When the Streetlights Come On (Encore)

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Welcome to bedtime stories for everyone,

in which

nothing much happens.

You feel good,

and then

you fall asleep.

I'm Catherine Nikolai.

I write and read

all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens.

Audio Engineering is by Bob Wittercheim.

We are bringing you an encore episode tonight, meaning that this story originally aired at some point in the past.

It could have been recorded with different equipment in a different location.

And since I'm a person and not a computer, I sometimes sound just slightly different.

But the stories are always soothing and family-friendly.

And our wishes for you are always deep rest and sweet dreams.

Now,

busy minds need a place to rest.

That's how this works.

I'll tell you a story

and you can rest your mind on it.

Just by listening,

we'll shift you into your brain's task-positive mode

where sleep is possible.

I'll tell the story twice

and I'll go a little slower the second time through.

If you wake later in the night,

don't try to muscle yourself back to sleep.

Softly, softly is the approach, friends.

Just turn an episode right back on

and you'll drop back off to sleep, usually within seconds

this is grown-up sleep training

and for most folks best results come after a few weeks of regular use

so be patient with the process

our story tonight is called

When the Streetlights Come On.

And it's a story about a trip to the mailbox through the last lit moments of the day.

It's also about bikes being wheeled into the garage for the night,

things learned from the farmer's almanac,

layers of paint peeling away under your hand,

and a tender way to be shepherded home and sent to dreamland.

Now,

settle in.

It's time.

Turn things off.

Set them down.

You don't have to solve everything

to know how you'll handle everything.

To be able to have some space from it.

It's okay

if for right now

you just let go.

Body heavy and relaxed.

Muscles softening.

face,

jaw,

eyes

eased and ready for sleep.

Take a deep breath in through your nose

and let it out through your mouth.

Once more, fill up

and let it go.

Good.

When the street lights come on.

This far north,

the sun doesn't set in the midsummer till after nine.

It made for long days,

and especially on the hottest,

a nap in the afternoon was often required.

Retreating to a quiet bedroom after lunch

and pulling down the blinds till it was shady and dim,

settling into cool sheets

while the ceiling fan circled

was one of my favorite parts of the day.

Often,

even if I didn't sleep,

I might read for a while,

doze while listening to some music,

and just

let my body rest out of the heat and brightness of the day for a while.

We aren't meant,

I don't think,

to just go and go

and go.

As important to me

as all the things I did with my days

were all the things I didn't do.

All the times I refrained,

I rested,

I regrouped,

And on the days I took a break,

I found myself

better able to enjoy

the end of the long days.

To be back out in the yard,

to tie up tomato plants,

or to go for one last bike ride

before the streetlights came on.

Tonight,

after dinner,

I remembered I had a letter to mail.

And while it could certainly spend the night in the mailbox at the end of the drive,

the red carrier flag flipped up to signal its presence

for tomorrow's pickup.

There was a collection box on a corner a few streets up,

and a walk sounded like the perfect way to button up the day.

As I set out,

the sun was just above the horizon,

and I stretched out my arm and measured the distance

between the bottom of the sun

and the edge of the land

just a smidge more than the width of one finger,

which meant

a few minutes more than a quarter of an hour till it set.

I'd learned that trick from the farmer's almanac,

along with some understanding of the different kinds of dusk.

Did you know that there are different dusks

and

not even just dusk?

There are three categories of dusk, twilight, and dawn,

namely nautical,

astronomical,

and civil.

I was a little surprised that the categories weren't something like

poetic,

nostalgic, and somnolent.

But I guess

not everyone thought about the sky like I did.

The nautical designation

had to do with when the sun reached a particular position,

so many degrees below the horizon.

The astronomical type was similar, though the degree measurements were different.

During astronomical dusk, most celestial objects could be seen in a clear sky.

Civil twilight, dusk, and dawn

were the shortest version of these times of day

and often influence things like,

well,

when the street lights came on,

looking up at the one closest to me,

I saw that it hadn't happened yet.

There were still kids out playing,

though

I think even they were winding down.

The active games of the day

were turning into quieter activities.

I saw a few little ones drawing with sidewalk chalk

or sitting on porch steps with books in their laps.

I could smell spent barbecue grills cooling off

and that mineral scent

of sprinkler runoff on hot sidewalks.

In my hand was the letter

a bit of monthly correspondence with an old friend.

It had taken my last stamp,

and for a few minutes I'd thought I'd been

all out

till I found a book with a single stamp left

wedged into the corner of the drawer.

It was a Halloween stamp

featuring a jack-o'-lantern

with a lit, toothy grin.

And as I smoothed it into place,

I'd smiled at it,

thinking of my friend pulling this letter from the slot in her door,

and wondering if I'd been trying to send her a spooky message or just run out of stamps.

At the next corner was the collection box.

And as I stepped up to it,

I remembered being a child,

wanting to be the one to pull the flap open,

wanting to drop whatever piece of mail we had into it.

Wanting to be the one to do all the things,

to see how they worked.

And if I'm honest,

I still like it.

Pushing down the lever on the toaster,

sticking on a stamp,

pushing the buttons that drop a candy bar through a vending machine.

I hope that makes me more childlike than childish.

But really, I don't care.

I never went numb

to the little tactile joys of living.

And

there may be some secret there.

It delivers an extra spoonful of pleasure and interest to my days.

The collection box was bright blue,

and by the feel of the flap's handle,

had been repainted many times.

Where it was chipped,

layers were revealed.

and in the low light, I could just make out the sun-faded color of the previous paint jobs.

It creaked a bit as I tugged it open

and dropped my letter in,

then let it swing shut.

When I turned back to the street and extended my arm to the horizon again,

I could see the edge of the sun sinking into it.

Dusk would turn to twilight,

first civil, then nautical,

then astronomical.

On my way back home,

the breeze picked up,

and the touch of it on my shoulders and face was soft and cooling.

An older gentleman, with a little white dog on a leash, passed me.

He nodded kindly, and I smiled back.

In a yard to one side,

I spotted a rabbit,

its ears laid relaxedly back on its shoulders,

nibbling away at a patch of marigolds.

Were marigolds the flowers that my grandmother dried at the end of the season?

Whose flower heads could be broken open to release a dozen silvery black seeds

like tiny matchsticks or slivers.

I thought they had.

A block from home,

it happened.

The street lights came on.

Not all at once.

But one after another.

A second delay

in between each one,

starting at the park

and winding its way down the street to me.

It felt like being called home,

like being gently shepherded,

and I liked it.

Lights were coming on inside houses.

Bikes wheeled into garages for the night.

And passing by my neighbor's house,

I heard him through the screen door say to his son,

Time to brush your teeth, buddy.

It made me smile

and nearly put a hand on my heart

as I turned up my own driveway.

Such a tender thing

to be welcomed home,

to be guided through the rituals of bed,

and to be lovingly tucked in.

My turn next.

When the street lights come on

This far north

The sun doesn't set

in the midsummer till after nine

It made for long days

and especially on the hottest

A nap in the afternoon was often required

retreating to a quiet bedroom after lunch

and pulling down the blinds till it was shady

and dim

settling into cool sheets while the ceiling fan circled

was one of my favorite parts of the day

Often,

even if I didn't sleep,

I might read for a while,

doze while listening to music,

and just let my body rest

out

of the heat

and the brightness of the day for a while.

We aren't meant,

I don't think

to just go and go

and go

as important to me

as all the things I did with my day

were all the things I didn't do.

All the times I refrained,

I rested,

I regrouped,

and on the days I took a break,

I found myself

better able to enjoy the end of the long days,

to be back out in the yard,

to tie up tomato plants,

or to go for one last bike ride

before the streetlights came on.

Tonight,

after dinner,

I remembered I had a letter to mail.

And while it could certainly spend the night in the mailbox at the end of the drive,

the red carrier flag flipped up

to signal its presence for tomorrow's pickup.

There was a collection box on a corner

a few streets up,

and a walk sounded like the perfect way

to button up the day.

As I set out,

the sun was just above the horizon,

and I stretched out my arm

and measured the distance

between the bottom of the sun

and the edge of the land

just a smidge more than the width of one finger

which meant a few minutes more than a quarter of an hour till it set

I'd learned that trick

from the farmer's almanac,

along with some understanding of the different kinds of dusk.

Did you know that there are different

dusks

and not even

just dusk

there are three categories of dusk, twilight, and dawn,

namely,

nautical,

astronomical,

and civil.

I was a little surprised that the categories

weren't something like

poetic,

nostalgic,

and somnolent.

But I guess

not everyone thought about the sky like I did.

The nautical designation

had to do with when the sun reached a particular position

so many degrees below the horizon.

The astronomical type was similar,

though the degree measurements were different.

During astronomical dusk,

most celestial objects could be seen in a clear sky.

Civil twilight, dusk, and dawn

were the shortest versions of these times of day,

and often influenced things

like,

well,

when the street lights came on,

looking up at the one closest to me,

I saw that it hadn't happened yet.

There were still kids out playing.

Though I think even they were winding down.

The active games of the day

were turning into quieter activities.

I saw a few little ones drawing with sidewalk chalk

or sitting on porch steps with books in their laps.

I could smell

spent barbecue grills cooling off

and that mineral scent of sprinkler runoff

on hot sidewalks.

In my hand was the letter,

a bit of monthly correspondence with an old friend.

It had taken my last stamp,

and for a few minutes I'd thought

I'd been all out

till I found a book

with a single stamp left wedged into the corner of the drawer.

It was a Halloween stamp

featuring a jack-o'-lantern

with a lit,

toothy grin

And as I smoothed it into place

I'd smiled at it,

thinking of my friend pulling this letter from the slot in her door,

and wondering if I'd been trying to send her a spooky message,

or just

run out of stamps.

At the next corner corner

was the collection box.

And as I stepped up to it,

I remembered

being a child,

wanting to be the one

to pull the flap open,

wanting to drop

whatever piece of mail we had

into it.

Wanting to be the one to do

all the things,

to see how they worked.

If I was honest,

I still liked it.

Pressing down the lever on the toaster,

sticking on a stamp,

pushing the buttons

that drop a candy bar through a vending machine.

I hoped that made me more childlike

than childish,

but really

I didn't care.

I never went numb

to the little tactile joys of living

and thought that there was some secret there.

It delivered an extra spoonful of pleasure

and interest to my days.

The collection box was bright blue,

and by the feel of the flap's handle

had been repainted

many times.

Where it was chipped,

layers were revealed,

and in the low light, I could just

make out

the sun-faded color

of the previous paint jobs.

It creaked a bit

as I tugged it open,

and I dropped my letter in

and let it swing shut.

When I turned back to the street

and extended my arm to the horizon again,

I could see the edge of the sun

sinking into it.

Dusk would turn to twilight,

first civil,

then nautical,

then astronomical.

On my way back home,

the breeze picked up,

and the touch of it on my face and shoulders

was soft and cooling.

An older gentleman,

with a little white dog on a leash passed me.

He nodded kindly,

and I smiled back.

In a yard to one side,

I spotted a rabbit.

Its ears laid relaxedly back on its shoulders,

nibbling away

at a patch of marigolds.

Were marigolds the flowers

that my grandmother dried

at the end of the season,

whose flower heads could be broken open

to release a dozen

silvery black seeds

like tiny matchsticks

or slivers.

I thought they had

a block from home.

It happened.

The street lights came on,

not all at once,

but one after

another.

A second delay

in between each one

starting at the park

and winding its way down the street to me.

It felt like being called home,

like being gently shepherded

and I liked it

lights were coming on inside houses

bikes wheeled into garages for the night

and passing by my neighbor's house

I heard him through the screen door

say to his son,

Time to brush your teeth, buddy.

It made me smile

and nearly put a hand on my heart

as I turned up my own driveway.

Such a tender thing

to be welcomed home,

to be guided through the rituals of bed,

and to be lovingly tucked in.

Your turn next,

sweet dreams.