April Showers

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“Hi, I'm Katherine Nikolai, 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 they're 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 Nikolai. I write and read all the stories you hear on Nothing Much happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Woodersheim.

We give to a different charity each week, and this week we are giving to birdies, bookmobile, a non-profit organization committed to ending book deserts and improving children's literacy and book access in Metro Detroit. Learn more about them in our show notes. For ad-free episodes, subscribe to our premium feed at Nothing Much happens.com. 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 April Showers, and it's a story about a

cloudy day, spent shopping in the village. It's also about the lovely sound, the point of an umbrella makes against cobblestones. A bicycle ride taken just before the rain falls, and the perfect place to settle in and watch once it does. I am a certified skincare fanatic, and I want to share something that I've been using that feels a little different from the usual skincare conversation. One skin is built by

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with code nothingmuch. After you purchase they'll ask where you heard about them and you can let them know we set you. Okay, lights out campers. It's time. Set everything down. Prioritize your own comfort.

“How do you need to arrange yourself to feel the most relaxed? Take those last lingering thoughts”

and let them go. Let them dissolve. They only have the power you give them. Take a deep breath in through your nose. Let it out your mouth.

I'd brought along my umbrella today. And by the look of the skies this afternoon,

“it seems like a wise choice. I had a little collection of umbrellas in the stand by my front door.”

I had the standard collapsible kind. The sort that folded up into an astonishingly small package and could be easily carried in a pocket or a bag. I had a couple of the long standard kind.

Black fabric and a curved handle and a neat snap to keep it folded when not in use.

And I had a pretty pink one that I'd been given as a child. It was a bit bent from being included

“in lots of play. I remember swinging it around by its handle, leaning on it as I danced in my bedroom.”

While imagining myself center stage in a Broadway show.

Yes, an umbrella is an excellent prop and one I still like to carry when I was out in the world,

especially in the rainy days of spring. I'd selected one of the long standard ones today as I left the house. Its handle was unusual, not a curved loop, but around it end,

“something like a door knob, but more slender. It was made of polished brass,”

a tiny globe with tiny air continents embossed into the metal. It fit perfectly in my cuped palm as I walked with it and I couldn't help but home under my breath. I've got the whole world in my hand and it felt like that today as I walked along the main street. The spring was real now, not fleeting, not disappearing for days at a time. There were crocus and daffodils breaking through the soil and the giant stone planter

in the square and downtown. Some shops had their doors propped open to take advantage of the fresh air. And though the gray skies had me certain, the rain was coming. It hadn't come yet. It had been a long winter and the feeling of spring air in my lungs. The sense and sights of the new season had me feeling cheery and grateful just to be on the street today. I turned down an alley and stopped to window shop. They were bouquets of roses,

and callollellies, already wrapped and pretty paper and tied with bows in the window of the flower shop. Along the bottom of the sill were a dozen small cacti in tiny pots and I leaned in close to period one that had a minuscule pink flower on it. I wondered how often a cactus might flower.

I smiled at my luck. In the shop across the alley, a bicycle was being wheeled out the front door,

“by a little kid and his dad. The kid was wearing a helmet, so new there was still a tag dangling from it.”

He jumped with excitement to climb onto his new bike. His dad put on his own helmet and climbed on to an older, well-used bike parked in the rack. I heard dad say they could go through the park on their way home and ride through the neighborhood of old houses behind the library.

And probably still make it home before the rain came. I watched them ride off

and thought I should get my old roller skates out of the basement when I got home.

“It had been a few years but I bet I could still teestop and v-start and flamingo with the best of them.”

At the corner was a shop that sold bird baths and windchimes and bird feeders. Giant sacks of bird seed were stacked beside the door and I strolled over, liking the way the point

of my umbrella, clacked against the blue stone walkway. This little shop was set back away from the street a little.

It had been a mechanic shop when I was a child and it still had its garage doors which were slid open today. Where cars waiting to be worked on had been parked years ago. The pavement was replaced with soft ground cover and pavers. Two small trees were growing up on either side of the yard and their branches were full of birdhouses and windchimes. Inside the old shop, a very faint scent of car oil and tools lingered.

“And I remember standing in the same spot years and years before, holding my mom's hand”

while she dropped off the keys to our car for an oil change. I hadn't minded, tagging along for the errand, even as a little kid. Knowing that the half hour while we waited, would almost certainly involve a trip to the ice cream shop in the next block. As I stood reminiscing, looking at the bird baths and garden statues,

I heard the windchimes outside begin to ring. There must have been a dozen of them playing in the wind. And I gripped tighter at the handle of my umbrella, knowing what it must mean. The April showers were coming, any minute now.

I stepped back out onto the street and turned toward the cafe, thinking that if it were going to rain, I'd love the armchair by their big front window and a cup of something hot to enjoy, while it did.

After months of snowflakes, the sound of the rain actually made me laugh.

“I'd forgotten it. I let it fall on my face and my outstretched hand for a moment.”

Then opened my beautiful umbrella and swung it up over my head. The outside of the umbrella was classic black fabric.

Nothing that would make you guess what was hidden inside.

I looked up into it, standing there on the corner and smiled.

“A starry night looked back at me from inside the little bubble of space,”

a moon rising, a galaxy of stars, lighting up the purple and deep blue fabric sky.

The sound of the rain falling on it was cozy and like listening to it fall on the roof

when you're tucked up snug in bed. My steered through the street, wondering if the hopeful bikers had indeed made it home by now. If not, I hoped they rode through a few good sized puddles. My duct under the awning at the cafe collapsed my umbrella and gave it a good shake before going in and sliding it into the rack by the door. My favorite chair was open and the place smelled of roasted beans and tea leaves. Welcome April showers. I was glad they were here.

April showers. I'd brought along my umbrella today and by the look of the skies this afternoon it seemed like a wise choice. I had a little collection of umbrellas in the stand by my front door. I had the standard collapsible kind, the sword that fold it up into an astonishingly small package and could be easily carried in a pocket or bag. I had a couple of a long standard kind, black fabric and a curved handle

and a neat snap to keep it folded when not in use. And I had a pretty pink one that I'd been given as a child. It was a bit bent from being included in lots of play.

“I remember swinging it around by its handle, leaning on it as I danced in my bedroom”

while imagining myself center stage in a Broadway show. Yes, an umbrella is an excellent prop and one I still like to carry when I was out in the world. Especially in the rainy days of spring. I'd selected one of the long standard ones today

something like a door knob, but more slender. It was made of polished brass, a tiny globe,

“with tinier continents embossed into the metal. It fit perfectly in my cuped palm as I walked”

with it. And I couldn't help but home under my breath. I've got the whole world in my hand. And it felt like that today.

As I walked along Main Street, the spring was real now, not fleeting, not disappearing

for days at a time. There were crocus, and daffodils, breaking through the soil,

“in the giant stone planter, in the square and downtown.”

Some shops had their doors propped open to take advantage of the fresh air.

And though the gray skies had me certain, the drain was coming,

that hadn't come yet. It had been a long winter and the feeling of spring air in my lungs. The sense and sights of the new season had me feeling cheery and grateful,

“just to be on the street today. I turned down an alley and stopped to window shop.”

There were bouquets of roses and calililies, already wrapped in pretty paper, untied with bows in the window of the flower shop, along the bottom of the sill, where a dozen small cacti and tiny pots, and I leaned in close to pure it one that had a minuscule pink flower on it. I wondered how often a cactus might flower and thought it most likely not an everyday happening.

Yet here I was, to witness it. My smile that my luck in the shop across the alley. A bicycle was being wheeled out the front door by a little kid and his dad. The kid was wearing a helmet, so new that was still a tag dangling from it. He jumped with excitement to climb onto his new bike. His dad put on his own helmet and climbed onto an older, well-used bike, parked in the rack.

My heard dad say they could go through the park on their way home and ride through the neighborhood of old houses, behind the library, and probably still make it home before the rain came.

when I got home. It had been a few years, but my bat I could still,

“teased up, and v-start, and flamingo with the best of them.”

At the corner was a shop that sold bird baths and windchimes and bird feeders. Giant sacks of bird seed were stacked beside the door, and I strolled over. Liking the way the point of my umbrella.

Clacked against the bluestone walkway.

This little shop was set back away from the street a little.

“It had been a mechanic's shop when I was a child, and it still had its garage doors,”

which were slid open today, where cars waiting to be worked on had been parked years ago. The pavement was replaced with soft ground cover, and pavers. Two small trees were growing up on either side of the yard, and their branches were full of bird houses, and windchimes. Inside the old shop, a very faint scent of car oil and tools lingered. And I remembered standing in the same spot years and years ago, holding my mom's hand,

“while she dropped off the keys to our car for an oil change.”

I hadn't mind it tagging along for the errand, even as a little kid, knowing that the half hour while we waited, would almost certainly involve a trip to the ice cream shop in the next block. As I stood reminiscing, looking at the bird baths and garden statues, I heard the windchimes outside begin to ring.

There must have been a dozen of them playing in the wind. When I gripped tighter, the handle of my umbrella, knowing what it must mean. The April showers were coming, many minutes now. I stepped back out onto the street and turned toward the cafe,

thinking that if it were going to rain, I'd love the armchair by their big front window, and a cup of something hot to enjoy, while it did. I'd made it back up to the main street.

When the first drops began to fall.

After months of snowflakes, sound of the rain actually made me laugh. I'd forgotten it. I let it fall on my face and outstretched hand for a moment.

The outside of the umbrella was classic, black fabric.

“Nothing that would make you guess what was hidden inside.”

I looked up into it, standing there on the corner, and smiled.

The starry night looked back at me, from inside the little bubble of space.

“A moon rising, a galaxy of stars, lighting up the purple,”

and deep blue fabric sky.

The sound of the rain falling on it was cozy and like listening to it fall on the roof.

When you're tucked up, snog in bed.

“I steered through the street, wondering if the hopeful bikers had indeed made it home by now.”

If not, I hope they rode through a few good-sized puddles. I ducked under the awning at the cafe. Galapsed my umbrella, and gave it a good shake. Before going in, sliding it into the rack by the door. My favorite chair was open, and the place smelled of roasted beans and tea leaves.

Welcome April showers. I was glad they were here. Sweet dreams.