🍂🌻Fall Flowers in My Wagon: A Cozy Autumn Market Story for Relaxation & Sleep

0:02 Welcome to The Slow Life. I'm Jennifer Vino and I create, narrate and design the soundscape of this village of cosy stories to relax and unwind. Each week I share an original story. Read 2 times so you can relax even more during the second reading. I'm happy to announce my website, theslowlife.ca. It provides a space where we can connect and I can bring you all things cozy.

0:43 Let's settle in with some easy breathing at your own pace. With each inhale, let fresh air fill the space around your heart. With each exhale, feel the calm air spread through your body and flow out through your arms and legs, gently in through your heart. Gently out through your body, in through your heart, out through your body. And now let's begin.

1:30 This story is called Fall Flowers in My Wagon, and it's about bright oranges and golden yellows, a helpful attendant and a moving Meadow. I pull my wagon behind me, it's tires filled with air or quiet on the sidewalk, the handle smooth against my hand. It comes in very handy quite often, allowing me to go on foot to most places in the village without being loaded down by packages and bags.

2:13 I guide it to a quiet corner near the edge of the outdoor market stalls, a place where it won't block anyone's way. Parking it here, I can move freely throughout the farmers market, unloading my fines when I need to. The air is starting to feel like fall, some days more than others. I step inside and the sounds gather around me. Wooden crates Creek under the weight of produce as they're carried from vans to stalls and the other way around. I hear a fiddle being played somewhere deep within the maze of carvings, baked goods and fresh veggies, and the overall hum of greetings and conversations of catching up from last week.

3:13 The stalls stretch in bright rows in the more open areas, every one of them brimming with autumn coziness. I smell apples crisp and tart, then see the mountains of orange pumpkins in their array of shapes and sizes. But I have come for the flowers. The first table I reach shows off pots and pots of chrysanthemums in every shade of fire and earth. Rusty Reds, bright oranges, golden yellows and creamy whites that soften the colour palette.

3:56 Their petals are layered so thick they look as though you could sleep on a bed of them and not leave an imprint. I choose one pot in each colour, imagining them side by side on the front steps, each one complementing the others. When I lift the first pot, the soil still damp, it's heavier than I expect. With more than one attendant at the stall, they offered to help me carry them outside. We place them in gently until the four pots fill a neat square at the front of the wagon. Next I find the Black Eyed Susans turn towards me, their golden petals wide open, looking ready to come with me for a ride to their new home.

4:55 The brown centre stand out amidst the yellow. They seem more wild and free than the mums and I like having both. I take 2 pots out to my growing collection, thinking of them for the back patio where I can sit inside and watch them nod in the breeze. Add another table. I see autumn joy, sedum waiting with their rosy pink blossoms thick in clusters on sturdy stems. I'm told they will darken as the fall season deepens, moving towards burgundy, A transformation I want to watch. I choose one, wondering where I'll transplanted in the garden come spring, but for now I'll let it sit where I can see it from the window.

5:54 One last loop of the stalls and I find hanging pots of mums. 2 of them will do, one for either side of the front porch. I carry them carefully, the hooks allowing them to swing, and I shimmy 1 into the wagon while the other I'll carry easily in my other hand. The site makes me smile. I'll feel like a travelling salesperson with my collection of colourful wares rolling through the village. As I turn around, a familiar face catches my eye.

6:36 A friend, basket in hand, cheeks a bit pink from the cool air. Her eyes meet and there's the wordless recognition of a shared mission. We greet each other with hugs and without needing to say much, we drift together towards the food stalls at the corner where steam rises from every surface. The air around 1 stall is rich with cinnamon, nutmeg and the buttery scent of pastries. I order a warm drink that my friend offers to carry. She chooses the same and we each add a small treat, something flaky and sweet.

7:25 With nowhere else pressing to be. We decide to sit at the outdoor tables where I can keep my wagon beside us. The flowers sit patiently like happy dogs in the sun, their colours glowing brightly against the stone of the village square. The first sip warms me with a slow spreading of comfort. I pull my pastry into small bites with my finger tips. My friend asks me what my plans are with each of the pots of flowers. Then I notice a movement near the wagon.

8:08 A bumblebee, round and friendly, has already found the flowers. It drifts from one pot to another, settling first on the creamy white mums, then dipping into the centres of the Susans. Not long after, another bee joins and eventually 1/3. They're fuzzy bodies brushing against petals, legs dusted with pollen. They move gently and I love that my wagon has offered them a place to gather. We sit back and watch our drinks slowly going down.

8:50 The bees find what they need and others take their place, making us wonder where they're off to next and where they've just come from. My friend leans forward and we share the moment, listening to the buzz as they carry themselves between blossoms. The sky has shifted and the light on the flowers changes with it. Our cups are empty now, and the last crumbs brushed away. We rise, stretching our limbs, ready to move again. She heads into the market for treasures of her own.

9:33 I take hold of the wagon handle, its weight more solid now with the flowers. A few bees still hover and I move slowly so as not to disturb them, but some lift easily into the air, floating towards another patch of blooms in the distance. One or two stay with me for most of the ride home, not seeming to notice that their Meadow is moving. I imagine the steps of my house lined with these pots, their colours bright against wood and stone. I see the patio alive with yellow blooms and the autumn coloured sedum holding steady as the season moves into colder days.

10:29 Fall flowers in my wagon. I pull my wagon behind me, it's tires filled with air or quiet on the sidewalk, the handle smooth against my hand. It comes in very handy quite often, allowing me to go on foot to most places in the village without being loaded down by packages and bags. I guide it to a quiet corner near the edge of the outdoor market stalls, a place where it won't block anyone's way.

11:12 Parking it here, I can move freely throughout the farmers market, unloading my fines when I need to. The air is starting to feel like fall, some days more than others. I step inside and the sounds gather around me. Wooden crates Creek under the weight of produce as they're carried from vans to stalls and the other way around. I hear a fiddle being played somewhere deep within the maze of carvings, baked goods and fresh veggies, and the overall hum of greetings and conversations of catching up from last week.

12:01 The stalls stretch in bright rows in the more open areas, every one of them brimming with autumn coziness. I smell apples crisp and tart, then see the mountains of orange pumpkins in their array of shapes and sizes. But I have come for the flowers. The first table I reach shows off pots and pots of chrysanthemums in every shade of fire and earth. Rusty Reds, bright oranges, golden yellows and creamy whites that soften the colour palette.

12:45 Their petals are layered so thick they look as though you could sleep on a bed of them and not leave an imprint. I choose one pot in each colour, imagining them side by side on the front steps, each one complimenting the others. When I lift the first pot, the soil still damp, it's heavier than I expect. With more than one attendant at the stall, they offered to help me carry them outside. We place them in gently until the four pots fill a neat square at the front of the wagon. Next I find the Black Eyed Susans turned towards me, their golden petals wide open, looking ready to come with me for a ride to their new home.

13:43 The brown centre stand out amidst the yellow. They seem more wild and free than the mums and I like having both. I take 2 pots out to my growing collection, thinking of them for the back patio where I can sit inside and watch them nod in the breeze. At another table I see Autumn joy, Sedum waiting with their rosy pink blossoms, thick in clusters on sturdy stems. I'm told they will darken as the fall season deepens, moving towards burgundy, A transformation I want to watch.

14:30 I choose one, wondering where I'll transplanted in the garden come spring, but for now I'll let it sit where I can see it from the window. One last loop of the stalls and I find hanging pots of moms. Two of them will do, one for either side of the front porch. I carry them carefully, the hooks allowing them to swing, and I shimmy 1 into the wagon while the other I'll carry easily in my other hand. The site makes me smile. I'll feel like a traveling salesperson with my collection of colourful wares rolling through the village. As I turn around, a familiar face catches my eye. A friend, basket in hand, cheeks a bit pink from the cool air. Her eyes meet and there's the wordless recognition of a shared mission.

15:38 We greet each other with hugs and without needing to say much, we drift together towards the food stalls at the corner where steam rises from every surface. The air around 1 stall is rich with cinnamon, nutmeg and the buttery scent of pastries. I order a warm drink that my friend offers to carry. She chooses the same and we each add a small treat, something flaky and sweet. With nowhere else pressing to be. We decide to sit at the outdoor tables where I can keep my wagon beside us.

16:24 The flowers sit patiently like happy dogs in the sun, their colours glowing brightly against the stone of the village square. The first sip warms me with a slow spreading of comfort. I pull my pastry into small bites with my finger tips. My friend asks me what my plans are with each of the pots of flowers. Then I notice a movement near the wagon. A bumblebee, round and friendly, has already found the flowers. It drifts from one pot to another, settling first on the creamy white mums, then dipping into the centres of the Susans. Not long after, another bee joins and eventually 1/3. They're fuzzy bodies brushing against petals, legs dusted with pollen.

17:26 They move gently and I love that my wagon has offered them a place to gather. We sit back and watch our drinks slowly going down. The bees find what they need and others take their place, making us wonder where they're off to next and where they've just come from. My friend leans forward and we share the moment, listening to the buzz as they carry themselves between blossoms. The sky has shifted and the light on the flowers changes with it. Our cups are empty now, and the last crumbs brushed away. We rise, stretching our limbs, ready to move again. She heads into the market for treasures of her own. I take hold of the wagon handle, its weight more solid now with the flowers.

18:28 A few bees still hover and I move slowly so as not to disturb them, but some lift easily into the air, floating towards another patch of blooms in the distance. One or two stay with me for most of the ride home, not seeming to notice that their Meadow is moving. I imagine the steps of my house lined with these pots, their colours bright against wood and stone. I see the patio alive with yellow blooms and the autumn coloured sedum holding steady as the season moves into colder days. I wish you sweet dreams.