Mudlarking on the River, Part 1 (Encore)

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To bed time stories for everyone, in which nothing much happens, you feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Katherine Nikolai, my right and read all the stories you hear on nothing much happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Widdersheim. We are bringing you an on-core episode tonight, meaning that this story originally aired

at some point in the past. It could have been recorded with different equipment and 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-brassed

and sweet dreams. Now I have made a soft place for you to settle your mind tonight, with simple story, lean on plot but full of soothing details. All you need to do is listen. It will engage your brain just enough to help you drift off.

I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake again later in the night, don't hesitate to turn a story right back on. Most listeners report that when they do this, they are back to sleep within seconds. Our story tonight is called Mudlarking on the river, Part 1, and it's a story about a sunny morning in early spring that inspires a walk along Sandy Banks.

It's also about ordering your usual at the Bakery counter, Canada Geese and Garden Clothes, being gentle with yourself, and hidden treasure, waiting to be unearthed. Now, lights out. It's time to snuggle in and make yourself as comfortable as you can. You have enough, you do enough, you are enough.

Muddy is relaxed and ready for a full night's sleep.

Again, breathe in, let it all out.

“Mudlarking on the river, Part 1, the snow was gone, and the river banks were clear.”

I'd been anxious to get out in my tall boots and hunt for treasures beside the water. Inside heard from my beach-cooming friends about the things they found. Today was the perfect day for it. A sunny Saturday with noticeably warmer spring air drifting through town.

I'd rolled down my windows as I drove and let the breeze roll over me.

Then, yes, I'd head to roll them most of the way back up.

“It wasn't that warm, but spring was definitely on its way.”

I passed the bakery on my way to the river, and seeing an open parking spot out front, decided to make a quick stop. On the sidewalk, a few patrons sat at a bench in the sun, bundled up and drinking from steaming cups. We are hearty people in the village.

Our blood had grown thick over the winter, and we didn't miss a chance to be outside. Even when there was still a nip in the air. If I nodded to them as I pushed the bakery door open, and smelled heavenly inside. Fresh baked breads and sweet pastries and hot coffee. I'd been coming here since I was a child, and the scent was tied into those memories.

Standing in line on my tiptoes, desperate to see into the donut case, waiting to pick up a pumpkin pie for Thanksgiving or a birthday cake with my name written in icing across the top. I watched others in the line staring at the cases full of fresh baked treats and the menu of coffee options on the wall.

I used to think I was the only one who would rehearse their order in their head while waiting in line till a friend of mine confessed that she did it to.

“Now I think I could see it, and a few of the people around me.”

Sometimes our brains tell us to be nervous about things we don't really need to be nervous about, and I'd learned to be gentle with my own brain when she did that. To know there wasn't a loan, and there was nothing wrong, just a miscommunication upstairs, and to breathe, and observe the moment as it passed.

It always helped me to look for some things happening in the world around me in those moments.

It kept me in my body and gave me space from my thoughts. This now I noticed the way the morning light was cutting through the east facing windows, and stepped my toes into a patch of sun. I could feel the warmth through my socks and shoes, and took a slow, deep breath in and out. When I stepped up to the register, I felt calm, and more than anything else, hungry,

pecan bread, toasted with peanut butter to go.

“The man at the register smiled, as he rang it up, nodding his head as if to say, "I thought so."”

It was good to go somewhere where they knew your usual. I stepped aside after I paid, and could see back into the kitchen, where the baker was pulling trays of sandwich bread from a huge oven. She swapped them out for trays of pies, ready to go in, and I wondered what flavor they were.

It seemed early for rhubarb, though they might have it in the hoop houses, outside of town.

After the pies were loaded in, she wiped her hands on a towel, tucked into her apron, and turned, and saw me at the counter.

“She smiled so genuinely, I felt really welcome.”

We didn't know each other's names, but we were part of each other's lives. She stepped through from the kitchen, and asked if I was having my usual.

I said that I was, and she said that she would grind some peanut butter fresh for me.

I started to say that that wasn't necessary, but she said it was no trouble, and it was best that way, because it would be warm on my toast. She ducked back into the kitchen, and a moment later I could hear a machine that sounded like

“my coffee grinder at home, kicking to gear.”

A few minutes later, I was handed my coffee on a paper sack with a smiley fan. I could feel the warmth of the toast right through it. And peaked inside to see that she had cut it in half, and folded it together like a sandwich. So that the peanut butter wouldn't leak out, and added in a short stack of napkins. I called out a thank you to her, and stepped back out into the sun.

I wanted to drink my coffee, and eat my breakfast by the river. It was only a few blocks away, and there were one or two other cars parked by the water's edge. I pulled up beside them and spotted an empty bench in the full sun. I settled on to it, carefully resting my coffee beside me, as I took my toast from the bag. It smelled so good, sweet, tangy scent of the cranberries, and the rich roasted smell of the peanuts.

The dark, strong coffee, to cut through all of it. As I ate, I watched geese on the river bank, sunning themselves, training at their brownish gray feathers. Bees were Canada geese, with black necks and heads, and that chin strap of white feathers wrapping under from one cheek to the other.

I looked it up once. They could live almost 25 years. I wondered how old the members of this gaggle were. When my toast was gone, and I'd taken the last sip of coffee from the cup. I dropped my trash and again nearby,

I had on my tall, wellington boots, and in my jacket pocket, I'd brought along some water-proof

“garden gloves. I looked up and down the river, and spotted someone away as a way.”

They were nudging at the shore with their toe, and looking down at the spot they were clearing. A fellow mudlacker for sure. The river bank was full of sand and selt.

Water was carried down from a lake north of here, and the river ran through woods and behind

neighborhoods. And through town, under a bridge where people frequently stopped and watched the current

“fly. And as the water went through all of those places, it picked up things.”

It claimed lost items, and brought them here with a river curved, and those things caught

in the sand. And we're just waiting to be found again.

It seemed a good way to welcome spring. By digging up something lodged beneath the surface, from letting it shine in the sun again. Mudlarking on the river, part one.

“Snow was gone, and the river banks were clear. I'd been anxious to get out in my tall boots,”

and hunt for treasures beside the water. Since I'd heard from my beach coming friends, about the things they had found. Today was the perfect day for it. A sunny Saturday, noticeably warmer spring air drifting through town. I'd rolled my windows down as I drove, and let the breeze roll over me. Then, yes, I'd had to roll them most of the way back up. It wasn't that warm, but spring was definitely on its way.

I passed the bakery on my way to the river, and seeing an open parking spot out front, decided to make a quick stop. On the sidewalk, a few patrons sat on a bench in the sun, bundled up and drinking from steaming cups. We are hearty people in the village. Our blood had grown thick over the winter, and we didn't miss a chance to be outside, even when there was still a nip in the air. I nodded to them as I pushed the bakery door open.

It smelled, heavenly, inside, fresh baked breads, and sweet pastries, and heart coffee. I'd been coming here since I was a child, and the scent was tied into those memories. Standing in line on my tiptoes, desperate to see into the doughnut case, waiting to pick up a pumpkin pie for Thanksgiving. We're birthday cake with my name,

baked treats, and the menu of coffee options on the wall. I used to think I was the only one

who would rehearse their order in their head while waiting in line.

“Till a friend of mine confessed that she did it too. Now I think I could see it”

on a few of the people around me. Sometimes our brains tell us to be nervous about things

that we really don't need to be nervous about. And I'd learned to be gentle with my own brain

when she did that. To know I wasn't alone, and that there was nothing wrong, just a miscommunication upstairs, and to breathe, and observe the moment as it

“passed. It always helped me to look for some things happening in the world around me”

in those moments. I kept me in my body, gave me some space from my thoughts.

Just now, I noticed the way the morning light was cutting through the east facing windows, and stepped my toes into a patch of sun. I could feel the warmth through my socks and shoes and took a slow, deep breath in and out. When I stepped up to the register,

“I felt calm, and more than anything else, hungry, and in need of a hot drink.”

I ordered my usual, the coffee, and a large slice of cranberry pecan bread, toasted with peanut butter, to go. The man at the register smiled as he rang it up, nodding his head as if to say, "I thought so. It was good to go somewhere where they knew your usual." I stepped aside after I paid, and could see back into their kitchen.

Where the baker was pulling trays of sandwich bread from a huge oven. She swapped them out for trays of pies, ready to go in, and I wondered what flavor they were. It seemed early for rhubarb, but they might have it in the hoop houses outside of town. After the pies were loaded in, she wiped her hands on a towel, tucked into her apron, and turned, and saw me at the counter. She smiled so genuinely. I felt really welcome.

We didn't know each other's names, but we were part of each other's lives. She stepped through from the kitchen, and asked if I was having my usual. I said that I was, and she said that she would grind some peanut butter, fresh for me. I started to say that that wasn't necessary, but she said it was no trouble, and it was best that way, because it would be warm on my toast.

my coffee grinder at home, kick into gear. A few minutes later, I was handed my coffee

“on a paper sack with a smiley face drawn on it. I could feel the warmth of a toast right through it,”

and peaked inside to see that she had cut it in half, and folded it together like a sandwich. So the peanut butter wouldn't leak out, and added in the short stack of napkins.

I called out a thank you to her, and stepped back out into the sun.

I wanted to drink my coffee and eat my breakfast by the river.

“It was only a few blocks away, and there were one or two other cars parked by the water's”

edge. I pulled up beside them, and spotted an empty bench in the full sun.

I settled on to it, carefully resting my coffee beside me, as I took my toast from the bag.

It smelled so good, a sweet tangy scent of the cranberries, and the rich roasted smell of the peanuts. The dark strong coffee to cut through all of it.

“As I ate, I watched Geese on the riverbank, sunny themselves, preening at their”

brownish gray feathers. These were Canada Geese, with black necks and heads, and that chin strap of white feathers, wrapping under from one cheek to the next. I looked it up once. They could live almost 25 years. And I wondered how old the members of this gaggle were. When my toast was gone, and I'd taken the last sip of coffee from the cup.

I dropped my trash and a can nearby, and stepped out onto the walk that ordered the river. I had on my tall Wellington boots, and in my jacket pocket, I'd brought along some water proof garden gloves. I looked up and down the river, and spotted someone who weighs away. They were nudging at the shore with their toe, and looking down at the spot they were clearing. A fellow mudlarker for sure. The riverbank was full of sand and silt.

Water was carried down from a lake north of here, and the river ran through woods and behind neighborhoods. And through town, under a bridge where people frequently stopped and watched the current fly. And as the water went through all of those places, they picked up things and claimed lost items when it brought them here, where the river curved, and those things caught in the sand. Then we're just waiting to be found again. It seemed a good way to welcome spring.

Sweet dreams.