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Get more Nothing much happens with bonus episodes, extra long stories and ad free listening, all while supporting the show you love. Subscribe now. You know those days when your brain just won't cooperate? When you're staring at your to do list, hopping from call to call and the mental fog just gets thicker? I've been there and I used to reach for another coffee only to end up jittery and then crashing later. That's why I've been trying Nature Sunshine Brain Edge. It's a clean plant powered drink mix that blends wild harvested yerba mate with nootropic botanicals to help with focus, memory and mental clarity without the crash. I've used it before, recording, before writing and I noticed I could think more clearly, I could stay present and I could actually finish what I set out to do. I like that it fits right into my wellness routine. Warm and cozy in a mug or poured over ice. And it feels good to know that the yerba mate is sourced responsibly from indigenous communities in the rainforest. Plus, Nature Sunshine has over 50 years of experience sourcing pure, potent ingredients, so I trust what I'm drinking. Don't fight through feeling foggy and lethargic. Ignite your mental performance with Brain Edge. Nature Sunshine is offering 20% off your first order plus free shipping. Go to naturesunshine.com and use code Nothing Much at checkout. That's code nothingmuch@naturesunshine.com welcome to Bedtime Stories for Everyone in which nothing much happens. You feel good and then you fall asleep. I'm Kathryn Nicolai. I write and read all the stories you hear and nothing much happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. We give to a different charity each week and this week we are giving to Dirty Paws Agape Haven, a sanctuary for the sweet souls of senior dogs. You can learn more about them in our show. Notes. Here is a small way to make the world a softer, cozier place for lots of people. Become a premium subscriber subscribers ensure our continual availability. They make nothing much happen for the world and it's just 10 cents a day. You get loads of bonus episodes and our whole seven and a half year catalog of episodes ad free. Click subscribe in Spotify or Apple or go to nothingmuch happens.com if you are new here. Welcome. Let me say a tiny bit about how this works. Listening to our soft simple stories will engage your brain just enough to keep it from wandering. The story sort of tucks your mind in and after a few minutes sleep will come. Most listeners report best results after a month of regular use. The more you listen, the better the brain response will be. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. Our story tonight is called Autumn at the Inn, Part two, and it's the second in this series, though you don't need to go back and listen to Part one if I don't know, you might have slept through it. Nothing much happened in it. This is a story about a train ride through changing fields, an old station wagon packed full of pies, a sketch of the moon on the pages of a journal, wind and waves, and a week full of adventure ahead. Now snuggle down into your sheets and get as comfortable as you can. The day is done. It was what it was, and now it is over. I'll be here reading and watching. Over. Even after you've fallen asleep. Draw a deep breath in through your nose and out through the mouth. Nice. One more inhale. Let it go. Good. Autumn at the Inn, Part two On the journey I'd filled several pages of my journal. I wrote about the land flying past the train window, green and yellow fields of sunflowers and rolling farmland freshly plowed and dotted with haystacks. I rode about a bevy of deer sitting calmly under a weeping willow as the wind of the passing train tossed drying leaves down on top of them. And I wrote about the lady who pushed the drinks cart up and down the aisle, who'd had a story to tell at nearly every stop we made. Did I know she'd been a pageant winner in her day? I chuckled as she poured my coffee and said, I didn't, but I'd love to hear about had been long before she'd sold encyclopedias door to door, but after she'd been mayor of that small town we'd passed. As we crossed the trestle bridge over the river, I wondered if she wrote a whole new biography each time she boarded and stocked her cart, and if I rode long enough, if I could become her archivist, tracking all the tales and noting how they crisscrossed like the routes of the trains themselves. Sometimes I wrote about myself, little thoughts that didn't necessarily go anywhere but felt good to express, bigger thoughts that had been waiting for me to have the time to look them in the eye. I had a feeling that was behind the general wanderlust that had spurred me to book a ticket on a room at the inn. I'd been spinning my wheels and needed a way to help them grab the earth again and propel me forward. That, and desperately craving a fresh apple cider on a walk in the spicy air under changing leaves on the harvest moon. I'd been sketching that moon onto the pages of my journal, not noticing that the train was slowing when my friend at the drinks cart leaned in to tap me on the shoulder. Your stop is next, dear. Don't miss it. Oh, I'd spluttered. Thanks. I closed the book, snapping the elastic closure into place, and hurriedly pulled down my suitcase from the luggage rack. I'd bought myself a new jacket for this trip with a soft flannel lining and a hood in case it rained. I slid it on and zipped it up tight. By the time the train chugged to a stop and the doors hissed open, I was standing ready behind them, ready for my autumn adventure. I must have overpacked a bit too many pumpkin orange sweaters and thick socks because I could barely shift my suitcase down the first step. A porter stepped over from the platform, grabbing it down in one hand and helping me out with the other. Oh, how much it means when someone is kind to you, when someone helps you, when you are traveling, when you are somewhere you have never been before. He must have read it on my face because after he waved off my thanks, he asked if I needed help, if I had a ride waiting for me. I told him I was headed to the inn and that they'd said they would send someone to pick me up. Did he know where their shuttle would be parked? He smiled a bit as he nodded and guided me down the platform to point through the open, high ceilinged station to the street beyond. Not really a shuttle. We take turns, whoever is going out that way, and today I'd say you hit the jackpot. Look for a station wagon and a lady in an apron. Wouldn't be surprised if she's got a good bit of flour on her. I turned to look in the direction he pointed, not sure I'd understood. But when I turned back to him, he was already down the platform, lifting another case from the train. Well, it was supposed to be an adventure, wasn't it? On the street, just like he'd said, I found a station wagon, an old one with those faux wooden panels on the sides and vinyl bench seats in the front and back. Standing at the open tailgate, shifting cases and crates, was indeed a woman in an apron. She smiled as I came around the car to her and shook my hand in a friendly and, yes, flowery way. She looked down at my lone suitcase and said, oh good, I can fit that in the back seat. I thought I'd have to stack the pies, and I don't know how much you know about pies. She lifted the lower gate and it locked into place. But they really shouldn't be stacked. Of course not, I said. It could crush the crust, and that's the best part. You get it? She nodded and helped me load my case into the back seat. Once we were buckled in, she started up the old car and we began to trundle down what I guessed was the main street of this little village. There was an open bakery box on the seat between us, and she insisted I help myself to a cookie. I'd been craving oatmeal raisin for ages and the box was full of them. But they weren't just plain cookies. They were sandwiched together around a generous spread of vanilla cream, like a stepped up version of the kind I'd eaten from a cellophane package after school as a kid. They were absolutely delicious, and for a few blocks I was lost to anything but the flavor and aroma of the treats. The baker asked a few questions. Was it my first time here, how long was I staying, and did I prefer apple crisp or apple turnovers? I answered in order. Yes, it was my first time, a week or so, and that I hoped I never had to make such a difficult decision. She pointed out a few places I might want to visit while I was here. Her bakery, of course. A cafe with outdoor tables grouped around standing heaters that glowed orangey red in the cool air. A stationery shop. If I filled up my journal and needed a new one. I need a new one, no matter how many I have, I told her. There was a bookshop with a cozy reading nook built right into the front window and a park with a newspaper kiosk at its entrance. The farmers market was bustling with shoppers and stalls, and I could see that they had a whole section just for mums. As we wound our way out of town, I asked her what was taking her to the inn today. She smiled and said she was delivering all those pies for the exhibit and then helping Chef with a round of pickled Brussels sprouts. Now I was the one with the questions. Exhibit, chef, and most importantly, pickles. We turned down the long drive to the inn just as I was voicing all of these, but rather than answer, she pointed past the beautiful old home where I would be spending the next week to the sliver of lake visible through the trees. She began to crank her window down and I followed suit. Fresh lake Air rushed in when I closed my eyes, letting it wash over me. I could hear wind high in the trees and waves on the surface of the water. My shoulders dropped and my jaw relaxed, though I hadn't even been aware I'd been clenching it, though I'd never been here before, but somehow it felt familiar, like I was coming home. Autumn at The Inn Part 2 On the Journey I'd filled several pages of my journal. I wrote about the land flying past the train window, green and yellow fields of sunflowers and rolling farmland freshly plowed and dotted with haystacks. I wrote about a bevy of deer sitting calmly under a weeping willow as the wind of the passing train tossed drying leaves down on top of them. I wrote about the lady who pushed the drinks cartoon up and down the aisle, who'd had a story to tell at nearly every stop we made. Did I know she had been a pageant winner in her day? I chuckled as she poured my coffee and said, I didn't, but I'd love to hear about had been long before she sold encyclopedias door to door, but after she'd been mayor of the small town we'd passed as we crossed that trestle bridge over the river, I wondered if she wrote a whole new biography each time she boarded and stocked her cart. And if I rode long enough, could I become her archivist, tracking all the tales and noting how they crisscrossed like the routes of the trains themselves? Sometimes I wrote about myself. Little thoughts that didn't necessarily go anywhere, bigger thoughts that had been waiting for me to have the time to look them in the eye. I had a feeling they were behind the general wanderlust that had spurred me to book a ticket and a room at the inn. I'd been spinning my wheels and needed a way to help them grab the earth again and propel me forward. That, and desperately craving a fresh apple cider and a walk in the spicy air under changing leaves and the harvest moon. I'd been sketching that moon onto the pages of my journal, not noticing that the train was slowing when my friend at the drinks cart leaned in to tap me on the shoulder. Your stop is next, dear. Don't miss it. Oh, I'd spluttered. Thanks. I closed the book, snapping the elastic closure into place, and hurriedly pulled my suitcase from the luggage rack. I'd bought myself a new jacket just for this trip, with a soft flannel lining and a hood in case it rained. I slid it on and zipped it up tight. By the time the train chugged to a stop and the doors hissed open. I was standing ready behind them, ready for my autumn adventure. I must have over packed a bit too many pumpkin orange sweaters and thick socks because I could barely shift my suitcase down the first step. A porter stepped over from the platform, grabbing it down in one hand and helping me out with the other. Oh, how much it means when someone is kind to you, when someone helps you, when you are traveling, when you are somewhere you have never been before. You must have read it on my face because after he waved off my thanks, he asked if I needed help, if I had a ride waiting for me. I told him I was headed to the inn and that they'd said they would send someone to pick me up. Did he know where their shuttle would be parked? He smiled a bit as he nodded and guided me down the platform to point through the open, high ceilinged station to the street beyond. Not really a shuttle. We just take turns, whoever is going out that way. And today I'd say you hit the jackpot. Look for a station wagon and a lady in an apron. Wouldn't be surprised if she's got a good bit of flour on her. I turned to look in the direction he pointed, not sure I had understood, but when I turned back to him he was already down the platform lifting another case from the train. Well, it was supposed to be an adventure, wasn't it? On the street, just like he'd said. I'd found a station wagon, an old one with those faux wooden panels on the sides and vinyl bench seats in the front and back. Standing at the open tailgate shifting cases and crates, was indeed a woman in an apron. She smiled as I came around the car to her and shook my hand in a friendly, yes, flowery way. She looked down at my lone suitcase and said, oh good, I can fit that in the back seat. Thought I'd have to stack the pies and I don't know how much you know about pies. She lifted the lowered gate and it locked into place. But they really shouldn't be stacked. Of course not, I said. It could crush the crust and that's the best part. You get it? She nodded and helped me load my case into the back seat. Once we were buckled in, she started up the old car and we began to trundle down what I guessed was the main street of this little village. There was an open bakery box, the seat between us, and she insisted I help myself to a cookie. I'd been craving oatmeal raisin for ages and the box was full of them. But they weren't just plain cookies. They were sandwiched together around a generous spread of vanilla cream, like a stepped up version of the kind I'd eaten from a cellophane package after school as a kid. They were absolutely delicious, and for a few blocks I was lost to anything but the flavor and aroma of the treats. The baker asked a few questions. Was it my first time here, how long was I staying, and did I prefer apple crisp or apple turnovers? I answered in order. Yes. It was my first time, a week or so, and that I hoped I never had to make such a difficult decision. She pointed out a few places I might want to visit while I was here. Her bakery, of course. A cafe with outdoor tables grouped around standing heaters that glowed orangey red in the cool air. A stationery shop if I filled up my journal. I needed a new one. I need a new one, no matter how many I have, I told her. There was a bookshop with a cozy reading nook built right into the front window and a park with a newspaper kiosk at its entrance. The farmers market was bustling with shoppers and stalls, and I could see that they had a whole section just for moms. As we wound our way out of town, I asked her what was taking her to the inn today. She smiled and said she was delivering all those pies for the exhibit and then helping Chef with a round of pickled Brussels sprouts. Now I was the one with the questions, exhibit, Chef, and most importantly, pickles. We turned down the long drive to the inn just as I was voicing the all of these, but rather than answer, she pointed past the beautiful old home where I would be spending the next week to the sliver of lake visible through the trees. She began to crank her window down and I followed suit. Fresh lake air rushed in and I closed my eyes, letting it wash all over me. I could hear wind high in the trees, waves on the surface of the water. My shoulders dropped and my jaw relaxed, though I hadn't even been aware I'd been clenching it. No, I'd never been here before, but somehow it all felt familiar, like I was coming home. Sweet dreams.