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 write and read all the stories
Speaker 1: you hear on Nothing Much Happens Audio Engineering is by
Speaker 1: Bob Wittersheim. My book, also called Nothing Much Happens, is
Speaker 1: available wherever books are sold. For extra coziness, follow us
Speaker 1: on Twitter, Instagram, or Facebook, and you can always learn
Speaker 1: more or get yourself a cozy Nothing Much Happens hoodie
Speaker 1: at Nothing Much Happens dot com. Now, let me say
Speaker 1: something about how this works. Your mind needs a place
Speaker 1: to rest, and without one, it's apt to race and
Speaker 1: wander and keep you up all night. Following along with
Speaker 1: my voice and the simple shape of the story I'm
Speaker 1: about to tell you gives it that resting place, and
Speaker 1: it trains your brain over time to more quickly settle
Speaker 1: and turn off. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll
Speaker 1: go a little slower the second time through. If you
Speaker 1: wake in the middle of the night, turn your thoughts
Speaker 1: right back to whatever you can remember about the story,
Speaker 1: or even just the details of a pleasant memory, and
Speaker 1: you will drop right back off. Okay, it's time put
Speaker 1: down whatever you've been looking at and switch off the light.
Speaker 1: Slide down deep into your sheets, and get as comfortable
Speaker 1: as you can. There's nothing you need to keep track of.
Speaker 1: No one is waiting. You have done enough for to day.
Speaker 1: You're safe. Take a slow breath in through your nose,
Speaker 1: let it out with a sigh. Nice. Do one more
Speaker 1: in and out good. Our story to night is called
Speaker 1: Sugar Snow, and it's a story about shifting seasons. It's
Speaker 1: also about pots of pansies, breakfast for dinner, and the
Speaker 1: people and places that teach us to play sugar Snow.
Speaker 1: I'd noticed it first in the evening. I'd been locking
Speaker 1: up the flower shop, and when I turned toward the
Speaker 1: street and slipped my keys back into my pocket, I
Speaker 1: suddenly realized that the air was warm and sweet, that
Speaker 1: there was still a sliver of daylight glowing in the
Speaker 1: evening sky, and a feeling familiar but it had been
Speaker 1: a while since I felt it, a feeling of spring.
Speaker 1: The next morning, before I'd even opened my eyes, I
Speaker 1: could hear the slow drip of melting icicles on the roof,
Speaker 1: and birds, so many birds, I smiled, still wrapped in
Speaker 1: my blankets. Winter can be very quiet, with the eaves
Speaker 1: wrapped in snow, working like the soft pedal of a piano,
Speaker 1: blotting out the sounds from the street, and so many neighbors,
Speaker 1: whether human or avian, opting to stay tucked in against
Speaker 1: the cold. Now it sounded like we were about to
Speaker 1: have a lively day. It had gone on like that
Speaker 1: for a week or more, bright days, fresh air that
Speaker 1: smelled of soaked earth, and the mounds of snow that
Speaker 1: we'd shoveled away from the sidewalks shrinking bit by bit.
Speaker 1: Would it last? We asked each other as we stood
Speaker 1: in line at the coffee shop or passed on the sidewalk.
Speaker 1: We'd all been fooled before. We determined to enjoy it
Speaker 1: while it was here, no matter the expiration date. I
Speaker 1: bought a few baskets of pansies, bright purple and yellow,
Speaker 1: and set them cautiously on my front stoop. I remembered
Speaker 1: my mother telling me they were hardy and a safe
Speaker 1: bet in the early spring. For years, I'd spelled that
Speaker 1: word h e a r t y, thinking that the
Speaker 1: root of it was tied to a strong heart. Then
Speaker 1: when I'd started in the flower shop, I'd seen it
Speaker 1: printed on packages of astilby, and realized that the root
Speaker 1: wasn't heart but hard. I wasn't sure it was different, though.
Speaker 1: Brave open hearts are often that way because they have
Speaker 1: been broken open. They've been through hard things and continue
Speaker 1: to beat. Sure Enough, a few days after I'd set
Speaker 1: out my pansies, I woke up to three inches of
Speaker 1: fluffy snow laying thick on the ground. I dusted off
Speaker 1: my flowers and pulled them inside to warm up on
Speaker 1: my kitchen window sill. I still had a pair of
Speaker 1: boots and a coat by the door. A combination of
Speaker 1: laziness and superstition had kept me from putting them away,
Speaker 1: and I pulled them all on and stepped back outside.
Speaker 1: The clouds that had dropped this snow had moved on,
Speaker 1: and the sky was a bright, enthusiastic blue. I started
Speaker 1: to walk through the neighborhood, feeling the snow so soft
Speaker 1: and full of old raindrops, disappear into nothing underfoot. It
Speaker 1: was a lovely combination of sensations, the sun warm on
Speaker 1: my face, the quiet of the snow, and the air
Speaker 1: still sweet and smelling of spring. I turned a corner
Speaker 1: and watched as a couple of dogs were let out
Speaker 1: of a side door to run in their yard. They
Speaker 1: leaped through the snow, flipped over, and rolled joyfully in it.
Speaker 1: I'd heard someone say once that play is a sign
Speaker 1: of safety. That once our basic needs are met and
Speaker 1: we feel protected from harm, well, that's when we can play.
Speaker 1: We can be creative and open and silly. I watched
Speaker 1: the dogs skidding through the soft snow. One found a
Speaker 1: ball and squeaked it in his teeth, and they both
Speaker 1: went running along the fence into their backyard. I put
Speaker 1: my hands in my pockets and kept walking, thinking about
Speaker 1: the places in my life where I felt like I
Speaker 1: could play. There were a lot of them, I realized,
Speaker 1: and the places I didn't play, well, that was useful
Speaker 1: to think about too. Sometimes there are things we can
Speaker 1: do about that, and sometimes it's just time to move on.
Speaker 1: At some point I realized I'd been walking toward a
Speaker 1: tiny park hidden down a dirt road on the edge
Speaker 1: of my neighborhood. I'd walked by it a few times before,
Speaker 1: i'd ever seen the sign inviting passers by to enjoy
Speaker 1: the spot from dawn till dusk. There was a patch
Speaker 1: of open space, now covered by a smooth expanse of
Speaker 1: unbroken snow, a few tall trees, and a path that
Speaker 1: led through a grove of maples that eventually came out
Speaker 1: at a dead end a few blocks over here. The
Speaker 1: snow had a thin crust of ice, like the crackily
Speaker 1: caramelized top of a crembrulet. It was oddly satisfying to
Speaker 1: hear its faint snap with each step. The air was
Speaker 1: warming in the sun that I had a feeling this
Speaker 1: snow could easily be gone by sunset. I left footprints
Speaker 1: all the way up to the edge of the woods,
Speaker 1: where the thicket of trees had protected the gravel path
Speaker 1: from snow. A few feet in I noticed, at chest
Speaker 1: height on the nearest tree a galvanized bucket suspended from
Speaker 1: a hook in the bark. I rushed over to it
Speaker 1: with the excitement of a child. I had seen this before,
Speaker 1: and the memory was sweet in every sense. For many
Speaker 1: years in my childhood, my siblings and I had spent
Speaker 1: our week of spring break at our aunt's old white
Speaker 1: farmhouse a few hours north of home. Some years the
Speaker 1: winter would drag her feet through that week, and we'd
Speaker 1: spend our days baking muffins and cookies in Auntie's warm kitchen,
Speaker 1: or bundled up on sofas, watching funny old movies and
Speaker 1: playing board games. And sometimes we'd arrive for a week
Speaker 1: a fine warm weather, and we'd play croquet in mud
Speaker 1: boots in the yard and hunt for treasures in the
Speaker 1: hayloft of the big red barn. And once or twice
Speaker 1: we'd been there for a sugar snow. It was a
Speaker 1: time just like now, when after a bit of warm weather,
Speaker 1: a sudden cold snap fell, making the sap run quick
Speaker 1: from the trees. We'd all gone out together to see
Speaker 1: how the metal spouts spiles she'd called them, were screwed
Speaker 1: into drilled holes in the bark. We'd hung buckets from
Speaker 1: hooks to collect the sap, and some days had to
Speaker 1: empty them every few hours. In the barn, she had
Speaker 1: an old wood burning stove, and it was one kid's
Speaker 1: job to bring firewood, another's to stir the pot of
Speaker 1: sap on top, and in others to pet the barn
Speaker 1: kiddies when they came out to warm themselves by the fire.
Speaker 1: Auntie watched over, laughing at our goofy stories and songs
Speaker 1: as we worked with a big batch of sap. It
Speaker 1: might take us all day to cook it down into syrup,
Speaker 1: but once we'd done it, we'd pour it carefully into
Speaker 1: jugs and go stickily into the farmhouse. We'd make plates
Speaker 1: and plates of pancakes and eat them for dinner with
Speaker 1: the fresh syrup and slice of banana and chewy pieces
Speaker 1: of pecan. If we could find clean patches of snow,
Speaker 1: she'd help us pour the hot syrup into it, making
Speaker 1: shapes stars and hearts and our initials to eat like candy.
Speaker 1: I laughed, walking through the woods, thinking of my poor
Speaker 1: saintly aunt to have a household full of rowdy children
Speaker 1: stuffed full of sugar for a whole week. I guessed
Speaker 1: someone would be out soon to collect the sap. I
Speaker 1: hoped they might have a little helper with them, and
Speaker 1: that they might feel as safe as I had with
Speaker 1: Auntie and play as hard as they liked sugar snow.
Speaker 1: I'd noticed it first in the evening. I'd been locking
Speaker 1: up the flower shop, and when I turned toward the
Speaker 1: street and slipped my keys back into my pocket, I
Speaker 1: suddenly realized that the air was warm and sweet, that
Speaker 1: there was still a sliver of daylight glowing in the
Speaker 1: evening sky, and a feeling familiar, but it had been
Speaker 1: a while since I'd felt it, a feeling of spring.
Speaker 1: The next morning, before I had even opened my eyes,
Speaker 1: I could hear the slow drip of melting icicles on
Speaker 1: the roof, and birds, so many birds, I smiled, still
Speaker 1: wrapped in my blankets. Winter can be very quiet, with
Speaker 1: the eaves wrapped in snow working like the soft petal
Speaker 1: of a piano, blotting out the sounds from the street,
Speaker 1: and so many neighbors, whether human or avian, opted to
Speaker 1: stay tucked in against the cold. Now it sounded like
Speaker 1: we were about to have a lively day. It had
Speaker 1: gone on like that for a week or more, bright days,
Speaker 1: fresh air that smelled of soaked earth, and the mounds
Speaker 1: of snow that we'd shoveled away from the sidewalks shrinking
Speaker 1: bit by bit. Would at last, we asked each other
Speaker 1: as we stood in line at the coffee shop were
Speaker 1: passed on the sidewalk. We'd all been fooled before. We
Speaker 1: determined to enjoy it while it was here, no matter
Speaker 1: the expiration date. I bought a few baskets of pansies,
Speaker 1: bright purple and yellow, and set them cautiously on my
Speaker 1: front stoop. I remembered my mother telling me they were
Speaker 1: hardy and a safe bet in the early spring. For years,
Speaker 1: I'd held that word h E a r t y,
Speaker 1: thinking that the root of it was tied to a
Speaker 1: strong heart. Then when I'd started at the flower shop,
Speaker 1: I'd seen it printed on packages of astillby and realized
Speaker 1: that the root wasn't hard but hard. I wasn't sure
Speaker 1: it was that different, though. Brave open hearts are often
Speaker 1: that way because they have been broken open. They've been
Speaker 1: through hard things and continue to beat. Sure enough, A
Speaker 1: few days after I'd set out my pansies, I woke
Speaker 1: up to three inches of fluffy snow laying thick on
Speaker 1: the ground. I dusted off my flowers and pulled them
Speaker 1: inside to warm up on my kitchen window sill. I
Speaker 1: still had a pair of boots and a coat by
Speaker 1: the door. A combination of laziness and superstition had kept
Speaker 1: me from putting them away, and I pulled them all
Speaker 1: on and stepped back outside. The clouds that had dropped
Speaker 1: the snow I had moved on, and the sky was
Speaker 1: a bright, enthusiastic blue. I started to walk through the neighborhood,
Speaker 1: feeling the snow so soft and full of old rain
Speaker 1: drops disappearing into nothing underfoot. It was a lovely combination
Speaker 1: of sensations, the sun warm on my face, the quiet
Speaker 1: of the snow, and the air still sweet and smelling
Speaker 1: of spring. I turned a corner and watched as a
Speaker 1: couple of dogs were let out of a side door
Speaker 1: to run in their yard. They leaped through the snow,
Speaker 1: flipped over, and rolled joyfully in it. I'd heard someone
Speaker 1: say once that play is a sign of safety. That
Speaker 1: once our basic needs are met and we feel protected
Speaker 1: from harm, well that's when we can play. We can
Speaker 1: be creative and open and silly. I watched the dogs
Speaker 1: skidding through the soft snow. One found a ball and
Speaker 1: squeaked it in his teeth, and they both went running
Speaker 1: along the fence into their backyard. I put my hands
Speaker 1: in my pockets and kept walking, thinking about the places
Speaker 1: in my life where I felt like I could play.
Speaker 1: There were a lot of them, I realized, and the
Speaker 1: places where I didn't play, well, that was useful to
Speaker 1: think about, too. Sometimes there are things we can do
Speaker 1: about that, and sometimes it's just time to move on.
Speaker 1: At some point I realized i'd been walking toward a
Speaker 1: tiny park hidden down a dirt road on the edge
Speaker 1: of my neighborhood. I'd walked by it a few times
Speaker 1: before I'd ever seen the sign inviting passers by to
Speaker 1: enjoy the spot from dawn till dusk. There was a
Speaker 1: patch of open space, now covered by a smooth expanse
Speaker 1: of unbroken snow, a few tall trees, and a path
Speaker 1: that led through a grove of maples that eventually comes
Speaker 1: out at a dead end a few blocks over here.
Speaker 1: The snow had a thin crust of ice, like the
Speaker 1: crackily caramelized top of a crumbrulet. It was oddly satisfying
Speaker 1: to hear its faint snap with each step. The air
Speaker 1: was warming in the sun, and I had a feeling
Speaker 1: this snow could easily be gone by sunset. My left
Speaker 1: footprints all the way up to the edge of the woods,
Speaker 1: where the thicket of trees had protected the gravel path
Speaker 1: from snow. A few feet in I noticed a chest
Speaker 1: height on the nearest tree, a galvanized bucket suspended from
Speaker 1: a hook in the bark. I rushed over to it
Speaker 1: with the excitement of a child. I had seen this before,
Speaker 1: and the memory was sweet in every sense. For many
Speaker 1: years in my childhood, my siblings and I had spent
Speaker 1: our week of spring break at our aunt's old white
Speaker 1: farmhouse a few hours north of home. Some years the
Speaker 1: winter would drag her feet through that week, and we'd
Speaker 1: spend our days baking muffins and cookies in Auntie's warm kitchen,
Speaker 1: or bundled upon sofas, watching funny old movies and playing
Speaker 1: board games. And sometimes we'd arrive for a week of fine,
Speaker 1: warm weather, and we'd play croquet in mud boots in
Speaker 1: the yard and hunt for treasures in the hayloft of
Speaker 1: the big red barn. And once or twice we'd been
Speaker 1: there for a sugar snow. It was a time just
Speaker 1: like now, when after a bit of warm weather, a
Speaker 1: sudden cold snap fell, making the sap run quick from
Speaker 1: the trees. We'd all gone out together to see how
Speaker 1: the metal spouts spiles she'd called them, were screwed into
Speaker 1: drilled holes in the bark. We'd hung buckets from hooks
Speaker 1: to collect the sap, and some days had to empty
Speaker 1: them every few hours. In the barn, she had an
Speaker 1: old wood burning stove, and it was one kid's job
Speaker 1: to bring firewood another's to stir the pot of sap
Speaker 1: on top, and another's to pet the barn kiddies when
Speaker 1: they came out to warm themselves by the fire. Auntie
Speaker 1: watched over, laughing at our goofy stories and songs as
Speaker 1: we worked with a big batch of sap. It might
Speaker 1: take us all day to cook it down into syrup,
Speaker 1: but once we'd done it, we'd pour it carefully into
Speaker 1: jugs and go stickily into the farmhouse. We'd make plates
Speaker 1: and plates of pancakes and eat them for dinner with
Speaker 1: the fresh syrup and slices of banana and chewy pieces
Speaker 1: of pecan. If we could find clean patches of snow,
Speaker 1: she'd help us pour the hot syrup into it, making shapes,
Speaker 1: stars and hearts and our initials to eat like candy.
Speaker 1: I laughed walking through the woods, thinking of my poor
Speaker 1: saintly aunt to have a household full of rowdy children
Speaker 1: stuffed full of sugar for a whole week. But all
Speaker 1: I remembered was laughing and eating and playing. Passing by
Speaker 1: the tapped trees, I guessed some one would be out
Speaker 1: soon to collect the sap. I hoped they might have
Speaker 1: a little helper with them, and they might feel as
Speaker 1: safe as I had with Auntie and play as hard
Speaker 1: as they liked. Sweet Dreams