamers.
I checked the gates, both locked.
My colleagues waved from the parking lot as they climbed into their cars.
I liked being the last to go.
And not just because of the serenity of being alone around the plants and under the stars as they emerged.
I had a job to do that was just mine, mostly because it was a bit of a secret.
I'd begun a relocation program a few months back, when the first shipments of spring shrubs had shown up and I'd found they'd brought with them a few hitchhikers.
Snails are often seen as pests in a garden.
But among the right kind of greenery, they are more friend than foe.
Their movement aerates soil and improves water absorption.
They prefer struggling plants to healthy ones any day of the week.
So, in a well-tended garden, they work to clean up rather than destroy.
Still, young plants, tender new shoots, are too tempting even for them.
So they do need to be relocated when they show up there.
And I decided to relocate ours to their own section of the center, where they wouldn't be bothered or cause any of their own.
Now, snails need a bit of damp.
They don't swim. though I very much enjoy the idea of them in tiny, floaty inner tubes.
But they need moisture so they don't dry out and shade.
They love a bit of moss, places to hide and rest during the sunny hours.
Beside the shed, at its back corner, I'd made them their own little world to preside over.
The soil there was already darker.
The wide roof of the shed keeps the sun away.
And because the ground is soft, no one tries to stack anything there.
I used the broken pieces of a big terracotta planter that had tipped over when it came off the truck to construct some shady hiding spots for them.
The saucer had remained intact, and I sprinkled in a tiny bit of water.
There was also an old log.
Who knows where it had come from, with soft, bright green moss growing in the ridges of its waterlogged bark.
They happily ate the dropped leaves from the plants I'd swept up.
And each night, I scattered a few handfuls of them around their tiny neighborhood.
I was their caregiver, and admittedly, a bit protective of them.
I checked in on them each evening, made sure their needs were met, but also spent a few moments admiring their pretty, tawny shells, the iridescent tones of their bodies in the low light.
I only ever saw a dozen or so at a time, but there were more hiding in different spots.
Still, I was fairly sure I knew just about all of them.
Knew when one was missing.
When a new snail had moved in.
And it was a habit I'd always had to check the spiral of their shells, like one might count the leaves on a clover, in case it might be one of the lucky variety, because it is extremely rare, like one in 40000.
But there are snails whose shells spiral in the opposite direction of all of their siblings.
They are called sinistral or left-handed snails.
And when you look down at them from the top, you will see the pretty coil of their casing on the left side of their bodies rather than on the right, where it is in the other 39999 of their kind.
I'd never seen one. didn't even know anyone who had.
But I always looked.
It reminded me of my grandmother, who'd once seen a story on the news about a miniaturist who had carved a teeny tiny drawer into the edge of a penny, one that actually slid in and out and had tragically lost it when it got mixed in with a handful of change.
She'd checked every penny that she came across for the rest of her life.
So I checked the snails.
I peeked under the terracotta slabs, all around the log, and near the water source.
No newcomers, I said with a sigh, and reached for a trowel.
I'd left plunged halfway into the soil the last time I'd tended to them.
When I turned it around, in the cup of its blade was a small pebble-colored creature, a touch bigger than a green pea.
And as I peered in closer, my breath caught in my chest.
I turned the trowel this way and that, checking several times, that, yes, I was seeing this right.
Or left, rather.
I sat under the stars for a while the trowel and my new left-handed snail friend on the grass beside me and looked up at the stars.
I pulled my knees up into my chest. and looped my arms around them.
What a wonder I thought to be at this particular moment in the world's story, to see and touch and know the things that I did.
Sweet dreams.
