Speaker 1: Welcome to Bedtime Stories for grown ups, in which nothing
Speaker 1: much happens, you feel good, and then you fall asleep.
Speaker 1: I'm Catherine Nikolay. I read and write all the stories
Speaker 1: you hear and nothing much happens. Audio engineering is done
Speaker 1: by Bob Wittersheim. Thank you for listening and for sharing
Speaker 1: our stories with anyone you know who likes relaxation and
Speaker 1: good sleep. You can also follow us on Instagram and
Speaker 1: Facebook and Twitter for a bit of extra cosiness. And
Speaker 1: if you need a little more nothing much in your life,
Speaker 1: head to Nothing Much Happens dot com, where you can
Speaker 1: find some special pieces inspired by the show. Hoodies have
Speaker 1: finally arrived. Now let me say a bit about how
Speaker 1: this podcast works. I'm about to tell you a bedtime story,
Speaker 1: and the story, if you let it, will become a
Speaker 1: place to rest your mind. When your mind has a
Speaker 1: place to rest, you will drop off into sleep. It
Speaker 1: really is that simple. It's when our minds run wild
Speaker 1: that we can't fall asleep. So follow along with the
Speaker 1: sound of my voice and the simple shape of the tale,
Speaker 1: and probably before I finish, you'll be sound asleep. I'll
Speaker 1: read the story twice and I'll go a little slower
Speaker 1: the second time through. If you wake again in the
Speaker 1: middle of the night, try just thinking your way back
Speaker 1: through whatever details from the story you can remember. This
Speaker 1: is a kind of brain training. Your sleep will improve
Speaker 1: over time, and this response will only get stronger. But
Speaker 1: be patient if you are new to this. Now, switch
Speaker 1: off your lamp, arrange your pillows and comforter just the
Speaker 1: way you like them. Take a moment to relax your muscles,
Speaker 1: from your temples down to your toes. Good. Let's take
Speaker 1: a deep breath, in through the nose and out through
Speaker 1: the mouth. Nice, one more place in and out. Our
Speaker 1: story tonight is called skating in the Park, and it's
Speaker 1: a story about revisiting a yearly tradition. It's also about
Speaker 1: a thermis of coffee waiting to warm you up, thick socks,
Speaker 1: and the kind of friends who, even after a while apart,
Speaker 1: can pick right back up where they left off. Skating
Speaker 1: in the park. The day had started clear and bright,
Speaker 1: and I'd watched the dawn from an upstairs window, where
Speaker 1: I'd tucked into a window seat with a cup of
Speaker 1: hot coffee and an old patchwork quilt pulled around me.
Speaker 1: I loved this little corner of the house. There was
Speaker 1: a long hallway with doors leading off to bedrooms and baths,
Speaker 1: and at one end it turned a slight corner, and there,
Speaker 1: under a broad window was a nook built into the wall,
Speaker 1: which was perfect for reading, or sitting with a cat
Speaker 1: on your lap, or like today, watching the dawn come.
Speaker 1: As I watched, I thought of how Homer had described
Speaker 1: the dawn again and again in the Iliad and the Odyssey.
Speaker 1: He'd said that dawn had worked her rosy fingers across
Speaker 1: the sky. I put my chin in my hand and
Speaker 1: tapped my fingers against my cheek, thinking that the dawn
Speaker 1: he had watched and the one happening right in front
Speaker 1: of me a few thousand years later were sisters. The
Speaker 1: rosy fingers were still working their way across the sky,
Speaker 1: The light was spreading, the pink turned softer and paler,
Speaker 1: till the sky was her usual blue self. I took
Speaker 1: the last sip from my cup, and with my quilt
Speaker 1: still wrapped around me, patted down the hall to my room.
Speaker 1: Though the sun was out, the day would be cold,
Speaker 1: and i'd need to bundle up, as I had planned
Speaker 1: to spend a good deal of it outside. I chose
Speaker 1: my thickest socks and took a fuzzy sweater ahnak, a
Speaker 1: gift I'd gotten the night before, from my drawer, and
Speaker 1: when sufficiently layered, slipped down into the kitchen. I filled
Speaker 1: a thermis with the rest of the coffee and slid
Speaker 1: it into my bag. I was zipping up my coat
Speaker 1: and pulling on my boots when I heard a quick,
Speaker 1: friendly honk from the front drive. I slung my bag
Speaker 1: over my shoulder and skipped out the front door. The
Speaker 1: skating rink in the park by the library was ready
Speaker 1: and open, and that was our destination today. This was
Speaker 1: a yearly tradition with a rotating group of friends. We'd
Speaker 1: started it when we were kids, and now some of
Speaker 1: us had kids, and some of us just acted like them.
Speaker 1: I buckled into the last seat in the car and
Speaker 1: we trundled off down the street. My friends had two
Speaker 1: little ones, and they were buzzing with excitement. We are
Speaker 1: going skating. They coursed together, we are, I sang back.
Speaker 1: We looked out the windows together, pointing out houses decked
Speaker 1: for the holidays and cars with freshly cut trees tied
Speaker 1: to their roofs. When we slid into a spot near
Speaker 1: the park and unbuckled the kids from their seats. A
Speaker 1: little hand reached out to for mine. We squeezed through
Speaker 1: our mittens and smiled and let the sun warm our faces. Ready,
Speaker 1: I asked. Ready. We met a few more friends at
Speaker 1: the edge of the rink, and soon we were trying
Speaker 1: on skates and fumbling out onto the ice. Those first
Speaker 1: few turns around the rink were always the slipperiest. My
Speaker 1: body knew how to do this a bit, but it
Speaker 1: took a while for it to remember. There were a
Speaker 1: few spills and collisions, and then I started to find
Speaker 1: a rhythm, feeling the ice slicing under my skates, the
Speaker 1: shift and catch of my legs and belly muscles. In
Speaker 1: the cold, somber air, My body was warming up. I
Speaker 1: spotted a friend taking wobbly baby steps by the railing,
Speaker 1: and I took their hand to ease them out into
Speaker 1: the open space. We laughed together as they squealed and
Speaker 1: held on for dear life. Then slowly they started to
Speaker 1: find their way, pushing into one foot and then into
Speaker 1: the other. I stopped to rest for a bit, sitting
Speaker 1: on a bench by the edge of the rink, and
Speaker 1: one of the little ones spotted me and climbed up
Speaker 1: onto my lap. We watched the skaters, some timid and
Speaker 1: some sure footed. There was a couple skating together who
Speaker 1: must have done this for years. They glided past the
Speaker 1: others steps and sink, one turning in the arms of
Speaker 1: the other, skating backwards like a slow dance in a ballroom.
Speaker 1: I watched their faces as they skated past us. They
Speaker 1: were serene. This thing they were doing, which seemed to
Speaker 1: me as impossible as flying, was now to them as
Speaker 1: natural as walking. I reminded myself that hours and hours
Speaker 1: must have gone into their dance, and marveled, we can
Speaker 1: do amazing things when we practiced them again and again.
Speaker 1: We all took one more turn around the ice, and
Speaker 1: then agreed it was time for a meal someplace warm.
Speaker 1: There was a pizzeria on the edge of the park,
Speaker 1: with long wooden tables where we could all sit together.
Speaker 1: Their windows were ringed with lights twisted around garlands of
Speaker 1: ivy and pine boughs, and they were steamed up against
Speaker 1: the cold outside. We were hungry from the fresh air
Speaker 1: and exercise, and ordered more than we could likely eat,
Speaker 1: pizzas and salads and baskets of breadsticks. They made their
Speaker 1: pizza in a tall oven built into the wall, and
Speaker 1: the kids watched as they stoked it with wood and
Speaker 1: slid pizzas in on long handled peels. The pizzas came
Speaker 1: out with thin crusts, crunchy with a dusting of semolina,
Speaker 1: bubbled up in places, and just slightly scorched on their bottoms.
Speaker 1: Everyone ate and laughed and talked, sharing pieces from one
Speaker 1: plate to another. Once the kids were full, they picked
Speaker 1: a friendly lap and climbed up to lay their heads
Speaker 1: against a sweater covered chest and doze while the grown
Speaker 1: ups chatted. Whatever we tried, life stayed busy, and as
Speaker 1: we got older, the years seemed to go faster. So
Speaker 1: these were the moments we counted on for tying the
Speaker 1: strands of our friendships back together. It was a tradition
Speaker 1: we would all honor this day of wobbling out onto
Speaker 1: the ice together to call on the muscle memory of
Speaker 1: skating and sliding and being together. Years could pass months
Speaker 1: without much time to connect, but we would always do
Speaker 1: this skating in the park. The day had started clear
Speaker 1: and bright, and I'd watched the dawn from an upstairs window,
Speaker 1: where I'd tucked into a window seat with a cup
Speaker 1: of hot coffee and an old patchwork quilt pulled around me.
Speaker 1: I loved this little corner of the house. There was
Speaker 1: a long hallway with doors leading off to the bedrooms
Speaker 1: and baths, and at one end it turned a slight corner,
Speaker 1: and there, under a broad window was a nook built
Speaker 1: into the wall, which was perfect for reading, or sitting
Speaker 1: with a cat on your lap, or like to day,
Speaker 1: watching the dawn come. As I watched, I thought of
Speaker 1: how Homer had described the dawn again and again in
Speaker 1: the Iliad and the Odyssey. He'd said that dawn had
Speaker 1: worked her rosy fingers across the sky. I put my
Speaker 1: chin in my hand and tapped my fingers against my cheek,
Speaker 1: thinking that the dawn he had watched and the one
Speaker 1: happening right in front of me a few thousand years
Speaker 1: later were sisters. The rosy fingers were still working their
Speaker 1: way across the sky. The light was spreading, the pink
Speaker 1: turned softer and paler, till the sky was her usual
Speaker 1: blue self. I took the last sip from my cup,
Speaker 1: and with my quilt still wrapped around me, patted down
Speaker 1: the hall to my room. Though the sun was out,
Speaker 1: the day would be cold, and I'd need to bundle up,
Speaker 1: as I had plans to spend a good deal of
Speaker 1: it outside. I chose my thickest socks and took a
Speaker 1: fuzzy sweater, a Hanukkah gift I'd gotten the night before
Speaker 1: from my drawer, and when sufficiently layer'd slipped down into
Speaker 1: the kitchen, I filled the thermis with the rest of
Speaker 1: the coffee and slid it into my bag. I was
Speaker 1: zipping up my coat and pulling on my boots when
Speaker 1: I heard a quick, friendly honk from the front drive.
Speaker 1: I slung my bag over my shoulder and skipped out
Speaker 1: the front door. The skating rink in the park by
Speaker 1: the library was ready and open, and that was our
Speaker 1: destination today. This was a yearly tradition with a rotating
Speaker 1: group of friends. We'd started it when we were kids,
Speaker 1: and now some of us had kids, and some of
Speaker 1: us just acted like them. I buckled into the last
Speaker 1: seat in the car and we trundled off down the street.
Speaker 1: My friends had two little ones, and they were buzzing
Speaker 1: with excitement. We are going skating, they chorused together, we
Speaker 1: are icing back. We looked out the windows together, pointing
Speaker 1: out houses decked for the holidays and cars with freshly
Speaker 1: cut trees tied to their roofs. When we slid into
Speaker 1: a spot near the park and unbuckled the kids from
Speaker 1: their seats, a little hand reached out to grab for mine.
Speaker 1: We squeezed through our mitten and smiled and let the
Speaker 1: sun warm our faces. Ready, I asked, Ready. We met
Speaker 1: a few more friends at the edge of the rink,
Speaker 1: and soon we were tying on skates and fumbling out
Speaker 1: onto the ice. Those first few turns around the rink
Speaker 1: were always the slipperiest. My body knew how to do
Speaker 1: this a bit, but it took a while for it
Speaker 1: to remember. There were a few spills and collisions, but
Speaker 1: then I started to find a rhythm, feeling the ice
Speaker 1: slicing under my skates, the shift and catch of my
Speaker 1: legs and belly muscles. In the cold December air, my
Speaker 1: body was warming up. I spotted a friend taking wobbly
Speaker 1: baby steps by the railing, and I took their hand
Speaker 1: to ease them out into the open space. We laughed
Speaker 1: together as they squealed and held on for dear life.
Speaker 1: Then slowly they started to find their way, pushing into
Speaker 1: one foot and then into the other. I stopped to
Speaker 1: rest for a bit, sitting on a bench by the
Speaker 1: edge of the ring, and one of the little ones
Speaker 1: spotted me and climbed up into my lap. We watched
Speaker 1: the skaters, some timid and some sure footed. There was
Speaker 1: a couple skating together who must have done this for years.
Speaker 1: They glided past the others steps in sync, one turning
Speaker 1: in the arms of the other, skating backwards like a
Speaker 1: slow dance in a ballroom. I watched their faces as
Speaker 1: they skated past us. They were serene. This thing they
Speaker 1: were doing, which seemed to me as impossible as flying,
Speaker 1: was to them as natural as walking. I reminded myself
Speaker 1: that hours and hours must have gone into their dance,
Speaker 1: and marveled, we can do amazing things when we practiced
Speaker 1: them again and again. We all took one more turn
Speaker 1: around the ice, and then agreed it was time for
Speaker 1: a meal someplace warm. There was a pizzeria on the
Speaker 1: edge of the park with long wooden tables where we
Speaker 1: could all sit together. Their windows were ringed with lights
Speaker 1: twisted around garlands of ivy and pine boughs, and they
Speaker 1: were steamed up against the cold outside. We were hungry
Speaker 1: from the fresh air and exercise, and ordered more than
Speaker 1: we could likely eat, pizzas and salads and baskets of breadsticks.
Speaker 1: They made their pizza and a tall oven built into
Speaker 1: the wall, and the kids watched as they stoked it
Speaker 1: with wood and slid pizzas in on long handled peels.
Speaker 1: The pizzas came out with thin crusts, crunchy with a
Speaker 1: dusting of semolina, bubbled up in places, and just slightly
Speaker 1: scorched on their bottoms. Everyone ate and laughed and talked,
Speaker 1: shearing pieces from one plate to another. Once the kids
Speaker 1: were full, they picked a friendly lap and climbed up
Speaker 1: to lay their heads against a sweater covered chest and
Speaker 1: doze while the grown ups chatted. Whatever we tried, life
Speaker 1: stayed busy, and as we got older, the years seemed
Speaker 1: to go faster. So these were the moments we counted
Speaker 1: on for tying the strands of our friendship back together.
Speaker 1: It was a tradition we could all honor, this day
Speaker 1: of wobbling out onto the ice together to call on
Speaker 1: the muscle memory of skating and sliding and being together.
Speaker 1: Years could pass months without much time to connect, but
Speaker 1: we would always do this. Sweet Dreams