City Sidewalks (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 Wittersheim.

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.

Switch off your light.

Set down anything you've been looking at.

Snuggle down into your sheets and pull your comforter over your shoulder.

You are safe.

There's nothing you need to remember or stay on top of.

You can let everything go.

I'm watching over.

Take a slow, deep breath in through the nose

and let it out through your mouth.

Again, breathe in

out with sound.

Good.

City Sidewalks.

I'd seen it up on the Theater Marquis the week before.

I'd been coming out of the candy shop across the street

with a bag full of peppermint starlights,

and as I stopped to wrap my scarf twice around my neck,

I saw on the sidewalk opposite a bundled-up person with a telescoping pole,

carefully placing letters up onto the wraparound marquee

letters that spelled out the name of an old favorite Christmas movie.

It was in black and white, with a cast of elegant Hollywood stars,

and I remembered watching it as a child every year with my family, like clockwork.

Back then,

we rarely had a cabinet full of movies to watch

and I would scour the paper to see when it would air, and mark it down on the calendar pinned to the back of the basement door.

Specials then

were truly special

and now I could watch it up on the big screen.

I stood,

smiling up at the letters as they were slid into place,

and took a peppermint from the bag and unwrapped it from the cellophane.

I placed the red and white swirl of candy on my tongue

and pulled my hat a little lower over my ears.

I loved the feel of the cold air around me,

the clean smell of the snow piled around tree trunks and letter boxes,

and the sweet, minty taste of the treat.

That day I made a plan

to pull together a few friends

and make a date for a night at the movies.

Now,

tonight was that night.

We'd met up by the city tree in the park.

It must have been thirty feet tall, and was strung with big, old fashioned bulbs in red, green, blue, and orange.

We had an hour till the movie started, and we decided to take a slow walk through the park and down the few streets of our little city.

The trees around the pond were all strung with lights,

and the street lamps were tied with huge red bows.

We saw a line of kids and parents, their mittened hands clasped and swinging between them, waiting to step into a tiny house on the edge of the park.

It had a banner strung between the street lamps above,

declaring that Santa was in residence this evening.

We stopped at a street cart and bought cups of cocoa and coffee.

The storefronts were lit up and decorated for the season,

and we took our time going from one to the next to catch every detail.

At the bookshop, they'd built a Christmas tree by stacking books flat on top of one another

in a slow spiral as they rose.

their spines turned out to entice you with all the stories yet to be read

and wrapped in white lights.

They'd also cut snowflakes from pages of old books, the paper an antique yellow, covered with sentences disappearing into the symmetrical designs.

The record shop window had a display of players, starting with an old gramophone with a beautiful brass horn that was so shiny it might have been brand new.

Laid out beside it was the timeline of the evolution of this machine,

from phonograph to record player

to the most modern turntable.

In fact, the newest ones seemed to tip their hats to the older ones, with small details in their designs.

And around all of them, records were carefully scattered, or strung from wire hanging from the ceiling,

calling back to moments and memories along the way.

We spotted a record we'd all owned in high school,

and I was sure one of the players,

one that closed up and could be carried like a suitcase, was the same one my mother had when she was young.

She'd passed it to me, and from time to time I opened it up

and played the forty-five s tucked into the case's pocket.

She'd written her initials on the labels as a young person, to keep her siblings from swiping her favorites,

and the pencil marks were still there.

We sipped our drinks and walked on.

The cafe on the corner was doing steady business,

the booths all full as people raised glasses to toast

and pointed out favorites on the menu.

I watched a group at a table as a cake covered in lit candles was set in front of a blushing but smiling teenager.

Their windows were ringed in twinkle lights,

and each held a shining menorah, with six candles burning.

The toy shop had gone all out,

building a display with a fireplace, set in a fictional living room.

There were a dozen little ones crowded around it to look at its tall Christmas tree, tree, with piles of wrapped presents all around.

There was even a plate of cookie crumbs and a glass of mostly drunk milk and the heel of a shiny boot just visible inside the fireplace as St. Nick slipped up the chimney.

As we stood behind them, I found myself looking not at the display but

at their faces reflected in the shop windows.

Some were pointing, pressing fingers to the glass to call out some hoped-for item,

and some were silent,

their eyes wide and moving slowly over the scene.

I remembered a moment like this from my own childhood.

It hadn't been the idea of so so many gifts that had left me in awe.

It had been seeing a world built into a window,

a daydream made real

that made me stop in my snow boots and stare.

If we can make dreams real,

why don't we?

Why save it for a window or a week?

I must have gotten lost in my memories there for a while,

and found an arm threading itself through my elbow,

and a friend pulling me on down the street.

At the bakery, the front window was filled with gingerbread houses,

and as I looked at them, I realized they were, in fact, a replica of the street we were standing on.

There was the bookshop, with its tree made of tiny biscuit books.

There was the window of the record shop,

and an intricately iced row of minuscule record players.

The cafe held tables full of gingerbread customers,

and a matching menorah carefully showing six candles.

The toy shop replica must have taken ages, and a team of people to pull off, with so many details to pipe into place.

Snowy white icing pooled on the gingerbread sidewalk, and my eyes followed it down to the last stop in the row of confections.

The movie theater.

We all spotted it at the same time,

and I looked at my watch to see we had just a few minutes till the movie started.

Run, run, Rudolph, I called out to my friends, as we linked arms and hurried down to the theater.

Minutes later, we were settling into our seats, sharing popcorn and peppermints back and forth,

and waiting for the lights to go down.

In the crowd around us I spotted a few people with Santa hats, and had a feeling most of us could recite this movie line by line as we watched,

our faces shining just like those of the kids looking into the toey shop window.

I realized I was, in that moment, doing something I truly loved.

And I'd built a habit over the years

that when I caught myself in an instance of pure happiness,

I'd take a slow, deliberate breath,

and be sure to be in my body,

feeling the tingle of my own merriment,

to plug into my senses and soak up every drop of the experience.

When good things happen,

it's important,

even in small, simple ways,

to notice them with our whole hearts.

As the theater lights dimmed, my friend leaned across to me, stealing a piece of popcorn, and whispering in my ear,

Is this the one where Carrie Grant ice skates?

Or the one with Suzu's petals?

Zuzu's petals, I whispered back,

and we smiled up at the screen

City Sidewalks

I'd seen it up on the Theatre Marquis the week before.

I'd been coming out of the candy shop across the street with a bag full of peppermint starlights,

and as I stopped to wrap my scarf twice around my neck,

I saw on the sidewalk opposite

a bundled up person

with a telescoping pole,

carefully placing letters up onto the wraparound marquee,

letters that spelled out the name of an old favorite Christmas movie.

It was in black and white, with a cast of elegant Hollywood stars,

and I remembered watching it as a child

every year with my family,

like clockwork.

Back then,

we rarely had a cabinet full of movies to watch,

and I would scour the paper to see when it would air

and and mark it down on the calendar

pinned to the back of the basement door.

Specials then

were truly special,

and now

I could watch it up on the big screen.

I stood, smiling at the letters as they were slid into place.

I took a peppermint from the bag

and unwrapped it from the cellophane.

I placed the red and white swirl of candy on my tongue,

and pulled my hat a little lower over my ears.

I loved the feel of the cold air around me,

the clean smell of the snow piled around tree trunks and letter boxes,

and the sweet, minty taste of the treat.

That day I made a plan

to pull together a few friends

and make a date for a night at the movies.

Now

tonight was that night

We'd met up by the city tree in the park.

It must have been thirty feet tall,

and was strung with big, old fashioned bulbs in red, green, blue, and orange.

We had an hour till the movie started,

and we decided to take a slow walk through the park

and down the few streets of our little city.

The trees around the pond were all strung with lights,

and the street lamps were tied with huge red bows.

We saw a line of kids and parents,

their mittened hands clasped and swinging between them,

waiting to step into a tiny house on the edge of the park.

It had a banner strung between the street lamps above it,

declaring that Santa was in residence this evening.

We stopped at a street cart

and bought cups of cocoa and coffee.

The storefronts were lit up and decorated for the season,

and we took our time going from one to the next

to catch every detail.

At the bookshop,

they'd built a Christmas tree by stacking books flat on top of one another

in a slow spiral as they rose.

Their spines turned out to entice you

with all the stories yet to be read

and wrapped in white lights.

They'd also cut snowflakes from pages of old books,

the paper an antique yellow, covered with sentences, disappearing into the symmetrical designs.

The record shop window had a display of players,

starting with an old gramophone,

with a beautiful brass horn

that was so shiny it might have been brand new.

Laid out beside it was a timeline of the evolution of this machine,

from phonograph to record player

to the most modern turntable.

In fact, the newest ones seemed to tip their hats to the older ones,

with small details in their designs.

And around all of them,

records were carefully scattered,

or strung from wire hanging from the ceiling,

calling back to moments and memories along the way.

We spotted a record we'd all owned in high school,

and I was sure one of the players,

one that closed up and could be carried like a suitcase,

was the same one my mother had when she was young.

She'd passed it to me,

and from time to time

I opened it up

and played the forty-fives

tucked into the case's pocket.

She'd written her initials onto the labels as a young person

to keep her siblings from swiping her favorites,

and the pencil marks were still there.

We sipped our drinks and walked on.

The cafe on the corner was doing steady business,

the booths all full as people raised glasses to toast

and pointed out favorites on the menu.

I watched a group at a table as a cake covered in lit candles

was set in front of a blushing

but smiling teenager.

Their windows were ringed in twinkle lights,

and each held a shining menorah

with six candles burning.

The toy shop had gone all out,

building a display with a fireplace

set in a fictional living room.

There were a dozen little ones crowded around it to look at its tall Christmas tree

with piles of wrapped presents all around.

There was even a plate of cookie crumbs, and a glass of mostly drunk milk,

and the heel of a shiny boot just visible inside the fireplace,

as Saint Nick slipped up the chimney.

As we stood behind them,

I found myself looking not at the display,

but at their faces reflected in the shop windows.

Some were pointing,

pressing fingers to the glass

to call out some hoped for item,

and some were silent,

their eyes wide and moving slowly over the scene.

I remembered a moment like this from my own childhood.

It hadn't been the idea

of so many gifts that had left me in awe.

It had been seeing a world

built into a window,

a daydream made real

that had made me stop in my snow boots and stare.

If we can make dreams real,

why don't we?

Why save it for a window or a week?

I must have gotten lost in my memories there for a while,

and found an arm threading itself through my elbow,

and a friend pulling me on down the street.

At the bakery,

the front window was filled with gingerbread houses,

and as I looked at them,

I realized they were, in fact, a replica of the street we were standing on.

There was the bookshop, with its tree made of tiny biscuit books,

and there was the window of the record shop,

and an intricately iced row of minuscule record players.

The cafe held tables full of gingerbread customers

and a matching menorah carefully showing six candles.

The toy shop replica must have taken ages

and a team of people to pull off

with so many details to pipe into place.

Snowy white royal icing pooled on the gingerbread sidewalk,

and my eyes followed it down

to the last stop

in the row of confections,

the movie theater.

We all spotted it at the same time,

and I looked at my watch

to see we just had a few minutes till the movie started.

Run, run, Rudolph, I called out to my friends

as we linked arms

and hurried down to the theater.

Minutes later, we were settling into our seats,

sharing popcorn and peppermints back and forth,

and waiting for the lights to go down.

In the crowd around us,

I spotted a few people with Santa hats,

and had a feeling most of us could recite this movie line by line as we watched,

our faces shining

just like those of the kids

looking into the toy shop window.

I realized I was

in that moment

doing something I truly loved,

And I'd built a habit over the years

that when I caught myself

in an instance of pure happiness

I'd take a slow, deliberate breath

and be sure to be in my body

feeling the tingle

of my own merriment.

I'd plug into my senses

and soak up every drop of the experience.

When good things happen,

it's important,

even in small, simple ways,

to notice them with our whole hearts.

As the theater lights dimmed,

my friend leaned across to me,

stealing a piece of popcorn

and whispering into my ear

Is this the one where Carrie Grant ice skates?

Or the one with Suzu's petals?

Suzu's petals, I whispered back,

and we smiled up at the screen,

sweet dreams.