Speaker 1: Welcome to another year of bedtime stories for grown ups
Speaker 1: in which nothing much happens, you feel good, and then
Speaker 1: you fall asleep. I'm Catherine Nikolay. I read and write
Speaker 1: all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Audio
Speaker 1: Engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. Nothing Much Happens is a
Speaker 1: proud member of the Curious Cast podcast network. Let's get
Speaker 1: ready to sleep. I'll read you a simple, cozy story.
Speaker 1: It's a place to rest your mind, and when your
Speaker 1: mind rests, your body will inevitably follow. I'll read the
Speaker 1: story twice, and I'll go a little slower on the
Speaker 1: second read. Just follow along with the sound of my
Speaker 1: voice and the cozy details of the story. Pull them
Speaker 1: around you as you would a soft blanket, And if
Speaker 1: you wake in the night, take yourself back into the story,
Speaker 1: thinking back through any bit you can remember. This trains
Speaker 1: your brain to return to sleep mode, and the more
Speaker 1: you practice it, the easier you will find it. Now
Speaker 1: it's time to switch off the light. Set aside anything
Speaker 1: you've been looking at or working on, adjust your pillows
Speaker 1: and comforter until you feel completely at ease. If you
Speaker 1: sometimes clench your jaw as you sleep, try resting the
Speaker 1: tip of your tongue at the place where your upper
Speaker 1: teeth meet the gums on the inside. That will help
Speaker 1: keep your jaw relaxed. Now you are about to fall asleep.
Speaker 1: You will sleep deeply all night. Take a deep breath
Speaker 1: in through your nose and sigh through the mouth again.
Speaker 1: Breathe in and out good. Our story tonight is called
Speaker 1: a break in the weather, and it's a story about
Speaker 1: a day in the sun. It's also about a heart
Speaker 1: drawn on a window pane, dripping icicles, and that fresh,
Speaker 1: open feeling that comes with a little bit of change,
Speaker 1: a break in the weather. We'd had a few days
Speaker 1: of bright sun and balmy, sweet smelling air interrupting the
Speaker 1: ice and cold of midwinter. I'd been happily hibernating, buried
Speaker 1: deep in blankets and thick sweaters, with a tall stack
Speaker 1: of books and endless cups of tea to see me
Speaker 1: through to spring. But when I opened the front door
Speaker 1: today and blinked up at the bright, clear skies, I
Speaker 1: felt that stir of excitement that normally comes a few
Speaker 1: more months down the line. I found myself wondering if
Speaker 1: the creek behind the library was frozen up or running fast.
Speaker 1: To day, I wondered if the shops down town had
Speaker 1: changed their window displays, and if there was a new
Speaker 1: movie at the theater. I decided to find out. I
Speaker 1: was so used to bundling up that I had already
Speaker 1: stepped into my snow boots and had a scarf and
Speaker 1: hat on before I remembered that to day felt different.
Speaker 1: I opened the door again and let the air move
Speaker 1: around me. I'd be overheated after a minute of walking
Speaker 1: dressed like this, so I traded my boots for sneakers
Speaker 1: and my hat and scarf for sunglasses. I stopped on
Speaker 1: my front sidewalk to look up and down the street.
Speaker 1: I heard the slam of a back door and a
Speaker 1: call to come on, and saw that the neighborhood kids
Speaker 1: weren't wasting the day. They had scooters and bikes, which
Speaker 1: had arrived at Christmas and Hanukkah, and which they'd been
Speaker 1: hesitantly pushing around the living room floor waiting to break
Speaker 1: them in, And to day was the day. I watched
Speaker 1: as they hopped on, pushing and peddling their way up
Speaker 1: the hill to ride it joyfully back down. I remembered
Speaker 1: that feeling of speed and rushing air on my face,
Speaker 1: and the memory spun me toward town with a spring
Speaker 1: in my step. The sidewalks were clear and dry, but
Speaker 1: the gutters ran with rivulets of melting snow. I watched
Speaker 1: the water as it moved, pulled by gravity, creased with
Speaker 1: its current, and spilling quickly into the grate at the corner.
Speaker 1: I wondered if I still knew how to make a
Speaker 1: paper boat with its cuffed hull and thin peaked sail.
Speaker 1: I had a stack of origami papers in my desk
Speaker 1: drawer at home. Maybe I would try later. As I
Speaker 1: turned the corner into town, I saw that warm weather
Speaker 1: had called to lots of us today. The sidewalks were
Speaker 1: bustling with people out for a walk, some pushing strollers
Speaker 1: or stepping out with dogs who were happily sniffing at
Speaker 1: every tree and branch. Many walked with their coats open
Speaker 1: to the warm air and their faces tilted up to
Speaker 1: the sun. I stopped at the movie house and looked
Speaker 1: at all their posters. I have a great love for
Speaker 1: movie posters, and let the sun warm my back as
Speaker 1: I stood to read the taglines and look at the
Speaker 1: faces of the actors. They had a few vintage posters
Speaker 1: sat behind panes of glass, and I liked the way
Speaker 1: their frayed edges and slightly faded colors looked against the
Speaker 1: newer ones. A couple came through the doors, holding hands
Speaker 1: and still laughing for whatever show they'd seen, and the
Speaker 1: smell of fresh popcorn followed them out on to the street.
Speaker 1: I walked for a while, looking into shop windows and
Speaker 1: enjoying the way things smelled and sounded on the street.
Speaker 1: The creek was flowing fast in the ravine behind the library,
Speaker 1: and I stopped to watch a gray squirrel as she
Speaker 1: picked through the pine needles at the water's edge. Her broad,
Speaker 1: furry tail was pulled back over her small body and
Speaker 1: head like an umbrella, shielding her from the dripping, melting
Speaker 1: snow in the branches above. The lamp posts in the
Speaker 1: park were still strung with twinkle lights, and I hoped
Speaker 1: they would be until spring truly came. The days were
Speaker 1: still short and the long months of winter could drag,
Speaker 1: so knowing that there would be a little more light
Speaker 1: in places like this made the season sweeter. There was
Speaker 1: a cart on the edge of the park, and I
Speaker 1: stopped to buy a soft pretzel wrapped in wax paper,
Speaker 1: dotted with salt, and smeared with yellow mustard. After one bite,
Speaker 1: I knew that the pretzel must have come from the
Speaker 1: bakery a few blocks away. Everything they made had a
Speaker 1: sort of signature flavor and well. I couldn't put my
Speaker 1: finger on what it was. I knew it when I
Speaker 1: tasted it. I stopped on a bench to eat. The
Speaker 1: dough was soft and chewy, and the salt crunched in
Speaker 1: my teeth. My bench set across from the yoga studio,
Speaker 1: and the windows were fogged up from the class that
Speaker 1: was just letting out. I watched as the classroom doors
Speaker 1: opened and students gathered shoes and jackets. They looked a
Speaker 1: bit sweaty and had calm, happy faces. A man tucked
Speaker 1: his mat under his arm and stopped to draw a
Speaker 1: heart in the condensation on the window pane. Some one
Speaker 1: else drew a piece sign From my bench, I looked
Speaker 1: up at the top of the building. It had a
Speaker 1: cornice of arches and carved stones in a deco design.
Speaker 1: There was an old fashioned fire escape along its side,
Speaker 1: and the iron bars were thick with icicles. They were
Speaker 1: dripping fast in the sunshine and the sound it made
Speaker 1: as the drops hit the cobblestones below, reminded me of
Speaker 1: rain on a tin roof. On my way back through
Speaker 1: town toward home, I caught up a newspaper blowing against
Speaker 1: a tree trunk. I smoothed the page and saw it
Speaker 1: held the forecast for the next few days. A snow
Speaker 1: storm was predicted to start late to night and blankt
Speaker 1: our town with a thick layer of snow and ice.
Speaker 1: By morning. The sun was bright and warm on my
Speaker 1: face as I read, and it didn't seem possible that
Speaker 1: we'd be back in winter and a few hours. But
Speaker 1: I thought of my stack of books, of the pot
Speaker 1: of soup I could make, and the half done afghan
Speaker 1: i'd been crocheting, and felt excited to tuck back into
Speaker 1: my hibernation. This brief break in the weather had been energizing,
Speaker 1: and it had got me out and about on a
Speaker 1: beautiful day. But I wasn't quite done with winter yet,
Speaker 1: and it seemed from the paper in my hand that
Speaker 1: it wasn't quite done with me either. Break in the weather,
Speaker 1: we'd had a few days of bright sun and balmy,
Speaker 1: sweet smelling air, interrupting the ice and cold of midwinter.
Speaker 1: I'd been happily hibernating, buried deep in blankets and thick sweaters,
Speaker 1: with a tall stack of books and endless cups of
Speaker 1: tea to see me through to spring. But when I
Speaker 1: opened the front door today and blinked up at the bright,
Speaker 1: clear skies, I felt that stir of excitement that normally
Speaker 1: comes a few more months down the line. I found
Speaker 1: myself wondering if the creek behind the library was frozen
Speaker 1: up or running fast. To day, I wondered if the
Speaker 1: shops down town had changed their window displays, and if
Speaker 1: there was a new movie at the theater. I decided
Speaker 1: to find out. I was so used to bundling up
Speaker 1: that I had already stepped into my snow boots and
Speaker 1: had a scarf and had on before I remembered that
Speaker 1: to day felt different. I opened the door again and
Speaker 1: let the air move around me. I'd be overheated after
Speaker 1: a minute of walking dressed like this, so I traded
Speaker 1: my boots for sneakers, and my hat and scarf for sunglasses.
Speaker 1: I stopped on my front sidewalk to look up and
Speaker 1: down the street. I heard the slam of a back
Speaker 1: door and a call to come on, and saw that
Speaker 1: the neighborhood kits weren't wasting the day. They had scooters
Speaker 1: and bikes which had arrived at Christmas and Hanakah, and
Speaker 1: which they had been hesitantly pushing around the living room
Speaker 1: floor waiting to break them in, and to day was day.
Speaker 1: I watched as they hopped on, pushing and peddling their
Speaker 1: way up the hill to ride it joyfully back down.
Speaker 1: I remembered that feeling of speed and rushing air on
Speaker 1: my face, and the memory spun me towards town with
Speaker 1: a spring in my step. The sidewalks were clear and dry,
Speaker 1: but the gutters ran with rivulets of melting snow. I
Speaker 1: watched the water as it moved, pulled by gravity, creased
Speaker 1: with its current, and spilling quickly into the grate at
Speaker 1: the corner. I wondered if I still knew how to
Speaker 1: make a paper boat with its cuffed hull and thin
Speaker 1: peaked sail. I had a stack of oregamy papers in
Speaker 1: my desk drawer at home, and maybe I would try later.
Speaker 1: As I turned the corner into town, I saw that
Speaker 1: the warm weather had called to lots of us today.
Speaker 1: The sidewalks were bustling with people out for a walk,
Speaker 1: some pushing strollers or stepping out with dogs who were
Speaker 1: happily sniffing at every tree and bench. Many walked with
Speaker 1: their coats open to the warm air and their faces
Speaker 1: tilted up to the sun. I stopped at the movie
Speaker 1: house and looked at all of their posters. I have
Speaker 1: a great love for movie posters, and let the sun
Speaker 1: warm my back as I stood to read the taglines
Speaker 1: and look at the faces of the actors. They had.
Speaker 1: A few vintage posters sat behind panes of glass, and
Speaker 1: I liked the way they're frayed edges and slightly faded
Speaker 1: colors looked against the newer ones. A couple came through
Speaker 1: the doors, holding hands and still laughing from whatever show
Speaker 1: they'd seen, and the smell of fresh popcorn followed them
Speaker 1: out onto the street. I walked for a while, looking
Speaker 1: into shop windows and enjoying the way things smelled and
Speaker 1: sounded on the street. The creek was flowing fast in
Speaker 1: the ravine behind the library, and I stopped to watch
Speaker 1: a gray squirrel as she picked through the pine needles
Speaker 1: at the water's edge. Her broad furry tail was pulled
Speaker 1: back over her small body and head like an umbrella,
Speaker 1: shielding her from the dripping, melting snow in the branches above.
Speaker 1: The lamp posts in the park were still strung with
Speaker 1: twinkle lights, and I hoped they would be until spring
Speaker 1: truly came. The days were still short when the long
Speaker 1: months of winter could drag, so knowing that there would
Speaker 1: be a little more light in places like this made
Speaker 1: the season sweeter. There was a cart on the edge
Speaker 1: of the park, and I stopped to buy a soft
Speaker 1: pretzel wrapped in waxed paper, dotted with soft and smeared
Speaker 1: with yellow mustard. After one bite, I knew that the
Speaker 1: pretzel must have come from the bakery a few blocks away.
Speaker 1: Everything they made had a sort of signature flavor, and
Speaker 1: while I couldn't put my finger on what it was,
Speaker 1: I knew it when I tasted it. I stopped on
Speaker 1: a bench to eat. The dough was soft and chewy,
Speaker 1: and the salt crunched in my teeth. My bench sat
Speaker 1: across from the yoga studio, and the windows were fogged
Speaker 1: up from the class that was just letting out. I
Speaker 1: watched as the classroom doors opened and students gathered shoes
Speaker 1: and jackets. They looked a bit sweaty and had calm,
Speaker 1: happy faces. A man tucked his mat under his arm
Speaker 1: and stopped to draw heart in the condensation of the
Speaker 1: window pane. Someone else drew a peace sign from my bench.
Speaker 1: I looked up at the top of the building. It
Speaker 1: had a cornice of arches and carved stone in a
Speaker 1: deco design. There was an old fashioned fire escape along
Speaker 1: its side, and the iron bars were thick with icicles.
Speaker 1: They were dripping fast in the sunshine, and the sound
Speaker 1: it made as the drops hit the cobblestones below reminded
Speaker 1: me of rain on a tin roof. On my way
Speaker 1: back through town toward home, I caught up a newspaper
Speaker 1: blowing against a tree trunk. I smoothed the page and
Speaker 1: saw it held the forecast for the next few days.
Speaker 1: A snowstorm was predicted to start late to night and
Speaker 1: blink at our town with a thick layer of snow
Speaker 1: and ice. By morning. The sun was bright and warm
Speaker 1: on my face as I read, and it didn't seem
Speaker 1: possible that we'd be back in winter in a few hours.
Speaker 1: But I thought of my stack of books, of the
Speaker 1: pot of soup I could make, and the half done
Speaker 1: afghan I'd been crocheting, and felt excited to tuck back
Speaker 1: into my hibernation. This brief break in the weather had
Speaker 1: been energizing, and it had got me out and about
Speaker 1: on a beautiful day. But I wasn't quite done with
Speaker 1: winter yet, and it seemed from the paper in my
Speaker 1: hand that it wasn't quite done with me either. Sweet Dreams,