When the Streetlights Come On (Encore)
Our story tonight is called When the Streetlights Come On, and it’s a story about a trip to the mailbox through the last lit moments of the day. It’s also about bikes being wheeled into the garage for the night, things learned from the farmer’s almanac, layers of paint peeling away under your hand, and a tender way to shepherded home and sent to dreamland.
BIOptimizers’ Probiotic Breakthrough: Click here and use code NOTHINGMUCH for 10% off any order!
Subscribe to our Premium channel. The first month is on us. 💙
NMH merch, autographed books and more!
Pay it forward subscription
Listen to our daytime show Stories from the Village of Nothing Much.
First This, Kathryn’s guided mediation podcast.
Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices
Listen and follow along
Transcript
Get more, nothing much happens with bonus episodes, extra-long stories, and ad-free listening, all while supporting the show you love.
Subscribe now.
Listen.
That's the sound of the fully electric Audi Q6 e-tron.
The sound of captivating electric performance,
dynamic drive, and the quiet confidence of ultra-smooth handling.
The elevated interior reminds you this is more than an EV.
This is electric performance redefined.
The fully electric Audi Q6 e-tron
make your next move with American Express Business Platinum.
Earn five times membership rewards points on flights and prepaid hotels booked on amextravel.com.
And with a welcome offer of 150,000 points, after you spend $20,000 on purchases on the card within your first three months of membership, your business can soar to new heights.
Terms apply.
Learn more at AmericanExpress.com slash business dash platinum.
Amex Business Platinum.
Built for business by American Express.
You might not be surprised to hear that I'm a pretty good sleeper, but that's not luck.
I've worked hard on my sleep hygiene over the years.
Still, Even with all that, almost everyone goes through stretches where sleep gets tricky.
And one thing that really helps me stay grounded and consistent is magnesium breakthrough by bioptimizers.
Most people aren't getting enough deep sleep, the phase when your body repairs, resets your stress hormones, and supports things like metabolism and mood.
And a big reason for that is magnesium deficiency.
Over 80% of people don't get enough.
Magnesium breakthrough contains all seven forms of magnesium that your body needs.
Most supplements only give you one or two.
It's also formulated with vitamin B6 and humic and fulvic acids to help you absorb it more effectively.
I take it every night as part of my wind-down routine.
It helps my nervous system stay calm.
It supports deep rest, and just helps me feel better overall.
It's one of those small habits that makes a big difference.
You can try it now and save 10%
at buyoptimizers.com/slash nothing much.
We've got a link to it in our show notes.
That's B-I-O-P-T-I-M-I-Z-E-R-S
dot com slash nothing much.
Use the code N-O-T-H-I-N-G-M-U-C-H at checkout.
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.
We are bringing you an encore episode tonight, meaning that this story originally aired at some point in the past.
It could have been recorded with different equipment in a different location.
And since I'm a person and not a computer, I sometimes sound just slightly different.
But the stories are always soothing and family-friendly, and our wishes for you are always deep rest and sweet dreams.
Now,
busy minds need a place to rest.
That's how this works.
I'll tell you a story,
and you can rest your mind on it.
Just by listening,
we'll shift you into your brain's task-positive mode,
where sleep is possible.
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 try to muscle yourself back to sleep.
Softly, softly is the approach, friends.
Just turn an episode right back on
and you'll drop back off to sleep
usually within seconds
this is grown-up sleep training
and for most folks best results come after a few weeks of regular use
so be patient with the process
our story tonight
is called
When the Street Lights Come On.
And it's a story about a trip to the mailbox through the last lit moments of the day.
It's also about bikes being wheeled into the garage for the night,
things learned from the farmer's almanac,
layers of paint peeling away under your hand,
and a tender way to be shepherded home and sent to dreamland.
Now,
settle in.
It's time.
Turn things off.
Set them down.
You don't have to solve everything
to know how you'll handle everything.
To be able to have some space from it.
It's okay if for right now
you just let go.
Body heavy and relaxed.
Muscles softening.
Face,
jaw,
eyes
eased and ready for sleep.
Take a deep breath in through your nose
and let it out through your mouth.
Once more, fill up
and let it go.
Good.
When the street lights come on
this far north,
the sun doesn't set in the midsummer till after nine.
It made for long days,
and especially on the hottest,
a nap in the afternoon was often required.
Retreating to a quiet bedroom after lunch
and pulling down the blinds till it was shady and dim,
settling into cool sheets
while the ceiling fan circled
was one of my favorite parts of the day.
Often,
even if I didn't sleep,
I might read for a while,
doze while listening to some music,
and just
let my body rest
out of the heat and brightness of the day for a while.
We aren't meant, I don't think,
to just go and go
and go.
As important to me
as all the things I did with my days
were all the things I didn't do.
All the times I refrained,
I rested,
I regrouped,
and on the days I took a break,
I found myself
better able to enjoy
the end of the long days,
to be back out in the yard,
to tie up tomato plants,
or to go for one last bike ride
before the street lights came on.
Tonight, after dinner,
I remembered I had a letter to mail.
And while it could certainly spend the night in the mailbox at the end of the drive,
the red carrier flag
flipped up to signal its presence
for tomorrow's pickup.
There was a collection box on a corner a few streets up
and a walk sounded like the perfect way to button up the day.
As I set out
The sun was just above the horizon
and I stretched out my arm and measured the distance
between the bottom of the sun
and the edge of the land
just a smidge more than the width of one finger
which meant a few minutes more than a quarter of an hour till it set
I'd learned that trick from the farmer's almanac,
along with some understanding of the different kinds of dusk.
Did you know that there are different dusks
and
not even just dusk?
There are three categories of dusk, twilight,
and dawn,
namely nautical,
astronomical,
and civil.
I was a little surprised that the categories weren't something like
poetic, nostalgic, and somnolent.
But I guess
not everyone thought about the sky like I did.
The nautical designation
had to do with when the sun reached a particular position,
so many degrees below the horizon.
The astronomical type was similar, though the degree measurements were different.
during astronomical dusk,
most celestial objects could be seen in a clear sky.
Civil twilight, dusk, and dawn
were the shortest version of these times of day
and often influence things like,
well,
when the street lights came on.
Looking up at the one closest to me,
I saw that it hadn't happened yet.
There were still kids out playing,
though
I think even they were winding down.
The active games of the day
were turning into quieter activities.
I saw a few little ones drawing with sidewalk chalk
or sitting on porch steps with books in their laps.
I could smell spent barbecue grills cooling off
from that mineral scent
of sprinkler runoff on hot sidewalks.
In my hand was the letter,
a bit of monthly correspondence with an old friend.
It had taken my last stamp,
and for a few minutes I'd thought I'd been
all out
till I found a book with a single stamp left
wedged into the corner of the drawer.
It was a Halloween stamp,
featuring a jack-o'-lantern,
with a lit, toothy grin.
And as I smoothed it into place,
I'd smiled at it,
thinking of my friend pulling this letter from the slot in her door.
And wondering if I'd been trying to send her a spooky message or just run out of stamps.
At the next corner was the collection box.
And as I stepped up to it,
I remembered being a child,
wanting to be the one to pull the flap open,
wanting to drop whatever piece of mail we had into it.
Wanting to be the one to do all the things,
to see how they worked.
And if I'm honest,
I still like it.
Pushing down the lever on the toaster,
sticking on a stamp,
pushing the buttons that drop a candy bar through a vending machine.
I hope that makes me more childlike than childish.
But really, I don't care.
I never went numb
to the little tactile joys of living.
And
there may be some secret there.
It delivers an extra spoonful of pleasure and interest to my days.
The collection box was bright blue,
and by the feel of the flap's handle
had been repainted many times.
Where it was chipped,
layers were revealed.
And in the low light, I could just make out the sun-faded color of the previous paint jobs.
It creaked a bit as I tugged it open
and dropped my letter in,
then let it swing shut.
When I turned back to the street and extended my arm to the horizon again,
I could see the edge of the sun sinking into it.
Dusk would turn to twilight,
first civil,
then nautical,
then astronomical.
On my way back home,
the breeze picked up,
and the touch of it on my shoulders and face was soft and cooling.
An older gentleman with a little white dog on a leash passed me.
He nodded kindly, and I smiled back.
In a yard to one side,
I spotted a rabbit,
its ears laid relaxedly back on its shoulders,
nibbling away at a patch of marigolds.
Were marigolds the flowers that my grandmother dried at the end of the season?
Whose flower heads could be broken open to release a dozen silvery black seeds,
like tiny matchsticks or slivers.
I thought they had
a block from home.
It happened.
The street lights came on,
not all at once,
but one after another,
a second delay
in between each one,
starting at the park
and winding its way down the street to me.
It felt like being called home,
like being gently shepherded,
and I liked it.
Lights were coming on inside houses.
Bikes wheeled into garages for the night
And passing by my neighbor's house
I heard him through the screen door say to his son
Time to brush your teeth, buddy
It made me smile
and nearly put a hand on my my heart
as I turned up my own driveway.
Such a tender thing
to be welcomed home,
to be guided through the rituals of bed
and to be lovingly tucked in.
My turn next
When the street lights come on
this far north,
the sun doesn't set
in the midsummer till after nine
It made for long days
and especially on the hottest
A nap in the afternoon was often
Retreating to a quiet bedroom after lunch
and pulling down the blinds till it was shady
and dim,
settling into cool sheets while the ceiling fan circled
was one of my favorite parts of the day.
Often,
even if I didn't sleep,
I might read for a while,
doze while listening to music,
and just let my body rest
out
of the heat
and and the brightness of the day for a while.
We aren't meant,
I don't think,
to just go and go
and go.
As important to me
as all the things
I did with my day
were all the things I didn't do.
All the times I refrained.
I rested.
I regrouped.
And on the days I took a break,
I found myself
better able to enjoy the end of the long days,
to be back out in the yard
to tie up tomato plants
or to go for one last bike ride
before the street lights came on
tonight
after dinner
I remembered I had a letter to mail.
And while it could certainly spend the night in the mailbox at the end of the drive,
the red carrier flag flipped up
to signal its presence for tomorrow's pickup.
There was a collection box on a corner
a few streets up,
and a walk sounded like the perfect way
to button up the day.
As I set out,
the sun was just above the horizon,
and I stretched out my arm
and measured the distance
between the bottom of the sun
and the edge of the land
just a smidge more than the width of one finger,
which meant a few minutes more than a quarter of an hour till it set.
I'd learned that trick
from the farmer's almanac,
along with some understanding
of the different kinds of dusk.
Did you know that there are different
dusks
and not even
just dusk?
There are three categories of dusk, twilight, and dawn,
namely
nautical,
astronomical,
and civil.
I was a little surprised that the categories weren't something like
poetic,
nostalgic,
and somnolent.
But I guess
not everyone thought about the sky like I did.
The nautical designation
had to do with when the sun reached a particular position
so many degrees below the horizon.
The astronomical type was similar,
though the degree measurements were different.
During astronomical dusk,
most celestial objects could be seen in a clear sky,
civil twilight, dusk, and dawn
were the shortest versions of these times of day
and often influenced things
like,
well,
when the street lights came on.
Looking up at the one closest to me,
I saw that it hadn't happened yet.
There were still kids out playing.
Though I think
even they were winding down.
The active games of the day
were turning into quieter activities.
I saw a few little ones drawing with sidewalk chalk
or sitting on porch steps
with books in their laps.
I could smell
spent barbecue grills cooling off
and that mineral scent of sprinkler runoff
on hot sidewalks.
In my hand was the letter,
a bit of monthly correspondence with an old friend.
It had taken my last stamp
and for a few minutes I'd thought
I'd been all out
till I found a book
with a single stamp left
wedged into the corner of the drawer.
It was a Halloween stamp
featuring a jack-o'-lantern
with a lit,
toothy grin.
And as I smoothed it into place,
I'd smiled at it,
thinking of my friend pulling this letter from the slot in her door,
and wondering if I'd been trying to send her a spooky message,
or just
run out of stamps.
At the next corner
was the collection box.
And as I stepped up to it,
I remembered
being a child,
wanting to be the one
to pull the flap open,
wanting to drop
whatever piece of mail we had
into it.
Wanting to be the one to do
all the things
to see how they worked.
If I was honest,
I still liked it,
pressing down the lever on the toaster,
sticking on a stamp,
pushing the buttons
that drop a candy bar through a vending machine.
I hoped that made me more childlike
than childish,
but really
I didn't care.
care.
I never went numb
to the little tactile joys of living
and thought that there was some secret there.
It delivered an extra spoonful of pleasure
and interest to my days.
The collection box was bright blue,
and by the feel of the flap's handle
had been repainted
many times.
Where it was chipped,
layers were revealed,
and in the low light I could just
make out
the sun-faded color
of the previous paint jobs.
It creaked a bit
as I tugged it open
and I dropped my letter in
and let it swing shut.
When I turned back to the street
and extended my arm to the horizon again,
I could see the edge of the sun
sinking into it.
Dusk would turn to twilight,
first civil,
then nautical,
then astronomical.
On my way back home,
the breeze picked up,
and the touch of it on my face
and shoulders
was soft and cooling.
An older gentleman,
with a little white dog on a leash, passed me.
He nodded kindly,
and I smiled back.
In a yard to one side,
I spotted a rabbit,
its ears laid relaxedly back on its shoulders,
nibbling away
at a patch of marigolds.
Were marigolds the flowers
that my grandmother dried
at the end of the season,
whose flower heads could be broken open
to release a dozen
silvery black seeds
like tiny matchsticks
or slivers
I thought they had
a block from home
it happened
the street lights came on
not all at once
but one after another.
A second delay
in between each one
starting at the park
and winding its way down the street to me.
It felt like being
called home,
like being gently shepherded,
and I liked it.
Lights were coming on inside houses.
Bikes wheeled into garages for the night.
And passing by my neighbor's house,
I heard him him through the screen door
say to his son,
Time to brush your teeth, buddy.
It made me smile
and nearly put a hand on my heart
as I turned up my own driveway.
Such a tender thing
to be welcomed home,
to be guided through the rituals of bed,
and to be lovingly tucked in.
Your turn next.
Sweet dreams.