Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Sugar Snow (Encore)

Episode Date: March 14, 2024

Originally Aired: March 21st, 2021 (Season 7 Episode 6) Our story tonight is called “Sugar Snow,” and it’s a story about shifting seasons. It’s also about pots of pansies, breakfast for dinner, and the people and places that teach us to play.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 write and read all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. My book, also called Nothing Much Happens, is available wherever books are sold. For extra coziness, follow us on Twitter, Instagram, or Facebook. And you can always learn more or get yourself a cozy Nothing Much Happens hoodie

at nothingmuchhappens.com. Now let me say something about how this works. Your mind needs a place to rest and without one it's apt to race and wander and keep you up all night following along with my voice and the simple shape of the story I'm about to tell you gives it that resting place and it trains your brain over time to more quickly settle and

turn off. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake in the middle of the night, turn your thoughts right back to whatever you can remember about the story, or even just the details of a pleasant memory, and you will drop right back off. Our story tonight is called Sugar Snow, and it's a story about shifting seasons. It's also about pots of pansies,

breakfast for dinner, and the people and places that teach us to play. Okay, it's time. Put down whatever you've been looking at and switch off the light. Slide down deep into your sheets and get as comfortable as you can. There's nothing you need to keep track of. No one is waiting. You have done enough for today.

You're safe. Take a slow breath in through your nose. Let it out with a sigh. Nice. Do one more. In. And out. Good.

Sugar snow. I noticed it first in the evening. I'd been locking up the flower shop, and when I turned toward the street and slipped my keys back into my pocket, I suddenly realized that the air was warm and sweet, that there was still a sliver of daylight glowing in the evening sky, and a feeling familiar but it had been a while since I'd felt it a feeling of spring

the next morning before I'd even opened my eyes I could hear the slow drip of melting icicles on the roof and birds so many birds of melting icicles on the roof, and birds. So many birds. I smiled, still wrapped in my blankets.

Winter can be very quiet, with the eaves wrapped in snow, working like the soft pedal of a piano, blotting out the sounds from the street, and so many neighbors, whether human or avian, opting to stay tucked in against the cold. Now, it sounded like we were about to have a lively day. It had gone on like that for a week or more. Bright days, fresh air that smelled of soaked earth, and the mounds of snow that we'd shoveled away from the sidewalks, shrinking bit by bit.

Would it last? we asked each other, as we stood in line at the coffee shop or passed on the sidewalk. We'd all been fooled before. We determined to enjoy it while it was here, no matter the expiration date. I bought a few baskets of pansies, bright purple and yellow, and set them cautiously on my front stoop. I remembered my mother telling me they were hardy and a safe bet in the early spring. For years, I'd spelled that word H-E-A-R-T-Y, thinking that the root of it was tied to a strong heart. Then, when I'd started in the flower shop I'd seen it printed on packages of astelbee

and realized that the root wasn't heart but hard I wasn't sure it was different though brave open hearts I wasn't sure it was different, though. Brave, open hearts are often that way because they have been broken open. They've been through hard things and continue to beat. Sure enough, a few days after I'd sent out my pansies,

I woke up to three inches of fluffy snow laying thick on the ground. I dusted off my flowers and pulled them inside to warm up on my kitchen windowsill. I still had a pair of boots and a coat by the door. A combination of laziness and superstition had kept me from putting them away, and I pulled them all on and stepped back outside. The clouds that had dropped this snow had moved on, and the sky was a bright, enthusiastic blue. I started to walk through the neighborhood, feeling the snow, so soft and full of old raindrops, disappear into nothing underfoot. It was a lovely combination of sensations.

The sun warm on my face, the quiet of the snow, and the air still sweet and smelling of spring. I turned a corner and watched as a couple of dogs were let out of a side door to run in their yard. They leapt through the snow, flipped over and rolled joyfully in it. I'd heard someone say once that play is a sign of safety. That once our basic needs are met and we feel protected from harm, well, that's when we can play.

We can be creative and open and silly. I watched the dog skidding through the soft snow. One found a ball and squeaked it in his teeth, and they both went running along the fence into their backyard. I put my hands in my pockets and kept walking, thinking about the places in my life where I felt like I could play. There were a lot of them I realized and the places I didn't play

well that was useful to think about too sometimes there are things we can do about that and sometimes it's just time to move on. At some point, I realized I'd been walking toward a tiny park hidden down a dirt road on the edge of my neighborhood. I'd walked by it a few times before I'd ever seen the sign inviting passersby to enjoy the spot from dawn till dusk. There was a patch of open space, now covered by a smooth expanse of unbroken snow, a few tall trees and a path that led through a grove of maples that eventually came out at a dead end a few blocks over.

Here the snow had a thin crust of ice, like the crackly caramelized top of a creme brulee. It was oddly satisfying to hear its faint snap with each step. The air was warming in the sun, and I had a feeling this snow could easily be gone by sunset. I left footprints all the way up to the edge of the woods, where the thicket of trees had protected the gravel path from snow. A few feet in, I noticed, at chest height, on the nearest tree, a galvanized bucket suspended from a hook in the bark. I rushed over to it with the excitement of a child.

I had seen this before, and the memory was sweet in every sense. For many years in my childhood, my siblings and I had spent our week of spring break at our aunt's old white farmhouse, a few hours north of home. Some years the winter would drag her feet through that week and we'd spend our days baking muffins and cookies in Auntie's warm kitchen or bundled up on sofas watching funny old movies

and playing board games. And sometimes we'd arrive for a week of fine, warm weather, and we'd play croquet in mud boots in the yard, and hunt for treasures in the hayloft of the big red barn. And once or twice, we'd been there for a sugar snow. It was a time just like now, when after a bit of warm weather, a sudden cold snap fell, making the sap run quick from the trees.

We'd all gone out together to see how the metal spouts, spiles, she'd called them, were screwed into drilled holes in the bark. We'd hung buckets from hooks to collect the sap, and some days had to empty them every few hours. In the barn, she had an old wood-burning stove, and it was one kid's job to bring firewood, another's to stir the pot of sap on top, and another's to pet the barn kitties when they came out to warm themselves by the fire. Auntie watched over,

laughing at our goofy stories and songs as we worked. With a big batch of sap, it might take us all day to cook it down into syrup. But once we'd done it, we'd pour it carefully into jugs and go stickily into the farmhouse. We'd make plates and plates of pancakes and eat them for dinner with the fresh syrup

and slices of banana and chewy pieces of pecan. If we could find clean patches of snow, she'd help us pour the hot syrup into it, making shapes, stars and hearts and our initials to eat like candy. I laughed, walking through the woods, thinking of my poor, saintly aunt. To have a household full of rowdy children stuffed full of sugar for a whole week. I guessed someone would be out soon to collect the sap. full of sugar for a whole week. I guessed someone would be out soon to collect the sap. I hoped they might have a little helper with them

and that they might feel as safe as I had with Auntie and play as hard as they liked. Sugar snow. I'd noticed it first in the evening. I'd been locking up the flower shop. And when I turned toward the street and slipped my keys back into my pocket, I suddenly realized that the air was warm and sweet, that there was still a sliver of daylight glowing in the evening sky,

and a feeling familiar, but it had been a while since I'd felt it. A feeling of spring. The next morning, before I'd even opened my eyes, I could hear the slow drip of melting icicles on the roof. And birds. So many birds. I smiled, still wrapped in my blankets. Winter can be very quiet,

with the eaves wrapped in snow, working like the soft pedal of a piano, blotting out the sounds from the street and so many neighbors whether human or avian opted to stay

tucked in against the cold. Now They tucked in against the cold. Now, it sounded like we were about to have a lively day. It had gone on like that for a week or more. Bright days, fresh air that smelled of soaked earth, and the mounds of snow that we'd shoveled away from the sidewalks, shrinking bit by bit. Would it last? We asked each other as we stood in line at the coffee shop or passed on the sidewalk. We'd all been fooled before. We determined to enjoy it while it was here, no matter the expiration date. I bought a few baskets of pansies,

bright purple and yellow, and set them cautiously on my front stoop. I remembered my mother telling me they were hardy and a safe bet in the early spring. For years, I'd spelled that word H-E-A-R-T-Y, thinking that the root of it was tied to a strong heart. Then, when I'd started at the flower shop, I'd seen it printed on packages of astelbe and realized that the root wasn't heart, but hard. I wasn't sure it was that different though

brave open hearts are often that way because they have been broken open they've been through hard things and continue to beat sure enough hard things and continue to beat. Sure enough, a few days after I'd set out my pansies, I woke up to three inches of fluffy snow laying thick on the ground. I dusted off my flowers and pulled them inside to warm up on my kitchen windowsill. I still had a pair of boots and a coat by the door. A combination of laziness and superstition had kept me from putting them away,

and I pulled them all on and stepped back outside. The clouds that had dropped the snow had moved on, and the sky was a bright, enthusiastic blue. I started to walk through the neighborhood, feeling the snow, so soft and full of old raindrops, disappearing into nothing underfoot. It was a lovely combination of sensations. The sun warm on my face, the quiet of the snow, and the air still sweet and smelling of spring.

I turned a corner and watched as a couple of dogs were let out of a side door to run in their yard. They leapt through the snow flipped over and rolled joyfully in it. they leapt through the snow, flipped over and rolled joyfully in it. I'd heard someone say once that play is a sign of safety, that once our basic needs are met

and we feel protected from harm, well, that's when we can play. We can be creative and open and silly. I watched the dogs skidding through the soft snow. One found a ball and squeaked it in his teeth, and they both went running along the fence into their backyard. I put my hands in my pockets and kept walking, thinking about the places in my life

where I felt like I could play. There were a lot of them, I realized. And the places where I didn't play, well, that was useful to think about, too. Sometimes there are things we can do about that. And sometimes it's just time to move on. At some point, I realized I'd been walking toward a tiny park hidden down a dirt road on the edge of my neighborhood. I'd walked by it a few times before I'd ever seen the sign inviting passersby to enjoy the spot from dawn till dusk. There was a patch of open space, now covered by a smooth expanse of unbroken snow, a few tall trees and a path that led through a grove of maples that eventually

comes out at a dead end a few blocks over. Here the snow had a thin crust of ice, like the crackly, caramelized top of a creme brulee. It was oddly satisfying to hear its faint snap with each step. The air was warming in the sun, and I had a feeling this snow could easily be gone by sunset. My left footprints all the way up to the edge of the woods, where the thicket of trees had protected the gravel path from snow.

A few feet in, I noticed, at chest height height on the nearest tree, a galvanized bucket suspended from a hook in the bark. I rushed over to it with the excitement of a child. I had seen this before, and the memory was sweet in every sense. For many years in my childhood, my siblings and I had spent our week of spring break at our aunt's old white farmhouse, a few hours north of home. For some years, the winter would drag her feet through that week and we'd spend our days baking muffins and cookies in auntie's warm kitchen or bundled up on sofas watching funny old movies and playing board games.

And sometimes we'd arrive for a week of fine, warm weather and we'd play croquet in mud boots in the yard and hunt for treasures in the hayloft of the big red barn. And once or twice, we'd been there for a sugar snow. It was a time just like now, when, after a bit of warm weather, a sudden cold run quick from the trees. We'd all gone out together to see how the metal spouts, spiles, she'd called them,

were screwed into drilled holes in the bark. We'd hung buckets from hooks to collect the sap, and some days had to empty them every few hours. In the barn, she had an old wood-burning stove. And it was one kid's job to bring firewood, another's to stir the pot of sap on top, and another's to pet the barn kitties when they came out to warm themselves by the fire. Auntie watched over, laughing at our goofy stories and songs as we worked. With a big batch of sap, it might take us all day to cook it down into syrup. But once we'd done it, we'd pour it carefully into jugs and go stickily into the farmhouse. We'd make plates and plates

of pancakes and eat them for dinner with the fresh syrup and slices of banana and chewy pieces of pecan. If we could find clean patches of snow, she'd help us pour the hot syrup into it, making shapes, stars, and hearts, and our initials to eat like candy. I laughed, walking through the woods, thinking of my poor, saintly aunt, to have a household full of rowdy children, stuffed full of sugar for a whole week. But all I remembered was laughing and eating and playing. Passing by the tapped trees, I guessed someone would be out soon to collect the sap. I hoped they might have a little helper with them, and they might feel as safe as I had with Auntie, and play as hard as they liked. Sweet dreams.