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“Hi, I'm Catherine 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. What's 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. Make 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 Catherine Nikolai, I write and read all the stories you hear on nothing much happens. How do you engineering is by Bob Wittersheim? I have a story to tell you, it's a soft landing place for your mind.
“All you need to do is listen, and as always, I'll tell the story twice and go a little bit”
slower the second time through.
So switch off your light, slide down under your blankets, and get as comfortable as you can. If it isn't happening to you right now, let it go. Take a deep breath in through your nose, let it out your mouth, nice one more, breathe in. And out, good.
Our story tonight is called The Last Day of School, and it's a story about a slow parade of proud students through downtown nothing much. It's also about baseball cards and bike spokes, lemon candies and bubbles, bookmarks, and summer music, and lazy days ahead. The Last Day of School, you can hear the bell from the sidewalk.
In fact, I'm pretty sure I've heard it from the edge of downtown before.
In the morning, when the first class comes to order, and again in the afternoon, as
the doors open, and the kids come streaming out. When I've heard it, when out on a walk in the neighborhood, when I'm stepping out of the t-shop, with my to-go cup of Roy Bose in my hand, and maybe is far over as the bakery. When I'd been sitting at one of their outdoor tables with a bagel, and a new book.
“Today, I think we were all listening for that afternoon bell to ring.”
It was the last day of the school year. A day when our youngest residents were released from their studies, for the important summer activities of playing, sleeping, and doing much, much less. No doubt they were looking forward to hearing that bell ring, but I think the whole village
Was as well.
It was a tradition that had been going on as long as I could remember.
“Long enough that it was part of my last day of school memories, and maybe even my parents”
as well. The elementary school sat on the south side of town, and when the bell ring, the kids would walk or ride their bikes or scooters up through the little streets of the village through downtown and toward the park.
Along the way, the shops would have treats and surprises for them.
People would honk their car horns, pedestrians would clap and wave, like a slow wandering parade.
“They'd celebrate their year of studies, and the summer that awaited them.”
Their had been notes and conversations circulating among the downtown shop owners. About what we were each planning to do.
We didn't so much collaborate as cheer each other on.
We all had our own favorite ways to celebrate the last day of school. And we liked for there to be some surprises along the way. I was at my little store around the corner from the bookshop, getting ready.
“We sold an eclectic collection of things, plates and bowls, pretty colored glasses, cookbooks”
and candles. But we also had a display of rings and hair clips on the counter, a whole wall of kuku clocks, watercolorsets, and incense burners. We had jigsaw puzzles, and acrylic marker sets, cacti, and flower pots, umbrellas, and little tens of lemon candies.
It was a sundry's shop. That was how I usually described it. And while elementary-aged kids worked our primary customers, I thought I could still come up with a few things to tickle their fancies. I had a big basket of small prizes, racers and markers, stickers and mini notebooks, little
snow globes and friendship bracelets, all wrapped in little paper packages. I was setting it out on a small cafe table beside my front door, as the sound of bike bells and horns began to grow in the distance. I checked my watch, and saw that, yes, indeed. The time had come, school was out for the summer.
Across the street at the record shop, they put a big old turntable out on a cart and set up some speakers. They must have heard the horns, and sounds of celebration coming as well. A staff member came out with an arm load of records, and flipped through them, finding perfect summer album, and setting it spinning on the player.
I knew the bakery had a table of cookies and lemonade out.
The book shopkeeper told me she'd made a bundle of bookmarks with their schoo...
them, and was going to hand them out with her dog, Elfabet, who she was dressing up in
a graduation robe and cap.
“The flower shop had gathered flower petals for weeks, and was tossing them off their roof”
like in Fettie. An over at the bicycle shop, there were free packs of baseball cards to tuck into spokes
for the satisfying thewap sound.
We'd be hearing all summer. The kids began to trickle past, and I hurried to plug in my big contribution to the day.
“I'd been looking for an excuse to get a bubble machine, and here it was.”
It hung from a branch in the tree outside my door, and shot an arc of bubbles across the street.
As kids made their way past the shop, a smile and laughed as they let the bubbles float over
them, clapping their hands to pop them, or trying to catch them on their fingers. The kids looked a happy mix of excited and relieved as they stopped to make selections from
“my prize basket, and enter my raffle to guess how many lemon candies were in the big”
jar. Some were loud and spirited, running as their school bags banged against their legs, shouting and playing games, and others were calm and quiet, feeling the relief of having another year done, and in the books. A few wondered through the shop, peering closely at the hand-painted teacups, and embroidery
projects, when the bike bus passed through town, it felt like the grand finale of a firework show, and no one seemed to be enjoying it, more than the PE teacher, leading the charge. I chuckle as he passed me, wiping one hand across his forehead, and a gesture of "few." We made it.
Everyone needs a break sometimes, even the most enthusiastic coaches and teachers and students. Life can't have just one flavor, I thought, as the last bikes went through, just like the things on the shelves in my shop, the variety was what made it whole. Some things were practical, the sensible salad plates, and some were purely for delight, glitter pens, and filter animals, but all of it added up to a lovely atmosphere.
I hope the kids felt the same way, after all their studies, ending the year on this joyful note, effort and ease, work and rest, study, and silliness. They all have their place for each of us, the last day of school.
You can hear the bell from out on the sidewalk.
In fact, I'm pretty sure I've heard it from the edge of downtown before.
In the morning, when the first class comes to order, and again in the afternoon, as
the doors open, and the kids come streaming out. I've heard it when out on a walk in the neighborhood, when I'm stepping out of the tea shop, with my to-go cup ofroybos in my hand, and maybe as far over as the bakery, when I'd been sitting, I'd one of their outdoor tables, with a bagel, and a new book.
“Today, I think we were all listening for that afternoon bell to ring.”
It was the last day of the school year, a day when our youngest residents were released from
their studies. So, they could attend to the important summer activities of playing, sleeping, and doing much, much less. No doubt they were looking forward to hearing that bell ring.
“When I think the whole village was, as well.”
It was a tradition that had been going on, as long as I could remember.
Long enough that it was part of my last days of school memories, maybe even my parents as well. The elementary school sat on the south side of town, and when the bell ring, the kids would walk, or ride their bikes and scooters up through the little streets of the village,
“through downtown, and towards the park, along the way, the shops would have treats, and”
surprises for them. People would honk their car horns, pedestrians would clap and wave, like a slow, wandering parade. They'd celebrate their year of studies, and the summer that awaited them.
There had been notes and conversations circulating among the downtown shop owners about what we were each planning to do. We didn't so much collaborate as cheer each other on. We all had our own favorite ways to celebrate the last day of school. We liked for there to be some surprises along the way.
I was at my little store, around the corner, from the bookshop, getting ready. We sold an eclectic collection of things, plates and bowls, pretty colored glasses, cookbooks,
Candles, but we also had a display of rings and hair clips on the counter.
A whole wall of cuckoo clocks, watercolour sets, and incense burners.
“We had jigsaw puzzles, and acrylic marker sets, cacti, and flower pots, umbrellas, and”
little tins of lemon candies. It was a sundry shop.
That's how I usually described it.
And while elementary aged kids weren't our primary customers, my thought I could still come
“up with a few things to tickle their fancies.”
I had a big basket of small prizes, a racers and markers, stickers, and mini note books,
little snow globes, and friendship bracelets, all wrapped in paper packages.
And I was setting it out on a small cafe table beside my front door. As the sound of bike bells, horns began to grow in the distance.
“I checked my watch, and saw that, yes, indeed, the time had come.”
School was out for the summer, across the street at the record shop. And put a big old turntable out on a cart, and set up some speakers. They must have heard the horns and sounds of celebration coming, as well. A staff member came out with an arm load of records, and flipped through them, finding the perfect summer album, and setting it spinning on the player.
I knew the bakery had a table of cookies, and lemonade out. The book shopkeeper told me that she had made a bundle of bookmarks with their school colors on them, and was going to hand them out with her dog, Elfabet, who she was dressing up in a graduation robe and cap. The flower shop had gathered flower petals for weeks, and was tossing them off their roof, light confetti, and over at the bicycle shop.
There were three packs of baseball cards to tuck into spokes for the satisfying flap sound, and we'd be hearing all summer. The kids began to trickle past, and I hurried
To plug in my big contribution to the day.
I'd been looking for an excuse to get a bubble machine, and here it was.
“It hung from a branch on the tree outside my door, and shot an arc of bubbles across the street.”
They caught the sunlight, and glistened with a rainbow of colors, as kids made their way past the shop. They smiled and laughed, as they let the bubbles float over them,
clapping their hands to pop them, and were trying to catch them on their fingers.
“The kids looked a happy mix of excited and relieved as they stopped to make selections from my”
prize basket, and then turned my raffle to guess how many lemon candies were in the big jar. Some were loud and spirited, running as their school bags banged against their legs,
shouting, and playing games. Another's were calm, and quiet, feeling the relief,
“of having another year done, and in the books. A few wandered through my shop,”
peering closely at the hand-painted teacups, and embroidery projects. When the bike bus passed through town, it felt like the grand finale to a fireworks show, and no one seemed to be enjoying it more than the PE teacher, leading the charge. My chuckle does he passed me, wiping one hand across his forehead, in a gesture of view we made it. Everyone needs a break sometimes,
even the most enthusiastic coaches and teachers and students. Life can't have just one flavor. I thought as the last bikes went through. Just like the things on the shelves in my shop, the variety was what made it whole. Some things were practical, like the sensible salad plates, and some were purely for delight, glitter pens, and felt at animals. But all of it added up to one lovely atmosphere.
I hope the kids felt the same way after all their studies, ending the year on this joyful note. Effort and ease, work and rest, study and silliness. They all have their place for each of us. Sweet dreams.
