Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Skating In The Park (Encore)

Episode Date: December 28, 2023

Originally Aired: December 1st, 2019 (Season 4 Episode 10) Our story tonight is called Skating in the Park, and it’s a story about revisiting a yearly tradition. It’s also about a thermos of coffee waiting to warm you up, thick socks, and the kind of friends who, even after a while apart, can pick right back up where they left off.Purchase 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 done by Bob Wittersheim. Thank you for listening, and for sharing our stories with anyone you know who likes relaxation and good sleep.

You can also follow us on Instagram and Facebook and Twitter for a bit of extra coziness. And if you need a little more Nothing Much in your life, head to NothingMuchHappens.com where you can find some special pieces inspired by the show. Hoodies have finally arrived. Now, let me say a bit about how this podcast works. I'm about to tell you a bedtime story. And the story, if you let it,

will become a place to rest your mind. When your mind has a place to rest, you will drop off into sleep. It really is that simple. It's when our minds run wild that we can't fall asleep. So follow along with the sound of my voice and the simple shape of the tail. And probably before I finish, you'll be sound asleep. I'll read the story twice and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake again in the middle of the night, try just thinking your way back through whatever details from the story you can remember. This is a kind of brain training. Your sleep will improve over

time and this response will only get stronger. But be patient if you are new to this. Now, switch off your lamp. Arrange your pillows and comforter just the way you like them. Take a moment to relax your muscles from your temples down to your toes. Good. Let's take a deep breath in through the nose and out through the mouth. Nice. One more, please.

In and out. Our story tonight is called Skating in the Park, and it's a story about revisiting a yearly tradition. It's also about a thermos of coffee waiting to warm you up, thick socks, and the kind of friends

who even after a while apart can pick right back up where they left off. Skating in the Park The day had started clear and bright. skating in the park. The day had started clear and bright, and I'd watched the dawn from an upstairs window, where I'd tucked into a window seat,

with a cup of hot coffee, and an old patchwork quilt pulled around me. I loved this little corner of the house. There was a long hallway, with doors leading off to bedrooms and baths. And at one end, it turned a slight corner, and there, under a broad window, was a nook built into the wall, which was perfect for reading or sitting with a cat on your lap,

or like today, watching the dawn come. As I watched, I thought of how Homer had described the dawn again and again in the Iliad and the Odyssey. He'd said that dawn had worked her rosy fingers across the sky. I put my chin in my hand and tapped my fingers against my cheek, thinking that the dawn he had watched and the one happening right in front of me a few thousand years later were sisters.

The rosy fingers were still working their way across the sky. The light was spreading. The pink turned softer and paler, till the sky was her usual blue self. I took the last sip from my cup, and with my quilt still wrapped around me, padded down the hall to my room. Though the sun was out, the day would be cold,

and I'd need to bundle up, as I had plans to spend a good deal of it outside. I chose my thickest socks and took a fuzzy sweater, a Hanukkah gift I'd gotten the night before, from my drawer, and when sufficiently layered, slipped down into the kitchen. I filled a thermos with the rest of the coffee and slid it into my bag. I was zipping up my coat and pulling on my boots

when I heard a quick, friendly honk from the front drive. I slung my bag over my shoulder and skipped out the front door. The skating rink in the park by the library was ready and open, and that was our destination today. This was a yearly tradition with a rotating group of friends. We'd started it when we were kids. And now some of us had kids, and some of us just acted like them. I buckled into the last seat in the car, and we trundled off down the street. My friends had two little ones, and they were buzzing

with excitement. We are going skating, they chorused together. We are, I sang back. We looked out the windows together, pointing out houses decked for the holidays, and cars with freshly cut trees tied to their roofs. When we slid into a spot near the park and unbuckled the kids from their seats, a little hand reached out to grab for mine. We squeezed through our mittens and smiled, and let the sun warm our faces. Ready? I asked. Ready. We met a few more friends at the edge of the rink, and soon we were trying on skates and fumbling out onto the ice. Those first few turns around the rink were always the slipperiest.

My body knew how to do this, a bit, but it took a while for it to remember. There were a few spills and collisions. And then I started to find a rhythm. Feeling the ice slicing under my skates. The shift and catch of my legs and belly muscles. In the cold December air, my body was warming up. I spotted a friend taking wobbly baby steps by the railing, and I took their hand to ease them out into the open space.

We laughed together as they squealed and held on for dear life. Then slowly they started to find their way, pushing into one foot and then into the other. I stopped to rest for a bit, sitting on a bench by the edge of the rink, and one of the little ones spotted me and climbed up onto my lap. We watched the skaters, some timid and some sure-footed. There was a couple skating together, who must have done this for years. They glided past the others, steps in sync, one turning in the arms of the other,

skating backwards like a slow dance in a ballroom. I watched their faces as they skated past us. They were serene. This thing they were doing, which seemed to me as impossible as flying, was now to them as natural as walking. I reminded myself that hours and hours must have gone into their dance and marveled. We can do amazing things when we practice them again and again. We all took one more turn around the ice

and then agreed it was time for a meal someplace warm. There was a pizzeria on the edge of the park with long wooden tables where we could all sit together. Their windows were ringed with lights twisted around garlands of ivy and pine boughs, and they were steamed up against the cold outside. We were hungry from the fresh air and exercise, and ordered more than we could likely eat. Pizzas and salads and baskets of breadsticks. They made their pizza in a tall oven built into the wall, and the kids watched as they stoked it with wood and slid pizzas in on long-handled peels. The pizzas came out with thin crusts, crunchy, with a dusting of semolina, bubbled up in

places and just slightly scorched on their bottoms. Everyone ate and laughed and talked, sharing pieces from one plate to another. Once the kids were full, they picked a friendly lap and climbed up to lay their heads against a sweater-covered chest and doze while the grown-ups chatted. Whatever we tried, life stayed busy, and as we got older, the years seemed to go faster. So these were the moments we counted on for tying the strands of our friendships back together. It was a tradition we would all honor, this day of wobbling out onto the ice together,

to call on the muscle memory of skating and sliding and being together. Years could pass. Months without much time to connect. But we would always do this. skating in the park. The day had started clear and bright, and I'd watched the dawn from an upstairs window where I'd tucked in to a window seat with a cup of hot coffee and an old patchwork quilt pulled around me. I loved this little corner of the house.

There was a long hallway with doors leading off to the bedrooms and baths, and at one end it turned a slight corner, and there under a broad window was a nook built into the wall, which was perfect for reading or sitting with a cat on your lap. Or like today, watching the dawn come. As I watched, I thought of how Homer had described the dawn again and again in her rosy fingers across the sky. I put my chin in my hand

and tapped my fingers against my cheek, thinking that the dawn he had watched and the one happening right in front of me a few thousand years later were sisters. The rosy fingers were still working their way across the sky. The light was spreading.

The pink turned softer and paler, till the sky was her usual blue self. I took the last sip from my cup, and with my quilt still wrapped around me, padded down the hall to my room. Though the sun was out, the day would be cold, and I'd need to bundle up, as I had plans to spend a good deal of it outside. I chose my thickest socks and took a fuzzy sweater, a Hanukkah gift I'd gotten the night before, from my drawer, and when sufficiently layered, slipped down into the kitchen. I filled the thermos with the rest of the coffee and slid it into my bag. I was zipping up my coat and pulling on my boots when I heard a quick, friendly honk from the front drive. I slung my bag over my shoulder and skipped out the front door.

The skating rink in the park by the library was ready and open, and that was our destination today. This was a yearly tradition with a rotating group of friends. We'd started it when we were kids. And now, some of us had kids. And some of us just acted like them. I buckled into the last seat in the car, and we trundled off down the street. My friends had two little ones,

and they were buzzing with excitement. We are going skating, they chorused together. We are, I sang back. We looked out the windows together, pointing out houses decked for the holidays, and cars with freshly cut trees tied to their roofs. When we slid into a spot near the park and unbuckled the kids from their seats, a little hand reached out to grab for mine. We squeezed through our mittens and smiled and let the sun warm our faces. Ready? I asked.

Ready. We met a few more friends at the edge of the rink, and soon we were tying on skates and fumbling out onto the ice. Those first few turns around the rink were always the slipperiest. My body knew how to do this, a bit. But it took a while for it to remember. There were a few spills and collisions. But then I started to find a rhythm, feeling the ice slicing under my skates, the shift and catch of my legs and belly muscles. In the cold December air, my body was warming up.

I spotted a friend taking wobbly baby steps by the railing, And I took their hand to ease them out into the open space. We laughed together as they squealed and held on for dear life. Then, slowly, they started to find their way, pushing into one foot and then into the other. sitting on a bench by the edge of the rink.

And one of the little ones spotted me and climbed up into my lap. We watched the skaters, some timid and some sure-footed. There was a couple skating together, who must have done this for years. They glided past the others, steps in sync, one turning in the arms of the other, skating backwards like a slow dance in a ballroom. I watched their faces as they skated past us. They were serene. This thing they were doing, which seemed to me as impossible as flying,

was to them as natural as walking. I reminded myself that hours and hours must have gone into their dance and marveled. We can do amazing things when we practice them again and again. We all took one more turn around the park, with long wooden tables, where we could all sit together. Their windows were ringed with lights, twisted around garlands of ivy and pine boughs, and they were steamed up against the cold outside. We were hungry from the fresh air and exercise, and ordered more than we could likely eat. Pizzas and salads and baskets of breadsticks.

They made their pizza in a tall oven built into the wall, and the kids watched as they stoked it with wood. in a tall oven built into the wall. And the kids watched as they stoked it with wood and slid pizzas in on long handled peels. The pizzas came out with thin crusts, crunchy with the dusting of semolina, bubbled up in places and just slightly scorched on their bottoms. Everyone ate and laughed and talked, sharing pieces from one plate to another. Once the kids were full, they picked a friendly lap and climbed up to lay their heads against a sweater-covered chest and doze while the grown-ups chatted.

Whatever we tried, life stayed busy. And as we got older, the years seemed to go faster. So these were the moments we counted on for tying the strands of our friendship back together. It was a tradition we could all honor, this day of wobbling out onto the ice together. To call on the muscle memory of skating and sliding and being together. Years could pass. Months without much time to connect. But we would always do this. Sweet dreams.