Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Model Trains and Make-Believe

Episode Date: December 5, 2022

Our story tonight is called Model Trains and Make Believe and it’s a story about a tiny world full of bustling streets and railroad tracks. It’s also about a red and white box of popcorn, a dining car with white table clothes and being never too old to imagine.Purchase Our Book: https://bit.ly/Nothing-Much-HappensSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Everyone, in which nothing much happens. You feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Catherine Nicolai. I write and read all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happensens with audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. Before I was a full-time storyteller, I was a yoga and meditation teacher. And I guess even then, I was a storyteller because I've always learned best, understood the most, when I learn through stories and examples.

So that's how I teach meditation over at my other podcast called First This. It uses a simple approach, clear instructions, and a few stories along the way. Why not sit with me tomorrow morning? Just search First This on any podcast app. Now, your brain needs a job to do. And without one, it will wander off and get into trouble. But the job can be easy and such a pleasure. I'll tell you a story.

I'll tell it twice and I'll go a little slower the second time through. Your job is just to listen and pull the details of it around you like a blanket. If you wake in the middle of the night, you could listen again or just walk yourself back through any part of it that you can remember. This trains the brain over time to shift out of its wandering default mode and into the restful response that happens in task mode. It will get easier and more automatic over time,

but have some patience if you're new to this. Now, it's time to turn off the light and put away anything you've been playing with or looking at. Take some time to cozy your body down into your preferred sleeping position. I'll be right here, reading to you even after you fall asleep, and I'll keep watch all night. Let's take a deep breath in through the nose and a soft sigh from the mouth. Nice. Do that one more time.

Breathe in. Let it out slow. Good. Our story tonight is called Model Trains and Make Believe. And it's a story about a tiny world full of bustling streets and railroad tracks. It's also about a red and white box of popcorn a dining car with white tablecloths and never being too old to imagine

model trains and make-believe there is something about this season, and the month of December in particular, in which becoming a kid again, slipping into that easily delighted state, is more effortless and welcome than at any other time of year. Even the bah humbugliest among us will at some point look up at a streetlight and watch the halo of snowflakes circling around it, or see a lit tree through a frosted window,

or hear a carol plunked out on a piano in someone's front room and feel a shiver of excitement and warmth, just like they felt when they were young. My own bah humbug quotient being naturally quite low to begin with, I found myself grinning at every shop window display, savoring each gingerbread cookie bought from the bakery, and taking deep breaths as I passed the Christmas tree lot to drink up the scents of fresh sap and pine. So when I saw that there would be a model railroad display in the lobby of the movie theater downtown.

I knew right away, not just that I would Christmas villages that nestle under trees, dollhouses with their Lilliputian furnishings, and of course, model trains. I decided to go, at least for the first time, by myself, so I could take all the time I wanted to just look. I learned a long time ago that when the days are cold and dark, you have to look for the things that can be enjoyed and lean in deliberately. So I parked at the park and came the long way through town to admire the lights strung over the street.

And by the time I arrived at the theater, my cheeks were stung with cold, and stepping into their old-fashioned lobby felt wonderfully warm. They had thick red carpets, brass fixtures, and a concession stand with a shining walnut bar that was as old as the building. The smell of popcorn washed over me, and I bought myself a box to enjoy while I browsed. It came in the same red and white striped carton I'd been buying since my very first big screen movie. See, I was already closer to my younger self.

Then, the trains. What fun. The tracks snaked through the snowy landscapes, set across a dozen platforms, spanning nearly the full width of the lobby. I started at the train station, looking down with my bird's eye view, and saw that there were four separate tracks coming in behind the depot, along platforms bustling with tiny people. The station master was there, a small arm raised and a whistle in her mouth.

And I imagined the sounds I would have heard if I were there beside her. The train engines. People calling hello and goodbye. Be careful and welcome home. The peal of locomotive bells. Rustling overcoats. Shoes clapping against the platform boards, bits of gossip as scarves were tossed around necks

and gloves pulled over fingers. I hadn't even seen a train travel an inch yet, but I was already having a wonderful time. Beyond the depot was a small town, and while it wasn't exactly our own little village, it was a sort of tribute to it. There was a movie theater showing Miracle on 34th Street,

per their marquee. The sidewalks were heaped with snow, just like our own, and there were cars stopped at the streetlights with fir trees tied to their roofs. I leaned down to look into the shops where people were buying toys and standing on street corners with wrapped presents under their arms.

All this time, the trains hadn't been running. Maybe to let the onlookers take in all the details first. Or maybe because they were just running on the schedule set by the tiny station master. Either way, with a whistle and a whir, they all came to life and began to travel over the tracks. I picked one to follow with my eyes and saw a bright red engine leave the station with several cars full of passengers. The lights in the lobby dimmed, and the lights in the trains

grew brighter. The Christmas tree in their tiny town square glowed with colored bulbs. Another locomotive caught my eye, this one a shiny black. And as it stopped to let a freight train

chug across its tracks, I leaned down and saw their dining car lit up and full of passengers and servers. White tablecloths were spread over the tables, and meals and drinks laid out. Again I imagined myself there. What might I order?

Or would I be the bartender shaking up a cocktail behind the bar as the snowy land slipped past? The freight train cleared the tracks. The switch was thrown and the diners sped off.

I walked around the platform to take in another angle and saw a forest green engine pulling its cars up a steep mountain path. Beside the tracks were snow-covered trees and ice-capped peaks and a tunnel cut through the rock.

I thought of the person who must have made this little world, the storytelling and drama they were able to build into it. A thing like this must have taken hours and hours, and I felt quite lucky to get to experience it at all. It's a thing I love about humans when they find a passion

and put themselves into it. The gardener who knows the Latin names for all the plants in their greenhouse, the amateur astronomer watching for a comet in the quiet of early morning, knitters and potters and model railroad enthusiasts. Isn't it just a different version of the little kid who knows every kind of dinosaur? When I was in college,

there was a storefront between the bagel shop I stopped at most every morning and my first class of the day. Between the bagel shop I stopped at most every morning, and my first class of the day. In that shop, a man with silver hair made fine suits by hand, and I often peered in to watch him, dressed neatly in one of his own suits, as he ironed a fabric and marked it with chalk. Years later, I still thought of him often.

His work was clearly a passion, and he did it with such care and skill. The people who wore his suits must have felt like they were walking around in a work of art. My box of popcorn was nearly empty, and remembering that the trains would be on display all month. I pulled my hat tight over my ears and got ready to head back into the night. I pretended I was stepping off a train rather than out of a theater.

And as I strolled through town, I made up a story about coming home for the holidays. My first time back in my hometown after a while away. And who might be waiting for me? Caring a lot about something. Finding a passion. Imagining.

Telling stories and playing pretend. I would never be too grown up for any of it. telling stories and playing pretend. I would never be too grown up for any of it. Model trains and make believe. There is something about this season, and the month of December in particular, in which becoming a kid again, slipping into that easily delighted state, is more effortless and welcome than at any other time of the year. Even the bah-humbugliest among us will, at some point look up at a streetlight and watch the halo of snowflakes

circling around it or see a lit tree through a frosted window or hear a carol plunked out on a piano in someone's front room and feel a shiver of excitement and warmth, just like they felt when they were young. My own bah humbug quotient being naturally quite low to begin with, I found myself grinning at every shop window display,

savoring each gingerbread cookie bought from the bakery and taking deep breaths as I pass the Christmas tree lot to drink up the scents of fresh sap and pine. So when I saw that there would be a model railroad display in the lobby of the movie theater downtown, I knew right away not just that I would attend, but that I would be a repeat visitor. I love little things, miniature things.

The tiny Christmas villages that nestle under trees, dollhouses with their Lilliputian furnishings, and of course, model trains. I decided to go, at least for the first time, by myself. So I could take all the time I wanted just to look. I'd learned a long time ago that when the days are cold and dark, you have to look for the things that can be enjoyed in them and lean in deliberately. So I parked at the park and came the long way through town to admire the lights strung over the street.

And by the time I'd arrived at the theater, my cheeks were stung with cold, and stepping into their old-fashioned lobby felt wonderfully warm. They had thick carpets, brass fixtures, and a concession stand with a shining walnut bar that was as old as the building. The smell of popcorn washed over me, and I bought myself a box to enjoy while I browsed. It came in the same red and white striped carton I'd been buying since my very first big screen movie. See, I was already closer to my younger self. Then the trains. The tracks snaked through snowy landscapes set across a dozen platforms, spanning nearly the full width of the theater lobby. I started at the train station, looking down with my bird's eye view, and saw that there were four separate tracks coming in behind the depot, along platforms bustling with tiny people. The station master was there, a small arm raised and a whistle in her mouth. And I imagined the sounds I would have heard if I were there beside her. The train engines.

People calling hello and goodbye. Be careful and welcome home. The peal of locomotive bells, rustling overcoats, shoes clapping against the platform boards, bits of gossip as scarves were tossed around necks and gloves pulled over fingers. I hadn't even seen a train go one inch yet, and I was already having a wonderful time.

Beyond the depot was a small town, and while it wasn't exactly our own village, it was a sort of tribute to it. There was a movie theater, showing Miracle on 34th Street, per their marquee. The sidewalks were heaped with snow, just like our own, and there were cars stopped at the streetlight with fir trees tied to their roofs.

I leaned down to look into the shops where people were buying toys or standing on street corners with wrapped presents under their arms. All this time, the trains hadn't been running. Maybe to let the onlookers take in all the details. Or maybe because they were just running on the schedule set by the tiny station master.

Either way, with a whistle and a whir, they came to life and began to travel over the tracks. I picked one to follow with my eyes and saw a bright red engine leave the station with several cars full of passengers. The lights in the lobby dimmed, and the lights in the train grew brighter. The Christmas tree in their own tiny town square glowed with colored bulbs. Another locomotive caught my eye.

This one, a shiny black. And as it stopped to let a freight train chug across its tracks, I leaned down and saw their dining car lit up and full of passengers and servers.

White tablecloths were spread over the tables, and meals and drinks laid out. Again, I imagined myself there. What might I order? I imagined myself there. What might I order? Or would I be the bartender shaking up a cocktail behind the bar as the snowy land slipped past? The freight train cleared the tracks, the switch was thrown, and the diners

sped off. I walked around the platform to take in another angle and saw a forest green engine pulling its cars up a steep mountain path. Beside the tracks were snow-covered trees and ice-capped peaks, and a tunnel cut through the rock. I thought of the person who must have made this little world, the storytelling and drama they were able to build into it. A thing like this, it must have taken hours and hours, and I felt quite lucky to get to experience it at all. It's a thing I love about humans

when they find a passion and put themselves into it. The gardener who knows the Latin names for all the plants in their greenhouse. The amateur astronomer watching for a comet in the quiet of early morning. Knitters and potters and model railroad enthusiasts. Isn't it just another version of the little kid who knows every kind of dinosaur. When I was in college, there was a storefront between the bagel shop I stopped at most every morning and my first class of the day.

In that shop, a man with silver hair made fine suits by hand, and I often peered in to watch him, dressed neatly in one of his own suits, as he ironed fabric and marked it with chalk. Years later, I still thought of him often. His work was clearly a passion, and he did it with such care and skill. The people who wore his suits must have felt like they were walking around in a work of art. my box of popcorn was nearly empty

and remembering that the trains would be on display all month I pulled my hat tight over my ears and got ready to head back into the night. I pretended I was stepping off a train rather than out of a theater. And as I strolled through town, I made up a story about coming home for the holidays, my first time back in my hometown after a while away, and who might be waiting for me?

Caring a lot about something, finding a passion, imagining, telling stories, and playing pretend. I would never be too grown up for any of it sweet dreams