September 25, 2025 • 19 mins
Hello and welcome. I'm Jennifer, and I'll take you on a peaceful walk through the village farmers’ market in this cozy autumn story. I pull my wagon along quiet sidewalks, filling it with chrysanthemums, black-eyed Susans, and rosy autumn sedum. Warm drinks, pastries, friendly faces, and fall colours bring the market to life. Perfect for anyone who loves autumn coziness, farmers’ markets, slow living, and floral beauty.
This calming story is designed to help you relax, unwind, and drift into restful sleep. Ideal for fall listening, bedtime or morning routines, or whenever you need a quiet moment of comfort.
If you enjoy cozy, relaxing stories, remember to follow the podcast so you don't miss any that drop every Thursday.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
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Stories written and read by Jennifer Veinot
🌐 Website: TheSlowLife.ca
📸 Instagram: @theslowlifecozystories
📌 Pinterest: theslowlifecozystories
💌 Support the show by donating HERE
All content copyrighted Jennifer Veinot (Zwicker) 2024, 2025
#FallStory #CozyStory #SleepPodcast #RelaxingStory #BedtimeStory #AutumnVibes #FarmersMarket #SlowLiving #SleepAid #RelaxationPodcast #FallFlowers #CalmPodcast #StoryForSleep #RestfulSleep #AutumnRelaxation
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Transcript
Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
(00:02):
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
(00:25):
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.
Let's settle in with some easy breathing at your own pace.
(00:48):
With each inhale, let fresh air fill the space around your
heart. With each exhale, feel the calm
air spread through your body andflow out through your arms and
legs, gently in through your heart.
(01:10):
Gently out through your body, inthrough your heart, out through
your body. And now let's begin.
This story is called Fall Flowers in My Wagon, and it's
(01:36):
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
(02:01):
often, allowing me to go on footto 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.
(02:24):
Parking it here, I can move freely throughout the farmers
market, unloading my fines when I need to.
The air is starting to feel likefall, some days more than
others. I step inside and the sounds
gather around me. Wooden crates Creek under the
(02:47):
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
(03:07):
conversations of catching up from last week.
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
(03:28):
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,
(03:50):
golden yellows and creamy whitesthat soften the colour palette.
Their petals are layered so thick they look as though you
could sleep on a bed of them andnot leave an imprint.
I choose one pot in each colour,imagining them side by side on
(04:12):
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.
(04:33):
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 rideto their new home.
(04:55):
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 forthe back patio where I can sit
inside and watch them nod in thebreeze.
(05:20):
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
(05:45):
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 mums. 2
of them will do, one for either side of the front porch.
(06:06):
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
(06:26):
of colourful wares rolling through the village.
As I turn around, a familiar face catches my eye.
A friend, basket in hand, cheeksa bit pink from the cool air.
Her eyes meet and there's the wordless recognition of a shared
(06:47):
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
(07:09):
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
(07:33):
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
(07:55):
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
(08:19):
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
(08:41):
my wagon has offered them a place to gather.
We sit back and watch our drinksslowly going down.
The bees find what they need andothers 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
(09:04):
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.
(09:29):
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. A few bees still hover and I
move slowly so as not to disturbthem, but some lift easily into
the air, floating towards another patch of blooms in the
(09:52):
distance. One or two stay with me for most
of the ride home, not seeming tonotice 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
(10:15):
yellow blooms and the autumn coloured sedum holding steady as
the season moves into colder days.
Fall flowers in my wagon. I pull my wagon behind me, it's
(10:38):
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 footto most places in the village
without being loaded down by packages and bags.
(11:01):
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.
(11:21):
The air is starting to feel likefall, 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
(11:46):
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.
The stalls stretch in bright rows in the more open areas,
(12:06):
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
(12:27):
off pots and pots of chrysanthemums in every shade of
fire and earth. Rusty Reds, bright oranges,
golden yellows and creamy whitesthat soften the colour palette.
Their petals are layered so thick they look as though you
(12:49):
could sleep on a bed of them andnot 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
(13:11):
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
(13:32):
Susans turned towards me, their golden petals wide open, looking
ready to come with me for a rideto their new home.
The brown centre stand out amidst the yellow.
They seem more wild and free than the mums and I like having
(13:52):
both. I take 2 pots out to my growing
collection, thinking of them forthe back patio where I can sit
inside and watch them nod in thebreeze.
At another table I see Autumn joy, Sedum waiting with their
(14:13):
rosy pink blossoms, thick in clusters on sturdy stems.
I'm told they will darken as thefall season deepens, moving
towards burgundy, A transformation I want to watch.
I choose one, wondering where I'll transplanted in the garden
(14:35):
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
(14:57):
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
(15:17):
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 sharedmission.
(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.
(16:00):
I order a warm drink that my friend offers to carry.
She chooses the same and we eachadd 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 wagonbeside us.
(16:24):
The flowers sit patiently like happy dogs in the sun, their
colours glowing brightly againstthe 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.
(16:46):
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
(17:10):
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 withpollen.
They move gently and I love thatmy wagon has offered them a
(17:30):
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 comefrom.
My friend leans forward and we share the moment, listening to
(17:55):
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
(18:19):
treasures of her own. 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.
(18:42):
One or two stay with me for mostof 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
(19:06):
coloured sedum holding steady asthe season moves into colder
days. I wish you sweet dreams.
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
(00:25):
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.
Let's settle in with some easy breathing at your own pace.
(00:48):
With each inhale, let fresh air fill the space around your
heart. With each exhale, feel the calm
air spread through your body andflow out through your arms and
legs, gently in through your heart.
(01:10):
Gently out through your body, inthrough your heart, out through
your body. And now let's begin.
This story is called Fall Flowers in My Wagon, and it's
(01:36):
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
(02:01):
often, allowing me to go on footto 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.
(02:24):
Parking it here, I can move freely throughout the farmers
market, unloading my fines when I need to.
The air is starting to feel likefall, some days more than
others. I step inside and the sounds
gather around me. Wooden crates Creek under the
(02:47):
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
(03:07):
conversations of catching up from last week.
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
(03:28):
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,
(03:50):
golden yellows and creamy whitesthat soften the colour palette.
Their petals are layered so thick they look as though you
could sleep on a bed of them andnot leave an imprint.
I choose one pot in each colour,imagining them side by side on
(04:12):
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.
(04:33):
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 rideto their new home.
(04:55):
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 forthe back patio where I can sit
inside and watch them nod in thebreeze.
(05:20):
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
(05:45):
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 mums. 2
of them will do, one for either side of the front porch.
(06:06):
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
(06:26):
of colourful wares rolling through the village.
As I turn around, a familiar face catches my eye.
A friend, basket in hand, cheeksa bit pink from the cool air.
Her eyes meet and there's the wordless recognition of a shared
(06:47):
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
(07:09):
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
(07:33):
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
(07:55):
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
(08:19):
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
(08:41):
my wagon has offered them a place to gather.
We sit back and watch our drinksslowly going down.
The bees find what they need andothers 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
(09:04):
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.
(09:29):
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. A few bees still hover and I
move slowly so as not to disturbthem, but some lift easily into
the air, floating towards another patch of blooms in the
(09:52):
distance. One or two stay with me for most
of the ride home, not seeming tonotice 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
(10:15):
yellow blooms and the autumn coloured sedum holding steady as
the season moves into colder days.
Fall flowers in my wagon. I pull my wagon behind me, it's
(10:38):
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 footto most places in the village
without being loaded down by packages and bags.
(11:01):
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.
(11:21):
The air is starting to feel likefall, 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
(11:46):
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.
The stalls stretch in bright rows in the more open areas,
(12:06):
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
(12:27):
off pots and pots of chrysanthemums in every shade of
fire and earth. Rusty Reds, bright oranges,
golden yellows and creamy whitesthat soften the colour palette.
Their petals are layered so thick they look as though you
(12:49):
could sleep on a bed of them andnot 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
(13:11):
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
(13:32):
Susans turned towards me, their golden petals wide open, looking
ready to come with me for a rideto their new home.
The brown centre stand out amidst the yellow.
They seem more wild and free than the mums and I like having
(13:52):
both. I take 2 pots out to my growing
collection, thinking of them forthe back patio where I can sit
inside and watch them nod in thebreeze.
At another table I see Autumn joy, Sedum waiting with their
(14:13):
rosy pink blossoms, thick in clusters on sturdy stems.
I'm told they will darken as thefall season deepens, moving
towards burgundy, A transformation I want to watch.
I choose one, wondering where I'll transplanted in the garden
(14:35):
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
(14:57):
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
(15:17):
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 sharedmission.
(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.
(16:00):
I order a warm drink that my friend offers to carry.
She chooses the same and we eachadd 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 wagonbeside us.
(16:24):
The flowers sit patiently like happy dogs in the sun, their
colours glowing brightly againstthe 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.
(16:46):
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
(17:10):
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 withpollen.
They move gently and I love thatmy wagon has offered them a
(17:30):
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 comefrom.
My friend leans forward and we share the moment, listening to
(17:55):
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
(18:19):
treasures of her own. 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.
(18:42):
One or two stay with me for mostof 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
(19:06):
coloured sedum holding steady asthe season moves into colder
days. I wish you sweet dreams.
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