Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Under the Tree (Encore)

Episode Date: December 14, 2023

Originally Aired: December 15th, 2019 (Season 4 Episode 11) Our story tonight is called Under the Tree and it’s a story about a day of decorating around the house. It’s also about a bowl of oatmeal with cinnamon and apples, a box of ornaments wrapped in paper and the things that connect us to where we come from.  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 by Bob Wittersheim. Nothing Much Happens is a proud member of the CuriousCast podcast network. Now is an especially good time to follow us on Instagram or Facebook or Twitter. I'll be sharing some exciting news soon

about the ever-expanding world of Nothing Much Happens. And chances are, I'll share it there first. Now, let me say a bit about how this podcast works. Just as your body needs a bed to sleep in, your mind needs a place to rest.

Someplace calm and safe and simple. That's what the story is. It's a sort of slot to fit your mind into. And once you do, relaxation and sleep are right around the corner. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little bit slower the second time through. If you wake again in the middle of the night, walk yourself back through any details from the story you can remember. It'll slip your

mind right back into its story slot, and soon you'll be waking up tomorrow, feeling relaxed and refreshed. This is brain training, and with time you'll notice that you drop off sooner, and that your sleep is more and more complete. Now it's time to settle in and set yourself up for sleep. Turn off the light. Set aside anything you've been looking at or working on. Adjust your pillows and comforter until you feel completely at ease. Let's take a deep breath in through the nose and sigh out of the mouth. Again, breathe in and out.

Good. Our story tonight is called Under the Tree, and it's a story about a day of decorating around the house. It's also about a bowl of oatmeal with cinnamon and apples, a box of ornaments wrapped in paper, and the things that connect us to the past. Under the tree. We'd brought it home yesterday and left it to rest in the garage overnight.

And I had tiptoed in to look at it this morning with a cup of coffee in my hand. It was tall, with a few still-clinging cones on its top branches, and had that wonderful, sharp, piney smell. As I looked at it, propped against the wall in the drafty, dim garage, I imagined its branches lit up and looped with ribbon, shiny bulbs hanging from thin wire hooks, and strands of popcorn draping from every bough. I smiled to myself

and pulled my hot cup closer to feel the warm steam rising under my chin. I'd learned a bit about the different kinds of Christmas trees this year, and knew that this one was a noble fir. We'd picked it for its dark green needles strong piney smell and also because we looked at it and had both simply thought that's our tree

it had stood alongside con-color firs and blue spruces, white and scotch pines and Fraser firs with their yellow-green tipped branches, all beautiful, but this tree had shone among them. I pulled my sweater closer around my shoulders and stepped back into the house. We'd spend most of the day decorating, inside and out. And before we got to any of it, it was time for breakfast.

I'd made a dish of baked oatmeal, full of apples and cinnamon. And when I stepped into the kitchen, the smell of it made my mouth water. I peeked into the oven and saw it had a nice golden brown crust on top and was bubbling away and ready to come out. I carefully slid it onto the stovetop and started to pull bowls from the cupboards and napkins from the drawer.

It would need to cool for a few minutes before we could eat it, and I thought about how much of this time of year was about waiting. The tree needed to rest overnight before you could decorate it. Cookies needed to be frosted before you could eat them. Presents wrapped before you could give them. It was a time of sweet anticipation. A month of looking forward. While breakfast cooled, I opened a few boxes we'd brought up from the basement

and sat with my feet in their thick socks tucked under me on the floor, pulling out favorite ornaments and handmade decorations that had been handed down for years. There was a bulb, carefully wrapped in tissue, with a crack sliding through the cream-colored glass. It had been mended by my mother with glue, after it had fallen from a branch when I was a child. My parents bought it the Christmas they were married,

and we'd managed to keep it safe since it was passed to us. There was a snow globe that my sweetheart had given me a few years ago. It held a small house that looked so much like ours. I expected to see myself through the tiny window, sitting on the floor, shaking a minuscule snow globe. I watched the snow settle and fall and set it down in its paper wrapping beside me.

I opened another box and found strings of lights and a few giant pine cones I'd picked up on a walk last year. I opened the last box, and inside, nested in last year's newspaper, was the collection of tiny ceramic houses and shops that I'd been arranging under the tree since I was small. We'd bought them one at a time,

carefully picking out a new one each Christmas. We'd take it home and unpack the box. Tiny paintbrushes and little pots of paint. The house or storefront itself, and a lightbulb, larger than the ones we'd string on the tree, but small enough to screw into the base of the house so it would light up under the branches of the tree.

We'd roll up our sleeves and set up at the kitchen table, me painting one side and my brother the other, and Mom or Dad breaking up squabbles as we argued over the colors. There had been a tiny sealed cup of pearly pink sparkles. And after the last coat of paint had gone on the rooftops and snowy sidewalks, we'd sprinkle it over to make the scene sparkle like fresh snow. Then we'd use the last bits of paint to scrawl our names on the inside and the year we'd been painting it.

After it was all set up under the tree, I'd curl up next to it and imagine that this little village, with its bookshop and post office and snow-covered houses, had one enormous tree in their city that grew hundreds of feet into the sky above them. It was strange to me how I could go eleven months without seeing these, and then when I unwrapped them each year, I'd remember every detail, every sloppy brushstroke done by my or my brother's hand, and the moment

when we'd finished and put it under the tree. They felt as familiar to me as anything, and I thought that feeling of seeing something well-known was so much of what I loved about putting up our tree and lighting up our mantle. The world was busy and changing all the time, and sometimes I loved the busy and the time. And sometimes I loved the busy and the change. But then having a touchstone of custom

helped me too. I could be grounded in the things I knew and understood well. And that helped me grasp the things I was only beginning to understand. I slid my fingertips over the window frame of one of the tiny houses. It was painted much more precisely than the rest. The lines were even, and the smallest details were carefully attended to.

I turned it over and saw my mother's name painted in a pretty hand, with the year sketched in beside it. It was the year before she'd had her first child, and I liked to think of her starting this tradition first for herself, and then generously folding us into it. I'd put this one in pride of place today, when I laid out the village under the tree. As I set the house back in its box, an arm came around me with a still warm bowl of the oatmeal and a big spoon tucked in. I got a kiss on my cheek

and was left to eat my breakfast and pick my way through favorite memories. Under the Tree We'd brought it home yesterday and left it to rest in the garage overnight. And I had tiptoed in to look at it this morning with a cup of coffee in my hand. It was tall, with a few still-clinging cones on its top branches, and had that wonderful, sharp, piney smell. As I looked at it, propped against the wall in the drafty, dim garage, I imagined its branches lit up and looped with ribbon. shiny bulbs hanging from thin wire hooks,

and strands of popcorn draping from every bough. I smiled to myself and pulled my hot cup closer to feel the warm steam rising under my chin. I had learned a bit about the different kinds of Christmas trees this year and knew that this one was a noble fir. We'd picked it for its dark green needles, strong piney smell, and also because when we looked at it, we had both simply thought,

that's our tree. It had stood alongside concolor firs and blue spruces white and scotch pines and fraser firs with their yellow green-tipped branches. All beautiful, but this tree had shone among them. I pulled my sweater closer around my shoulders

and stepped back into the house. We'd spend most of the day decorating inside and out. And before we got to any of it, it was time for breakfast. I'd made a dish of baked oatmeal, full of apples and cinnamon. And when I stepped into the kitchen, the smell of it made my mouth water I peeked into the oven and saw it had a nice golden brown crust on top and was bubbling away and ready to come out I carefully slid it onto the stovetop and ready to come out.

I carefully slid it onto the stovetop and started to pull bowls from the cupboards and napkins from the drawer. It would need to cool for a few minutes before we could eat it. And I thought about how much of this time of year was about waiting. The tree needed to rest overnight before you could decorate it. Cookies needed to be frosted before you could eat them. Presents wrapped before you could give them.

It was a time of sweet anticipation, a month of looking forward. While breakfast cooled, I opened a few boxes we'd brought up from the basement and sat with my feet in their thick socks tucked under me on the floor, pulling out favorite ornaments and handmade decorations

that had been handed down for years. There was a bulb, carefully wrapped in tissue, with a crack sliding through the cream-colored glass. It had been mended by my mother with glue. After it had fallen from a branch when I was a child. My parents had bought it the Christmas they were married, and we'd managed to keep it safe since it was passed to us.

There was a snow globe that my sweetheart had given me a few years ago. It held a small house that looked so much like ours. I expected to see myself through the tiny window, sitting on the floor, shaking a minuscule snow globe. I watched the snow settle and fall and set it down again in its paper wrapping beside me. I opened another box and found strings of lights and a few giant pine cones I'd picked up on a walk last year. I opened the last box, and inside, nested in last year's newspaper,

was the collection of tiny ceramic houses and shops that I'd been arranging under the tree since I was small. We'd bought them one at a time carefully picking out a new one each Christmas we'd take it home and unpack the box tiny paintbrushes and little pots of paint tiny paintbrushes,

and little pots of paint, the house or storefront itself, and a lightbulb, larger than the ones we'd string on the tree, but small enough to screw into the base of the house so it would light up under the branches. We'd roll up our sleeves and set up at the kitchen table, me painting one side and my brother the other, and mom or dad

breaking up squabbles as we argued over the colors. There had been a tiny sealed cup of pearly pink sparkles, and after the last coat of paint had gone on the rooftops and snowy sidewalks, we'd sprinkle it over and snowy sidewalks.

We'd sprinkle it over to make the scene sparkle like fresh snow. We'd use the last bits of paint to scrawl our names on the inside. On the year we'd been painting it. After it was all set up under the tree, I'd curl up next to it and imagine that this little village, with its bookshop and post office and snow-covered houses, had one enormous tree in their city square that grew hundreds of feet into the sky above them. It was strange to me how I seeing these. And then, when I unwrapped them, I'd remember each little detail. Every sloppy brushstroke done by my or my brother's hand. And the moment when we'd finished and put it under the tree.

They felt as familiar to me as anything. and I thought that feeling of seeing something well-known was so much of what I loved about putting up our tree and lighting up our mantle. The world was busy and changing all the time, and sometimes I loved the busy and the change. But then having a touchstone of custom helped me too. I could be grounded in the things I knew and understood well, and that helped me grasp the things I was only beginning to understand. I slid my fingertips over the window frame of one of the tiny houses. It was painted much more precisely than the rest.

The lines were even, and the smallest details were carefully attended to. I turned it over and saw just my mother's name, painted in a pretty hand with the year sketched in. It was the year before she'd had her first child. And I like to think of her starting this tradition first for herself and then generously folding us into it.

I'd put this one in pride of place today, when I laid out the village under the tree. As I set the house back in its box, an arm came around me with a still warm bowl of the oatmeal and a big spoon tucked in. I got a kiss on my cheek and was left to eat my breakfast and pick my way through favorite memories. Sweet dreams.