Catherine Nicolai

speaker

319 appearances 2 recordings 1 series first heard Dec 2024 last heard Jan 2025

Catherine Nicolai’s voice in public audio — every appearance, attributed to the second.

Trend

recordings per month · last 12 months

No recordings in the last 12 months.Older appearances are listed below; set an alert to hear about the next one.

Appearances

newest first · ▶ plays the moment

Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep · Merry Much Happens - 2024 · 16 Dec 2024 podcast

She batted it experimentally, and I squatted down beside her, and replaced it with a felted mouse on skis. She reached out again, batting at it, and watching the branch bounce as it was buffeted. I gave up and just unhooked the mouse and tossed it for her.

She caught it and kicked it under the couch, where she could just barely fit, her hind legs and tail sticking out as she wrestled with her new toy. We decided to move anything breakable up to the higher branches. Crumb came closer to sniff at the boxes and tilted his head as I wound the key on the bottom of a snow globe and tipped it up in front of him.

A tinny version of the Christmas song played as we watched the suspended snowflakes slowly drift down over a little house not so different from our own. I hummed along and reached out to scratch under his chin. To pups from one to ninety-two. though it's been said many times, many ways, meowy Christmas to you.

I heard a chuckle from the other room and wondered if my appreciation for bad puns had come as a surprise, like my electrical handyman skills had. I heard him bustling around in the kitchen, a drawer opening, and wondered if he was starting dinner. I set the snow globe down in front of Crumb, who got down on his belly and pressed his nose to the glass, still watching the snow fall.

Bluebird stood and stretched beside the couch, and I called him over. He sat down beside me, and I put my arm around him, and we looked up at our beautiful tree. I thought it might be a bit chilly for him, and I reached for one of his sweaters in a box. It was an ugly Christmas sweater with reindeer and baubles and candy canes stitched on. I laughed as I pulled it over his head.

He looked at me with consternation and despair, but I told him at least I wasn't making him wear his antlers yet. Come see Birdie in his sweater, I called. He peeked out from the kitchen with something in his hand. He came closer and presented it to me. Some leaves and red berries tied together with the striped twine we saved from the bakery boxes.

He squatted down beside me and whispered, It's mistletoe. I'm pretty sure these are bay leaves from the spice drawer. Hmm. They may still work, though. Probably they do. Model trains and make-believe. There is something about this season, and the month of December in particular, in which becoming a kid again, slipping into that easily delighted state, is more effortless and welcome

than at any other time of the year. Even the bahumbugliest among us will, at some point, look up at a streetlight and watch the halo of snowflakes circling around it, or see a lit tree through a frosted window, or hear a carol plunked out on a piano in someone's front room, and feel a shiver of excitement and warmth, just like they felt when they were young. My own bah humbug quotient

being naturally quite low to begin with, I found myself grinning at every shop window display, savoring each gingerbread cookie bought from the bakery, and taking deep breaths as I passed the Christmas tree lot. to drink up the scents of fresh sap and pine.

So when I saw that there would be a model railroad display in the lobby of the movie theater downtown, I knew right away not just that I would attend, but that I would be a repeat visitor. I love little things, miniature things. The tiny Christmas villages that nestle under trees. Dollhouses with their Lilliputian furnishings. And of course, model trains.

I decided to go, at least for the first time, by myself, so I could take all the time I wanted just to look. I'd learned a long time ago that when the days are cold and dark, You have to look for the things that can be enjoyed in them and lean in deliberately. So I parked at the park and came the long way through town to admire the lights strung over the street.

And by the time I'd arrived at the theater, my cheeks were stung with cold. And stepping into their old-fashioned lobby felt wonderfully warm. They had thick carpets, brass fixtures, and a concession stand with a shining walnut bar that was as old as the building. The smell of popcorn washed over me, and I bought myself a box to enjoy while I browsed.

came in the same red and white striped carton I'd been buying since my very first big screen movie. See, I was already closer to my younger self. Then, the trains. What fun. The tracks snaked through snowy landscapes, set across a dozen platforms, spanning nearly the full width of the theater lobby. I started at the train station, looking down with my bird's eye view,

and saw that there were four separate tracks coming in behind the depot, along platforms bustling with tiny people. The station master was there, a small arm raised and a whistle in her mouth. And I imagined the sounds I would have heard if I were there beside her. The train engines. People calling hello and goodbye. Be careful and welcome home. The peal of locomotive bells.

rustling overcoats, shoes clapping against the platform boards, bits of gossip as scarves were tossed around necks and gloves pulled over fingers. I hadn't even seen a train go one inch yet. and I was already having a wonderful time. Beyond the depot was a small town, and while it wasn't exactly our own village, it was a sort of tribute to it. There was a movie theater,

showing Miracle on 34th Street, per their marquee. The sidewalks were heaped with snow, just like our own. And there were cars stopped at the streetlight, with fir trees tied to their roofs. I leaned down to look into the shops where people were buying toys or standing on street corners with wrapped presents under their arms. All this time, the trains hadn't been running.

Maybe to let the onlookers take in all the details. Or maybe because they were just running on the schedule set by the tiny station master. Either way, with a whistle and a whirr, they came to life and began to travel over the tracks. I picked one to follow with my eyes and saw a bright red engine leave the station with several cars full of passengers.

The lights in the lobby dimmed, and the lights in the train grew brighter. The Christmas tree in their own tiny town square glowed with colored bulbs. Another locomotive caught my eye. this one a shiny black. And as it stopped to let a freight train chug across its tracks, I leaned down and saw their dining car lit up and full of passengers and servers.

White tablecloths were spread over the tables and meals and drinks laid out. Again, I imagined myself there. What might I order? Or would I be the bartender, shaking up a cocktail behind the bar as the snowy land slipped past. The freight train cleared the tracks, the switch was thrown, and the diners sped off. I walked around the platform to take in another angle.

and saw a forest green engine pulling its cars up a steep mountain path. Beside the tracks were snow-covered trees and ice-capped peaks and a tunnel cut through the rock. I thought of the person who must have made this little world. The storytelling and drama they were able to build into it. A thing like this, it must have taken hours and hours.

Showing 241–260 of 319 · page 13 of 16