Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - City Sidewalks

Episode Date: December 14, 2020

Our story tonight is called City Sidewalks, and it’s a story about an evening looking into shop windows filled with Holiday displays. It’s also about miracles made in gingerbread, realizing when something is good, and the hushed excitement in a theater as the movie is about to begin. So get cozy and ready to sleep. Buy the book Get beautiful NMH merch Get autographed copies Get our ad-free and bonus episodesPurchase Our Book: https://bit.ly/Nothing-Much-HappensSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Grownups, in which nothing much happens, you feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Catherine Nicolai. I read and write all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. A beautiful book of our bedtime stories is available now. And if I do say so myself, it makes a lovely gift. The illustrations are charming, even the colors, the feel of it in your hand.

It's all designed to be a source of comfort and relaxation. Get yours from your favorite bookseller, or you can buy a signed copy or signed book plate from nothingmuchappens.com. You can even have your book made out to someone specific, or made out to you. Also, hoodies are back. It's all at nothingmuchappens.com. Now let me say a bit about how to use this podcast.

Especially at night, your mind can spin and spiral with thoughts, and you need a way to lift the needle off the record, to find some stillness and peace. And that's what the story is for. I'll read it twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. Just follow along with the sound of my voice and the simple shape of the tail. And before you know it, you'll be waking up tomorrow feeling rested and refreshed. This is brain training. With practice, we're creating a reliable and automatic response in your nervous system.

And all of that means that over time, you'll fall asleep faster and return to sleep more easily. Now, switch off your light. Set down anything you've been looking at. Snuggle down into your sheets and pull your comforter over your shoulder. You are safe. There's nothing you need to remember or stay on top of. You can let everything go. I'm watching over. Take a slow, deep breath in through the nose and let it out through your mouth.

Again, breathe in. Out with sound. Good. Our story tonight is called City Sidewalks, and it's a story about an evening looking into shop windows filled with holiday displays. It's also about miracles made in gingerbread, realizing when something is good,

and the hushed excitement in a theater as the movie is about to begin. City Sidewalks I'd seen it up on the theater marquee the week before. I'd been coming out of the candy shop across the street with a bag full of peppermint starlights. And as I stopped to wrap my scarf twice around my neck, I saw on the sidewalk opposite a bundled-up person with a telescoping pole, carefully placing letters up onto the wraparound marquee.

Letters that spelled out the name of an old favorite Christmas movie. It was in black and white, with a cast of elegant Hollywood stars, and I remembered watching it as a child every year with my family, like clockwork. Back then, we rarely had a cabinet full of movies to watch, and I would scour the paper to see when it would air and mark it down on the calendar pinned to the back of the basement door. Specials then were truly special. And now I could watch it up on the big screen.

I stood, smiling up at the letters as they were slid into place. I took a peppermint from the bag and unwrapped it from the cellophane. I placed the red and white swirl of candy on my tongue and pulled my hat a little lower over my ears. I loved the feel of the cold air around me, the clean smell of the snow piled around tree trunks and letterboxes,

and the sweet, minty taste of the treat. That day, I made a plan to pull together a few friends and make a date for a night at the movies. Now, tonight was that night. We'd met up by the city tree in the park. It must have been thirty feet tall, and was strung with big, old-fashioned bulbs, in red, green, blue, and orange.

We had an hour till the movie started, and we decided to take a slow walk through the park, and down the few streets of our little city. The trees around the pond were all strung with lights, and the street lamps were tied with huge red bows. We saw a line of kids and parents, their mittened hands clasped and swinging between them, waiting to step into a tiny house on the edge of the park. It had a banner strung between the street lamps above, declaring that Santa was in residence this evening. We stopped at a street cart and bought cups of cocoa and coffee. The storefronts were lit up and decorated for the season, and we took our

time going from one to the next to catch every detail. At the bookshop, they'd built a Christmas tree by stacking books flat on top of one another in a slow spiral as they rose. Their spines turned out to entice you with all the stories yet to be read unwrapped in white lights. They'd also cut snowflakes from pages of old books, the paper an antique yellow covered

with sentences disappearing into the symmetrical designs. The record shop window had a display of players, starting with an old gramophone with a beautiful brass horn that was so shiny it might have been brand new. Laid out beside it was a timeline of the evolution of this machine, from phonograph to record player to the most modern turntable. In fact, the newest ones seemed to tip their hats to the older ones, with small details in their designs. And around all of them, records were carefully scattered or strung from wire hanging from the ceiling, calling back to moments and memories along the way.

We spotted a record we'd all owned in high school, and I was sure one of the players, one that closed up and could be carried like a suitcase, and I was sure one of the players, one that closed up and could be carried like a suitcase, was the same one my mother had when she was young. She'd passed it to me and from time to time I opened it up and played the 45s tucked into the case's pocket. She'd written her initials on the labels as a young person to keep her siblings from swiping her favorites, and the pencil marks were still there.

We sipped our drinks and walked on. The cafe on the corner was doing steady business, the booths all full as people raised glasses to toast and pointed out favorites on the menu. I watched a group at a table as a cake covered in lit candles was set in front of a blushing but smiling teenager. Their windows were ringed in twinkle lights, and each held a shining menorah with six candles burning.

The toy shop had gone all out, building a display with a fireplace set in a fictional living room. There were a dozen little ones crowded around it to look at its tall Christmas tree, with piles of wrapped presents all around. There was even a plate of cookie crumbs and a glass of mostly drunk milk and the heel of a shiny boot just visible inside the fireplace as St. Nick slipped up the chimney. As we stood behind them, I found myself looking not at the display but at their faces reflected in the shop windows. Some were pointing, pressing fingers to the glass to call out some hoped-for item.

And some were silent, their eyes wide and moving slowly over the scene. I remembered a moment like this from my own childhood. It hadn't been the idea of so many gifts that had left me in awe. It had been seeing a world built into a window, a daydream made real that made me stop in my snow boots and stare. If we can make dreams real, why don't we? Why save it for a window or a week? I must have gotten lost in my memories there for a while and found an arm threading itself through my elbow and a friend pulling me on down the street.

At the bakery, the front window was filled with gingerbread houses, and as I looked at them, I realized they were, in fact, a replica of the street we were standing on. There was the bookshop, with its tree made of tiny biscuit books. There was the window of the record shop and an intricately iced row of minuscule record players. The cafe held tables full of gingerbread customers and a matching menorah carefully showing six candles. The toy shop replica must have taken ages and a team of people to pull off with so many details to pipe into place.

Snowy white icing pooled on the gingerbread sidewalk and my eyes followed it down to the last stop in the row of confections. The movie theater. We all spotted it at the same time, and I looked at my watch to see we had just a few minutes till the movie started. Run, run, Rudolph, I called out to my friends, as we linked arms and hurried down to the theater. Minutes later, we were settling into our seats, sharing popcorn and peppermints back and forth,

and waiting for the lights to go down. In the crowd around us, I spotted a few people with Santa hats and had a feeling most of us could recite this movie line by line as we watched, our faces shining just like those of the kids looking into the toy shop window. I realized I was, in that moment, doing something I truly loved. And I'd built a habit over the years, that when I caught myself in an instance of pure happiness, I'd take a slow, deliberate breath and be sure to be in my body,

feeling the tingle of my own merriment, to plug into my senses and soak up every drop of the experience. When good things happen, it's important, even in small, simple ways, to notice them with our whole hearts. As the theater lights dimmed, my friend leaned across to me, stealing a piece of popcorn and whispering in my ear,

Is this the one where Cary Grant ice skates, or the one with Zuzu's pedals? Zuzu's pedals, I whispered back, and we smiled up at the screen. City sidewalks. I'd seen it up on the theater marquee the week before. I'd been coming out of the candy shop across the street with a bag full of peppermint starlights. And as I stopped to wrap my scarf twice around my neck,

I saw on the sidewalk opposite a bundled-up person with a telescoping pole carefully placing letters up onto the wraparound marquee, letters that spelled out the name of an old favorite Christmas movie. It was in black and white, with a cast of elegant Hollywood stars. And I remembered watching it as a child, every year with my family, like clockwork. Back then, we rarely had a cabinet full of movies to watch, and I would scour the paper to see when it would air

and mark it down on the calendar, pinned to the back of the basement door. Specials then were truly special, but now I could watch it up on the big screen. I stood, smiling at the letters as they were slid into place, and took a peppermint from the bag and unwrapped it from the cellophane. I placed the red and white swirl of candy on my tongue and pulled my hat a little lower over my ears. I loved the feel of the cold air around me, the clean smell of the snow piled around tree trunks and letter boxes, and the sweet, minty taste of the treat. That day, I made a plan

to pull together a few friends and make a date for a night at the movies. Now, tonight was that night. We'd met up by the city tree in the park. It must have been thirty feet tall, and was strung with big, old-fashioned park and down the few streets of our little city. The trees around the pond were all strung with lights, and the street lamps were tied with huge red bows. We saw a line of kids and parents,

their mittened hands clasped and swinging between them, waiting to step into a tiny house on the edge of the park. It had a banner strung between the street lamps above it, declaring that Santa was in residence this evening. We stopped at a street cart and bought cups of cocoa and coffee. The storefronts were lit up and decorated for the season, and we took our time going from one to the next to catch every detail.

At the bookshop, they'd built a Christmas tree by stacking books flat on top of one another in a slow spiral as they rose. Their spines turned out to entice you with all the stories yet to be read and wrapped in white lights they'd also cut snowflakes from pages of old books

the paper an antique yellow covered with sentences disappearing into the symmetrical designs. The record shop window had a display of players, starting with an old gramophone with a beautiful brass horn that was so shiny it might have been brand new. Laid out beside it was a timeline of the evolution of this machine, from phonograph to record player to the most modern turntable. In fact, the newest ones seemed to tip their hats to the older ones,

with small details in their designs. And around all of them, records were carefully scattered, or strung from wire hanging from the ceiling, calling back to moments and memories along the way. We spotted a record we'd all owned in high school and I was sure one of the players one that closed up and could be carried like a suitcase

was the same one my mother had when she was young. She'd passed it to me, and from time to time I opened it up and played the 45s tucked into the case's pocket. She'd written her initials onto the labels as a young person to keep her siblings from swiping her favorites.

And the pencil marks were still there. We sipped our drinks and walked on. The cafe on the corner was doing steady business, the booths all full as people raised glasses to toast and pointed out favorites on the menu. I watched a group at a table as a cake, covered in lit candles candles was set in front of a blushing but smiling teenager. Their windows were ringed in twinkle lights and each held a shining menorah with six candles burning.

The toy shop had gone all out, building a display with a fireplace set in a fictional living room. There were a dozen little ones crowded around it to look at its tall Christmas tree with piles of wrapped presents all around. There was even a plate of cookie crumbs and a glass of mostly drunk milk and the heel of a shiny boot just visible inside the fireplace as St. Nick slipped up the chimney. As we stood behind them, I found myself looking not at the display, but at their faces reflected in the shop windows. Some were pointing, pressing fingers to the glass to call out some hoped-for item. And some were silent, their eyes wide and moving slowly over the scene. I remembered a moment like this from my own childhood. It hadn't been the idea of so many gifts that had left me in awe. It had been seeing a world built into a window, a daydream made real that had made me stop in my snow boots and stare.

If we can make dreams real, why don't we? Why save it for a window or a week? I must have gotten lost in my memories there for a while and found an arm threading itself through my elbow and a friend pulling me on down the street. At the bakery, the front window was filled with gingerbread houses, and as I looked at them, I realized they were, in fact, a replica of the street we were standing on.

There was the bookshop, with its tree made of tiny biscuit books. And there was the window of the record shop, and an intricately iced row of minuscule record players. The cafe held tables full of gingerbread customers, and a matching menorah carefully showing six candles. The toy shop replica must have taken ages, and a team of people to pull off, with so many details to pipe into place. Snowy white royal icing pooled on the gingerbread sidewalk, and my eyes followed it down to the last stop in the row of confections. The movie theater. We all spotted it at the same time,

and I looked at my watch to see we just had a few minutes till the movie started. Run, run, Rudolph, I called out to my friends as we linked arms and hurried down to the theater. Minutes later, we were settling into our seats, sharing popcorn and peppermints back and forth, and waiting for the lights to go down.

In the crowd around us, I spotted a few people with Santa hats and had a feeling most of us could recite this movie line by line as we watched. Our faces shining, just like those of the kids looking into the toy shop window. I realized I was, in that moment, doing something I truly loved. And I'd built a habit over the years that when I caught myself in an instance of pure happiness, I'd take a slow, deliberate breath, and be sure to be in my body, feeling the tingle of my I'd plug into my senses and soak up every drop of the experience

when good things happen it's important even in small simple ways to notice them with our whole hearts. As the theater lights dimmed, my friend leaned across to me, stealing a piece of popcorn and whispering into my ear,

Is this the one where Cary Grant ice skates? Or the one with Zuzu's petals? Zuzu's petals, I whispered back. And we smiled up at the screen. Sweet dreams.