The Evening of the 4th

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Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Everyone, in which nothing much happens. You feel good, and then you fall asleep.
I'm Catherine Nicolai. I write and read all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens with audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim.
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Now, busy minds need a place to rest and a way to become less busy.

That's what I have for you.

A soft, positive technique

for settling your thoughts

and sending you to sleep.

As this is a form of brain training, come with some patience if you are new to it, and

know that the response will become stronger 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. If you wake later in the night, don't hesitate to restart the episode.
Our story tonight is called The Evening of the Fourth, and it's a story about a day-long event that ends with a picnic and a concert on the grass. It's also about hand pies and potato salad, a busy kitchen full of aproned volunteers, the sound of instruments tuning up on the patio, time and lemon zest, and

the satisfaction of sharing good times with your neighbors.

Now, lights out, y'all.

Let it sink in that the day is over, that it was what it was,

and now we are here.

Nothing left to do or keep track of.

Nothing needed from you.

You have done enough.

Draw a deep breath in through your nose

and sigh from your mouth. Again, inhale and release it.
Good. The evening of the fourth.
From inside the kitchens, I could hear the band tuning up. Our small but beloved village orchestra,

a scrappy group of all-ages musicians,

with just enough instruments to qualify,

was set up on the stone patio.

I could hear the cello's voice as it fell into tune beside the French horn and clarinet. I leaned closer to the window, inching it open a bit more, and heard the occasional scratch of a chair leg sliding over the stone.
A music stand pulled closer, and the murmur of voices as they prepared to play. The day had taken quite a bit of planning,

but everything seemed to be falling into place.

We were here at the village museum,

this great old house with acres of lawns and gardens

and a reflecting pond full of koi, all of which were now being toured and enjoyed by what seemed to be nearly every one of the village residence. There had been an arts and crafts fair earlier in the day, with booths and stands set up in the carriage house.
There was face painting for the kids and some of us adults. I myself had a few butterflies fluttering across my cheek, and lemonade and snacks around nearly every corner.
The day had been well attended, but the crowd grew even bigger for this evening's concert on the lawn and picnic. I'd been here since the morning, baking and helping with the kitchen duties, and what fun it was to work on this grand old house's restored kitchens.
There was a huge open hearth, beautiful but unlit in today's heat. Spacious marble-topped counters to work on.
Gleaming copper pans hanging from hooks. And open shelves with beautiful ceramic mixing bowls and porcelain platters.
A baker's dream. My kitchen was turning out a lot of food today.
Cookies and hand pies for the snack tables. But also entire packed picnic baskets for tonight's dinner.
My partner in dine-ing was my good friend's chef, who was usually cooking up magical meals at the inn on the lake. We'd worked together a few summers back on a wedding,

and ever since then,

we'd been finding new culinary adventures to share in.

They oversaw the savories,

I superintended the sweets and baked goods,

and we'd each brought a few volunteers to help.

The innkeeper herself had been assigned

about a hundred pounds of potatoes to peel

for chef's potato salad,

and had been a very good sport about it.

I'd supplied her with a couple of lemon tarts to keep her strength up. We'd made chickpea salad sandwiches on soft ciabatta, topped with dressed arugula and toasted sesame seeds.

Along with the potato salad,

which was the traditional type,

with pickles and onion,

there was pasta salad,

full of ripe cherry tomatoes and basil,

and an herby olive oil dressing. I'd made a new recipe.
Corn muffins, flavored with lemon zest and thyme. They were just a tad sweet and went perfectly with the rest of the meal.
They could even serve as dessert when spread with the whipped maple cream I'd packed into jam jars. Coolers outside were stocked with ice cream bars we'd made ahead.
Coconut and raspberry swirled together and dipped in dark chocolate to send everyone home with a sweet taste in their mouths. There had been moments when we'd scrambled.
There always are in a kitchen during a big event. But the mood had stayed sunny, even when we were all working like mad.
Now, as the band began to play, I shooed the others out to enjoy themselves, to eat and share in the entertainment.

I wiped down a stretch of marble

and rinsed my cloth under the tap.

We'd have a good bit of cleaning still to do,

but had all agreed to come back tomorrow to button everything up. I hung the cloth on a hook and dimmed the lights, noticing the colors of the sunset through the tall windows.
I didn't take my apron off. Not yet.
I just needed to go out onto the lawn and see for myself that folks were enjoying their meals. That no one needed anything further.
that we hadn't forgotten anything.

The halls of the great house were quiet and dim.

They held the energy of the moment after the busyness,

the lull between preparation and cleanup, it felt soft and cool. I passed the solarium, the twinkle lights glowing among the leafy trees and bright petaled flowers.
Through open French doors from the drawing room, I stepped out onto the patio. I stood for a moment, my hands on my hips, scanning across the sloping lawn to take in the clumps of visitors sitting on blankets or benches, chewing slowly as they listened to the music.
I recognized the composition. It was an original,

composed by the band teacher at the high school

for a parade a few years back.

It had since become

a sort of village theme.

It was played on the organ

at baseball games.

I'd heard it over the speakers at the finish line of the Village 5K, and a jangly version of it could be heard emitting from ice cream trucks as they slowly rolled through town streets. I couldn't help the beaming, proud smile

that spread over my face.

I was proud of this day

and the event we'd worked so hard to put on.

And I was proud to be part of this little village that played so well together. I started to stride through the crowd, bending down to say hello to friends and bakery customers that I recognized.
I checked to see what people thought of the muffins, of the ciabatta bread, the hand pies and tarts. I took compliments, even the ones meant for chef, graciously, nodding my acknowledgement with a cheeky smile.
I saw an arm waving at me from a blanket on the edge of the yard, and ambled over to find Chef unpacking a very full basket. Come on, they said, Family meal.
I chuckled. Yes, it was our turn to eat.
I finally untied my apron and lifted it off my neck. I kicked off my shoes and settled down on the blanket beside them.
They fixed me a plate

and handed it to me. I kicked off my shoes and settled down on the blanket beside them.

They fixed me a plate and handed it over,

and we found paper cups to fill with lemonade and toast each other.

The food was delicious.

The air was cool and full of sweet music.

And the stars

were just beginning to shine.

The evening of the fourth.

From inside the kitchens,

I could hear the band

And of the fourth. From inside the kitchens, I could hear the band tuning up.
Our small but beloved village orchestra, a scrappy group of all-age musicians, with just enough instruments to qualify, was set up on the stone patio. I could hear the cello's voice

as it fell into tune

beside the French horn

and clarinet. I leaned closer to the window, minching it open a bit more, and heard the occasional scratch of a chair leg sliding over the stone.
A music stand pulled closer, and the murmur of voices as they prepared to play. The day had taken quite a bit of planning, but everything seemed to be falling into place.
We were at the village Museum, a great old house with acres of lawns and gardens and a reflecting pond full of koi, all of which were now being toured and enjoyed by what seemed to be nearly every one of the village residents. There had been an arts and crafts fair earlier in the day, with booths and stands set up in the carriage house.
There was face painting for the kids, and some of us adults. I, myself, had a few butterflies fluttering across my cheek, and lemonade and snacks around nearly every corner.
The day had been well attended, but the crowd grew even bigger for this evening's concert on the lawn and picnic. I'd been here since the morning, baking and helping with the kitchen duties.
And what fun it was to work in this grand old house's restored kitchens. There was a huge open hearth, beautiful but unlit in today's heat, spacious marble-topped counters to work on.
Gleaming copper pans, hanging from hooks. And open shelves with beautiful ceramic mixing bowls and porcelain platters.
A baker's dream.

The kitchen was turning out

a lot of food today.

Cookies and hand pies

for the snack tables,

but also entire packed picnic baskets

for tonight's dinner.

My partner in dine-ing

was my good friend, Chef,

who usually was cooking up magical meals at the inn on the lake. We'd worked together a few summers back on a wedding, and ever since then, we'd been finding new culinary adventures to share in.

They oversaw the savories.

I superintended the sweets and baked goods.

And we'd each brought a few volunteers to help. The innkeeper herself had been assigned about a hundred pounds of potatoes to peel for chef's potato salad, and had been a very good sport about it.
I'd supplied her with a couple of lemon tarts to keep her strength up. We'd made chickpea salad sandwiches on soft ciabatta, topped with dressed arugula and toasted sesame seeds, along with the potato salad, which was the traditional type,

with pickles and onion.

There was pasta salad,

full of ripe cherry tomatoes and basil,

and a herby olive oil dressing. I'd made a new recipe.
Corn muffins, flavored with lemon zest and thyme. They were just a tad sweet

and went perfectly with the rest of the meal.

They could even serve as dessert

when spread with the whipped maple cream

I'd packed into small jam jars. Coolers outside were stocked with ice cream bars that we'd made ahead.
coconut coconut and raspberry, swirled together and dipped in dark chocolate, to send everyone home with a sweet taste in their mouths. There had been moments when we'd scrambled.
There always are in kitchens during a big event. But the mood had stayed sunny, even when we were all working like mad.

Now, as the band began to play, I shooed the others out to enjoy themselves,

to eat and share in the entertainment.

I wiped down a stretch of marble and rinsed my cloth under the tap.

We'd have a good bit of cleaning to do, but had all agreed to come back tomorrow to button everything up. I hung the cloth on a hook and dimmed the lights,

noticing the colors of the sunset through the tall windows.

I didn't take my apron off, not yet.

I just needed to go out onto the lawn and see for myself

that folks were enjoying their meals,

that no one needed anything further,

that we hadn't forgotten anything.

The halls of the great house

were quiet and dim.

They held the energy of the moment

after the busyness. The lull between preparation and cleanup.
It felt soft and cool. I passed the solarium, the twinkle lights glowing among the leafy trees and bright petaled flowers.
Through open French doors from the drawing room. I stepped out onto the patio.
I stood for a moment, my hands on my hips, scanning across the sloping lawn to take in the clumps of visitors, sitting on blankets or benches, chewing slowly as they listened to the music. I recognized the composition.
It was an original, composed by the band teacher at the high school, for a parade a few years back.

It had since become a sort of village theme. It was played on the organ at baseball games.
I turned it over the speakers at the finish line

of the village 5K and a jangly version of it could be heard emitting from ice cream trucks as they slowly rolled through town.

I couldn't help the beaming, proud smile that spread over my face.

I was proud of this day and the event that we'd worked so hard to put on. And I was proud to be part of this little village that played so well together.
I started to stride through the crowd,

bending down to say hello

to friends and bakery customers that I recognized.

I checked to see what people thought of the muffins, of the ciabatta bread, the hand pies and tarts. I took compliments, even the ones meant for chef, graciously, nodding my acknowledgement with a cheeky smile.
I saw an arm waving from a blanket on the edge of the yard. and ambled over to find Chef

unpacking a very full basket. Come on, they said.
Family meal. I chuckled.
Yes, it was our turn to eat.

I finally untied my apron

and lifted it off my neck.

I kicked off my shoes

and settled down beside them.

Thank you. I kicked off my shoes and settled down beside them.
They fixed me a plate and handed it over. And we found paper cups to fill with lemonade and toast each other.
The food was delicious.

The air was cool and full of sweet music.

And the stars were just beginning to shine.

Sweet dreams. were just beginning to shine.
Sweet Dreams