The Fountain in the Square

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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 Nikolai.

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

Audio Engineering is by Bob Wittersheim.

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And this week we are giving to FIRST Book,

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Now

here is how this works.

We need to give your mind

something to focus on,

a place to rest.

And that's what bedtime stories do.

Just by listening,

you will actually shift brain activity

in a way that allows sleep to happen and build a more reliable response over time.

So just follow along with my voice and before you know it,

you'll be waking up tomorrow,

feeling refreshed and ready for a good day.

I'll tell the story twice,

and I'll go a little slower the second time through.

If you wake later in the night, just turn on an episode, catch your brain before it revs up,

and you'll drop right back off.

Our story tonight is called The Fountain in the Square, and it's a story about a place to make a wish as the season tips to summer.

It's also about local lore and shared customs, cool running water,

light falling through leaves, marbles and theater games,

and remembering something

by adding to the world.

It is dedicated to the memory of my friend, Sarah Kramer.

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It's time.

Lights out, campers.

Get settled in your sheets.

This is a moment to prioritize your own comfort.

And you might not have a lot of experience with that.

But we're changing that right now.

So get the right pillow in the right spot.

Pull your comforter up over your shoulder

and feel your whole body relax.

Take a deep breath in through your nose

and sigh from your mouth.

Again, breathe in

and out.

Good.

The fountain in the square

Where Main

crosses Elm,

there is a patch of green grass,

a circle of benches and planters,

and an old patinated fountain.

The grass was coming in nicely by now,

thick and soft,

and dotted here and there with clover flowers,

brick pavers cracked a bit and pushed up by roots in places,

make a path around the benches,

and the planters are full of petunias

that

in a couple of months will be laggy and overgrown,

but right now are fresh and bright and beautiful.

The fountain sits at the center of it all

A tall curved piece of bronze or copper

shaped like a rounded door

with a single spout pouring into a deep basin

that rises from the ground up past my knees.

The water itself

came straight from our city source

so it was clean and safe to drink,

and I often saw people stopping to fill water bottles from it.

The metal had turned over the years

to a soft, minty green,

textured with layers of patina,

and along the basin

were carved birds and fish.

A wing of one of the birds was a local good luck charm,

and had been rubbed to a glossy shine by the hands of many, many people over the decades.

It was a tradition for students to rub the wing before their spring exams.

So at this time of year it stood out brightly

among the rest of the metal.

While many fountains are full of coins

cast in as a wish is made,

ours had somehow developed a different custom.

We,

and no one knew when it had started or or why,

dropped marbles into our fountain.

They still marked wishes and hopes,

were still dropped in with closed eyes,

like the moment before you blow out birthday candles.

But our little village had somehow decided,

without ever talking about it,

that the appropriate carrier for those dreams were small glass spheres

and not coins.

In fact, a few of the shops on the square sold little pouches of them propped in piles by the register just for this.

It meant the bottom of the fountain was full of them.

And when you looked down into it,

you you saw a kaleidoscope of colors

blue and green clearies,

cat's eyes,

agates,

swirls, and Benningtons,

cane cuts and gooseberries,

and the one-off end of day marbles.

I suspected kids who tossed coins instead

didn't know all those names and types.

It was

like a bit of local dialect.

When you realize you,

your family, your neighborhood use different words for something than everyone else.

A small sign of belonging

with no discernible beginning,

but meaningful nonetheless.

I didn't have a marble in my pocket today,

but I hadn't come to make a wish.

There was a small plaque on the side of the fountain,

and I'd spotted it last time I was here.

I wasn't exactly sure what it meant.

There was no date, but it felt like a memorial.

And since I'd seen it, I'd been thinking of it.

It just said

4SK,

yes and

with three dots,

which might have been an ellipsis

or meant something else.

I'd brought with me a small polishing cloth and some gentle dish soap.

I didn't want to take any of the patina off the plaque,

but did want to clear away the layer of dust and dirt that had settled on it.

I wet my cloth at the spout.

The water felt cool and refreshing on my hands.

We were just on the edge of hot weather.

It was warm today,

but in the shade, if the wind blew, it might still chill you just a bit.

I thought of how good it would be on a truly hot summer day

to let this water run over my wrists.

I squeezed a bit of soap onto my cloth

and worked it into a lather,

then started to clean the plaque.

It took a few minutes of scrubbing.

There were some stubborn spots where pollen and rain water

had mixed to stain the surface.

But I was patient.

I rinsed the cloth every now and then,

started again

with a bit more soap,

and soon it was shining like new.

I rinsed all of the soap out of my cloth and wrung it out tightly

until it was barely damp,

wiped the plaque one more time

to clear away the last film of moisture

and stepped back

to admire it.

I thought about the phrase, yes, and

recognizing it from my high school theater days

when our troop had warmed up by playing zip zap zop in the corridor by the band room

and tried to tell a story as a group, one word at a time.

We'd learned the principle of yes and

as a way to support your scene partners

and move the story forward.

If you stepped into a scene

and were told, for example,

that

this snowstorm that was trapping us all in the grocery store

was actually the shedding fur of a dog the size of a mountain.

You didn't say,

that doesn't make any sense.

Dogs don't get that big.

No,

that derailed the whole experience.

It stopped the story in its tracks.

Instead, you said, yes,

and we have just ten minutes to find his squeaky toy somewhere in the canned goods.

You took what you were given

and helped push it a little further.

Was that what SK did?

Took what the moment gave them and leveled up.

I had a feeling it was

I sat on one of the benches

and laid my polishing cloth out on the seat beside me to let it dry completely in the sunshine

The sound of the fountain was steady and soothing

ringing out like a set of wind chimes moving in the breeze.

I tipped my head back

and let my eyes close.

I've always been fascinated by the way sunlight looked through my eyelids.

Even as a child, I would stop mid-play in the yard

to close my eyes and lift my face

and watch the light flash and change.

A breeze must have been blowing up high in the trees.

Every now and then a shadow

flickered across my face.

I took slow deep breaths,

feeling

so calm

and content

here by the fountain.

A sound brought me back,

and I tipped my chin down and blinked my eyes open.

A child, maybe five or six,

stood at the edge of the fountain.

And behind him a few feet waited an older woman, smiling down at him.

She spotted me on the bench and gave me a quick wink.

The little boy held a marble in his hand,

hovering it above the basin in the fountain.

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

witnessing this rite of passage that I too

had first partaken in at about his age.

His lips were moving and his eyes were closed, and when he froze for a moment, she encouraged him to

go on, drop it in,

and his fingers opened.

There was a plop,

and he leaned over the edge to watch it fall

together with the other marbles in the basin's bottom.

She reached out her hand to him,

and he reached up to it, and off they went.

I tipped my face back to the sun,

wondering what he had wished,

and whispered to myself,

Yes,

and

the fountain in the square

Where Main Street crosses Elm

there is a patch of green grass

A circle of benches

and planters

and an old patinated fountain

The grass was coming in nicely by now,

thick and soft,

and dotted here and there with clover flowers,

brick pavers,

cracked a bit

and pushed up by roots in places,

make a path around the benches,

and the planters are full of petunias

that in a couple of months

will be laggy and overgrown

but right now are fresh and bright

and beautiful

the fountain sits at its center

a tall curved piece of bronze or copper,

shaped like a rounded door,

with a single spout,

pouring into a deep basin

that rises from the ground

up past my knees.

The water itself came straight from our city source,

and was clean

and safe to drink,

and I often saw people stopping to fill water bottles from it.

The metal had turned over the years

to a soft, minty green,

textured with layers of patina,

and along the basin

were carved birds and fish.

A wing of one of the birds

was a local good luck charm,

and had been rubbed to a glossy shine

by the hands of many,

many people over decades.

It was a tradition for students

to rub the wing

before their spring exams.

So, at this time of year,

it stood out brightly

among the rest of the aged metal.

While many fountains are full of coins,

cast in as a wish is made.

Ours had somehow developed a different custom.

We,

and no one knew when it had started or why,

dropped marbles into our fountain.

They still marked wishes and hopes,

were still dropped in with closed eyes,

like the moment before you blow out birthday candles.

But our little village had somehow decided,

without ever talking about it,

that the appropriate carrier for those dreams

were small glass spheres and not coins.

In fact, a few of the shops on the square sold little pouches of them, propped in piles by the registers,

just for this.

It meant the bottom of the fountain was full of them.

And when you looked down into it,

you saw a kaleidoscope of colors,

blue and green clearies,

cat's eyes,

agates,

swirls,

and Benningtons,

cane cuts and gooseberries,

and the one-off end-of-day marbles.

I I suspected kids who tossed coins instead

didn't know all those names and types.

It was like a bit of local dialect.

When you realize your family, your neighborhood, you

use a different word for something

than everyone else.

A small sign of belonging

with no discernible beginning,

but meaningful nonetheless.

I didn't have a marble in my pocket today,

but

I hadn't come to make a wish.

There was a small plaque on the side of the fountain

that I'd spotted last time I was here.

I wasn't exactly sure

what it meant.

There was no date,

but it felt like a memorial.

And since I'd seen it,

I'd been thinking of it.

I'd just said

for S K

Yes, and

with three dots,

which might have been an ellipsis

or meant something else.

I'd brought with me

a small polishing cloth

and some gentle dish soap.

I didn't want to take any of the patina off the plaque,

but did want to clear away the layer of dust and dirt

that had settled on it.

I wet my cloth at the spout.

The water felt cool and refreshing on my hands.

We were just on the edge of hot weather.

It was warm to day,

but in the shade,

if the wind blew,

it might still chill you just a bit.

I thought of how good it would be

on a truly hot summer day

to let this water

run

over my wrists.

I squeezed a bit of soap onto my cloth

and worked it into a lather,

then started to clean the plaque.

I took a few minutes of scrubbing.

There were some stubborn spots where pollen

and rainwater

had mixed to stain the surface.

But I was patient.

I rinsed the cloth

every now and then,

started again

with a bit more soap,

and soon it was shining like new.

I rinsed all of the soap out of my cloth

and wrung it out tightly

until it was barely damp,

wiped the plaque

one more time

to clear away the last film of moisture

and stepped back

to admire it.

I thought about the phrase

yes and

recognizing it from my high school theater days

When we'd warmed up

by playing zip, zap, zop

in the corridor by the band room

and then tried to tell a story as a group

one word

at a time.

We'd learned the principle

of yes and

as a way to support your scene partners

and move the story forward.

If you stepped into a scene

and were told,

for example,

that

this snowstorm

that was trapping us all

in the grocery store

was actually the shedding fur

of a dog the size of a mountain.

You didn't say

that doesn't make any sense.

Dogs don't get that big.

No,

that derailed the whole experience.

Stopped the story in its tracks.

Instead, you said,

yes,

and we have just ten minutes to find his squeaky toy.

It's somewhere in the canned goods.

You took what you were given

and helped push it a little further.

Was that what SK did?

Took what the moment gave them

and leveled up.

I had a feeling it was.

I sat on one of the benches

and laid my polishing cloth

out on the seat beside me

to let it dry completely in the sunshine.

The sound of the fountain was steady

and soothing,

ringing out like a set of wind chimes moving in the breeze.

I tipped my head back

and let my eyes close.

I've always been fascinated

by the way sunlight

looked through my eyelids.

Even as a child,

I would stop mid-play

in the yard

to close my eyes

and lift my face

and watch the light flash and change.

A breeze must have been blowing

up high in the trees.

Every now and then

a shadow flickered across my face.

I took slow,

deep breaths,

feeling so calm

and content here by the fountain.

A sound brought me back,

and I tipped my chin down

and blinked my eyes open.

A child, maybe five or six,

stood at the edge of the fountain,

and behind him, a few feet,

waited an older woman, smiling down at him.

She spotted me on the bench

and gave me a quick wink.

The little boy held a marble in his hand,

hovering it above the basin of the fountain.

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

witnessing this rite of passage

that I too had first partaken in

at about his age.

His lips were moving,

and his eyes were closed.

And when he froze for a moment, she encouraged him to

go on, drop it in.

His fingers opened,

and there was a plop.

He leaned over the edge to watch it fall and gather with the others in the basin's bottom.

She reached out her hand to him,

and he reached up to it,

and off they went.

I tipped my face back to the sun,

wondering what he had wished for,

and whispered to myself,

Yes,

and

sweet dreams.