Writer/Reader of Nothing Much Happens (3:18)

Again. Welcome to Bedtime stories for everyone in which Nothing Much Happens. You feel good and then you fall asleep.

Katherine Nicolai (3:36)

I'm Katherine Nicolai.

Writer/Reader of Nothing Much Happens (3:39)

I write and read all the stories you hear when Nothing Much Happens.

Katherine Nicolai (3:45)

Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim.

Writer/Reader of Nothing Much Happens (3:49)

We give to a different charity each week and now with the last episode of the year, I can proudly say that we've been able to donate over $10,000 in 2025. This week we are giving to Lighthouse.

Katherine Nicolai (4:07)

Of Oakland county right in my backyard.

Writer/Reader of Nothing Much Happens (4:10)

Lighthouse endeavors to build equitable communities that alleviate poverty in partnership with and in.

Katherine Nicolai (4:18)

Service to individuals, families and organizations.

Writer/Reader of Nothing Much Happens (4:23)

You can learn more about them in our show. Notes do you need a Nothing Much Happens hoodie? I feel like you might. Or an art print of the map of the village? Check out our new merch, sign up for ad free premium access and connect.

Katherine Nicolai (4:44)

To our community all@nothingmuch happens.com.

Writer/Reader of Nothing Much Happens (4:50)

Now let me say a bit about how and why this works. I think understanding it helps it to work even better. Besides the shifts in brain activity, following along with a calm story centered around compassion and ease allows you to experience something called restorative witnessing you regulate by listening to someone else regulate. And the more often you listen, the more your body learns to follow that.

Katherine Nicolai (5:30)

Familiar path back to rest.

Writer/Reader of Nothing Much Happens (5:35)

I'll tell the story twice and I'll.

Katherine Nicolai (5:38)

Go a little bit slower the second time through.

Writer/Reader of Nothing Much Happens (5:42)

If you find yourself awake later on, feel free to start an episode again. Our story tonight is called Return to the Chalet and it is a sort of season two of a fan favorite series from a few winters back called Winter Getaway. Though you don't need to listen to that three parter to find your place in this one. It's a story about a trip out of town after the bustle of the holidays settles down. It's also about landmarks spotted from the highway, a plate of black and white cookies made with love, the moment the sun dips below the cloud cover on its way to setting, and the cumulative effect of giving yourself what you need when you need it. So turn out the light my dear. It's time. Make yourself as comfortable as you can. Whatever happened today is what happened today and now we are here. Take a deep breath in through your nose and sigh from your mouth. One more time. Breathe in and out. Good. Return to the Chalet My bags were packed and the car was gassed up and ready. All that was left to do was to close up the bookshop for the year and get on the road. The first time I'd made this trip a few winters back, I'D been worn thin from too many days without a break, too much to do and not enough time to do it in. But knowing that this getaway was coming up had me moving through the busy days before the holiday with a spring in my step, an excitement in my heart. A friend had described it once, like running a race, when seeing someone holding out a cup of water along the route for you, you see it there coming in. Just a few more steps and it keeps you going, helps you know you'll make it to the finish line. Alfie, my dog, Alphabet, and I had made it. We'd sold books and magazines, classics and new releases, blank journals and yearly almanacs, and now the busy season was behind us and it was time to slow down and refill our cups. I tidied up the desk, locked the register, and double checked the back door. I'd made a sign for the front window reminding our customers that we would be closed for the week, back again after the new Year, and as I hung it up I felt my shoulders drifting down my back, a slow sigh rolling out through my lips. Alphabet watched me from his bed by the register, and he mimicked my sigh. It made me laugh for someone who spent pretty much the whole day lying down. He sighed like he just worked a double down at the cafe. This was the first time I was taking Elfie with me that first year. I didn't know what to expect, if it would be a good spot for him, accessible for his short, bassetty corgish legs, and, if I was honest, the kind of exhausted I'd been, the sort of break I'd needed. Well, it excluded any kind of caregiving that wasn't directly aimed at myself. This year, probably because of these more regular breaks, I had more space to work with, and I was happy to bring him along. I knew he would love sleeping by the fire and watching the skiers carve their way down the mountain. I switched on a few lamps so the shop wouldn't sit completely dark while we were away, and maneuvered Alfie into his sweater. He had short white fur with black spots. I always teased him that one of his grandfathers must have been a Dalmatian or possibly a cow, and he would get cold on a day like today without a sweater. He grunted a bit as I pulled the red knit fabric with designs of snowflakes and reindeer over his head and down his long body. You'll thank me later. The funicular can be cold, I told him, and he shook his body out like he'd just gotten out of the bath. I zipped up my own coat and took one last look around the shop. All was in its place. See you next year, I whispered and reached for Alfie's leash. He sniffed around on the sidewalk as I locked the front door, and I noticed how quiet the street was. For a lot of us shopkeepers and small businesses, this was a week to regroup. Most of the storefronts were lit like mine, just a dim glow to keep the darkness at bay, and with a SEE YOU IN JANUARY sign hanging in a window, I helped Elfie into his car seat when we buckled in for the drive. When I started the car, the radio came on. I immediately reached out and switched it off. The quiet was better. I backed out into Main street and we headed for the cabin on the mountain, for the chalet and the funicular and the main hotel lobby that would still be decorated for the holiday but blissfully calm and restrained. It was gray out, low clouds but clear roads, and as we drove I laid my hand on Elfie beside me. His steady, sleepy breaths slowed my own. I recognized a few landmarks along the way, and with each one the windmill off the interstate, the bridge over the frozen river. I was calmer the year, unwinding like the tail of a kite floating up and away into the clouds. At the hotel I juggled my bags an elf's leash for a moment when a porter met me in the lot and began loading the luggage onto his rolling rack. Welcome back, he said, and I was a bit surprised by how good it felt to be remembered. Gosh, I said shyly, I don't know how you could remember me. You must see so many people over the course of a year. He gestured for me to go first on the path and followed with the cart. Your chef's friend. I remember another sweet spot in this trip, an old friend who spent their summers cooking at the Village Inn and their winters running the kitchen here, who always made me a few special treats and meals over my stay. They were busy but looked after me from a distance while I was here, and that loving act of friendship made my eyes brim in the late afternoon light. We moved through the lobby, Alphabet drawing smiles and waves from staff and fellow guests alike. He was so used to spending his days in the bookshop, being petted by strangers and regulars. Navigating a busy space didn't faze him. He wagged his tail and accepted a biscuit at the check in desk, and soon we were following the porter out to the funicular stop. The hotel sat at the base of a mountain range, and as well as the accommodations in the main building, there were private cabins arranged higher up, tucked into the woods at the feet of several of the peaks. To get back and forth, a conveyance like a diagonal outdoor elevator had been built. It ran on tracks like a train, and we boarded a gondola with soft upholstered seats and lots of glass to look out at the view. I'd aimed for us to arrive just before sunset. It had happened that way by chance on my first trip.

Katherine Nicolai (18:46)

And I remembered.

Writer/Reader of Nothing Much Happens (18:47)

How the sun had dipped below the cloud cover and lit the landscape in astonishing orange light. It felt like the light had gone inside me on the way up the mountain and that I'd been able to carry it with me into the rest of the winter. So on my return trip I'd wanted to repeat the experience. This year the glow was softer, more like being close to a fire than being struck by lightning. When that seemed fitting, I wasn't in the same place I'd been that first time. I didn't need to be rebuilt, just topped up. And as we rose, Alfie at my side and the porter quietly looking out with us, I felt the glow and closed my eyes to let it absorb into my skin and spirit. I still had my eyes closed when we rocked to a stop and the doors slid open. Alphabet jumped down and tugged at the leash, and I followed. My breath fogged in the air and there was a crackle to the cold, not something I could actually hear, but something I felt in the air between the pines and the slopes. The wheels of the luggage cart bumped along the wood planks of the path. An elfie sniffed in a steady rhythm along the edge of the cleared snow. Even before the door of the cabin was unlocked, I could smell the wood smoke, see it rising from the chimney against the last rays of daylight. Inside, the fire crackled and the air was warm and welcoming as I unclipped Alf's leash and pulled at the fingers of my gloves. Our bags were set out and the cart pushed back through the door. I turned to say thank you just as it was closing and got a wink back from the porter. I let out a deep sigh and looked around at this familiar room with its large, comfortable bed, fluffy rugs, and small kitchenette. I smiled at what I saw on the counter. Last time Chef had left me homemade cookies, and I'd made them last all week. There they were, their famous black and whites under a pretty glass dome, and beside them some freshly made biscuits for Alf and a note with a simple xo My Mind settled deep into my body and I felt safe and calm and ready for sleep. Return to the chalet. My bags were packed and the car was gassed up and ready. All that was left to do was to close up the bookshop for the year and get on the road. The first time I'd made this trip, a few winters back, I'd been worn thin from too many days without a break, too much to do and not enough time to do it in. But knowing that this getaway was coming up had me moving through the busy days before the holiday with a spring in my step, an excitement in my heart. A friend had described it once, like running a race and seeing someone holding out a cup of water along the route for you. You see it there coming in. Just a few more steps and it keeps you going. Helps you know you'll make it to the finish line. Well, Alfie, my dog, Alphabet and I had made it. We'd sold books and magazines, classics and new releases, blank journals and yearly almanacs. And now the busy season was behind us and it was time to slow down and refill our cups. I tidied up the desk, locked the register, and double checked the back door. I'd made a sign for the front window reminding our customers that we would be closed for the week, back again after the New Year, and as I hung it up I felt my shoulders drifting down my back, a slow sigh rolling out through my lips. Alphabet watched me from his bed by the register and he mimicked my sigh. It made me laugh for someone who spent pretty much the whole day lying down. He sighed like he'd just worked a double down at the cafe. This was the first time I was taking Alfie with me. The first year I didn't know what to expect, if it would be a good spot for him, accessible for his short, facety, corgish legs, and, if I was honest, the kind of exhausted I'd been then, the sort of break I'd needed. Well, it excluded any kind of caregiving that wasn't directly aimed at myself. This year, probably because of these regular breaks, I had more space to work with and I was happy to bring him along. I knew he would love sleeping by the fire and watching the skiers carve their way down the mountain. I switched on a few lamps so the shop wouldn't sit completely dark while we were away and maneuvered Elfie into his sweater. He had short white fur with black spots. I always teased him that one of his grandfathers must have been a Dalmatian or possibly a cow, and he would get cold on a day like today without a sweater. He grunted a bit as I pulled the red knit fabric with designs of snowflakes and reindeer over his head and down his long body. You'll thank me later. The funicular can be cold, I told him, and he shook his body out like he'd just gotten out of the bath. I zipped up my own coat and took one last look around the shop. All was in its place. See you next year, I whispered and reached for Elfie's leash. He sniffed around on the sidewalk as I locked the front door, and I noticed how quiet the street was. For a lot of us shopkeepers and small businesses, this was a week to regroup. Most of the storefronts were like mine, just a dim glow inside to keep the darkness at bay, and with a SEE YOU IN JANUARY sign hanging in the window, I helped Alfie into his car seat and we buckled in for the drive. When I started the car and the radio came on, I immediately reached out and switched it off. The quiet was better. I backed out into Main street and we headed for the cabin on the mountain, for the chalet, and the funicular in the main hotel lobby that would still be decorated for the holiday but blissfully calm and restrained. It was gray out, low clouds but clear roads, and as we drove I laid a hand on Elfie beside me and his steady, sleepy breaths slowed my own. I recognized a few landmarks along the way, and with each one the windmill off the interstate, the bridge over the frozen river. I was calmer the year unwinding like the tail of a kite floating up and away into the clouds. At the hotel I juggled my bags and Elf's leash until a porter met me in the lot and began loading the luggage onto his rack. Welcome back, he said, and I was a bit surprised by how good it felt to be remembered. Gosh, I said shyly, I don't know how you could remember me. You must see so many people over the course of a year. He gestured for me to go first on the path and followed with the cart. Your chef's friend. I remember another sweet spot in this trip, an old friend who spent their summers cooking at the Village Inn and their winters running the kitchen here, who always made me a few special treats and meals over my stay. They were busy but looked after me from a distance while I was here, and that loving act of friendship made my eyes brim in the late afternoon light. We moved through the lobby, Alphabet drawing smiles and waves from staff and fellow guests alike. He was so used to spending his days in the bookshop, being petted by strangers and regulars. Navigating a busy space didn't faze him. He wagged his tail and accepted a biscuit at the check in desk, and soon we were following the porter out to the funicular stop. The hotel sat at the base of a mountain range, and as well as the accommodations in the main building, there were private cabins arranged higher up, tucked into the woods at the feet of several of the peaks. To get back and forth, a conveyance like a diagonal outdoor elevator had been built. It ran on tracks like a train, and we boarded a gondola with soft upholstered seats and lots of glass to look out at the view. I'd aimed for us to arrive just before sunset. It had happened like that by chance on my first trip, and I remembered how the sun had dipped below the clouds and lit the landscape in astonishing orange light. It had felt like the light had gone inside me on the way up the mountain and that I'd been able to carry it with me into the rest of the winter. So on this return trip I'd wanted to repeat the experience. This year the glow was softer, more like being close to a fire than being struck by lightning, and that seemed fitting. I wasn't in the same place I'd been that first time. I didn't need to be rebuilt, just topped up, and as we rose, Alfie at my side and the border quietly looking out with us, I felt the glow and closed my eyes to let it absorb into my skin and spirit. I still had my eyes closed when we rocked to a stop and I heard the doors slide open. Alphabet jumped down and tugged at the leash and I followed. My breath fogged in the air and there was a crackle to the cold, not something I could actually hear, but something I felt in the air between the pines and the slopes. The wheels of the Luggage cartoon bumped along the wood planks of the path and Alfie sniffed in a steady rhythm along the edge of the cleared snow. Even before the door of the cabin was unlocked, I could smell the wood smoke, see it rising from the chimney against the last rays of daylight. Inside, the fire crackled and the air was warm and welcoming. As I unclipped Alf's leash and pulled at the fingers of my gloves. Our bags were set out and the cart pushed back through the door. I turned to say thank you just as the door was closing and got a wink back from the porter. I let out a deep sigh and looked around at this familiar room with its large, comfortable bed, fluffy rugs, and small kitchenette. I smiled at what I saw on the counter. Last time, Chef had left me homemade cookies, and I'd made them last all week. There they were, their famous black and whites under a pretty glass dome, and beside them, some freshly made biscuits for Elf and a note with a simple xo. My mind settled deep into my body and I felt safe and calm and ready for sleep. Sweet dreams.