Catherine Nicolai

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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.

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

a dozen or more, with dark green and gray feathers, and one white farm duck among them. And she smiled and said in a whisper that fogged the glass, Found family. That's how she felt too, here with the house, with Chef and the guests who'd be arriving soon.

She crossed the room and looked out another window and saw a big truck with a tall Norway spruce in its bed trundling down the drive, beeping its horn. the tree farm. With just a week till Christmas, there hadn't been many customers coming down the long gravel two-track to the farm today. Most folks had their tree already.

And while we might get a few stragglers here and there, some Kringle-cum-latelys, as we called them, we were wrapping up for the year in little ways, all over the farm. Two of our three tractors that pulled trailers lined with hay bales, usually full of customers, out into the fields to find their trees, were now settled in the barn, swept clean, and tucked in for the rest of the winter.

The last box of candy canes had been opened and hung on the branches of the giant tree in the shop, and we didn't anticipate needing any more this season. A few of our workers had taken their pay and their stocking from the long mantel, full of tips and treats, and wished us all a happy holiday and gotten on the road headed home.

There were just a few of us left as the sun came closer to setting and the night air turned cold. It had been a sunny day, And in the bright light, busy with loading trees into pickup trucks or onto car roofs, I'd shed my coat, warmed as much by my efforts as by the merry mood around me. But now I pulled it back on and zipped it up to my nose.

I found my hat in my pocket and drew it firmly over my ears. I wasn't ready to go home yet. The farm is really beautiful at night. Along the drive are strings of lights. draped on poles, wrapped to look like candy canes. And near the barn and shop, everything is lit. Candles in every window, wreaths on every door.

We have warming stations, heaters with their welcoming glow, all of it really cheerful and lovely. But my favorite spot was out in the open fields, under the stars. where the moonlight reflected on the snow and the only sound was the crunch of your boots and your breath. It was my job each night to make one last round with the tractor through the fields.

to make sure all of the customers had been collected. No villager left behind. And now that I was better bundled, I set out. We had a half-dozen fields that were ready for cutting, and many, many more. planted for the future. It was a careful system, rotating the fields so that the soil could rest, so that the trees would have time and space to grow.

and as I rolled through them, I felt a deep peace settle into me. The night air was like peppermint in my nostrils, making me feel awake and attuned to the trees and the stars. I had read once that the minerals in our bones had been born in the belly of a star, light years away and ages ago. And when I rode through the fields at night and looked up, I did feel my place.

I was a child of the universe, the same as the pine trees and the deer bedded down in their dens. I stopped on the edge of the Douglas firs, turned off the engine, and reached for my thermos. When I twisted off the top, steam, sweet and spicy, rose up and rippled in the air. I poured my hot cider, spiced with cinnamon, into the thermos mug and wrapped my hands around it.

I leaned back in the tractor seat and propped my feet unprofessionally on the dash. For a few minutes, I just sat and sipped and listened and looked. The sky was cloudless. There would be no snowfall tonight, and there was only the faintest bit of wind stirring the treetops. When I'd had the last sip of cider from my cup, I closed up my thermos and started the tractor.

finish the loop back to the shop. Just as I came over the slight rise near the Nordman firs, I spotted a tree cut and left behind near the trail. I clicked my tongue and shook my head. It doesn't happen often. But every once in a while, someone will cut a tree and then change their mind, spot a better one, and leave the first behind. We ask our guests not to do this, but it happens.

I stopped the tractor and jumped down. I stood the tree up on its cut end and looked at it. A perfectly handsome tree. Why anyone would have left it behind was beyond me. I loaded it onto the trailer and climbed back in. A few minutes later, I was turning in toward the barn when I spotted headlights coming slowly down the drive. I stepped down from the tractor.

and pulled my gloves on, going to meet them. The car stopped a few yards from the shop, and a man stepped out. He had a worried look about him, his hands crammed in his pockets, and he hurried to the shop door. and found it locked. Hello, I called out to him. He turned toward me, shielding his eyes from the bright strings of Christmas lights. Hello, he called back.

Looks like I've missed the, well, not the boat, but maybe the sleigh? I chuckled and strolled into the pool of light. Nearly, but as long as I'm here, I might be able to help. Need a tree? He sighed and smiled gratefully. Yes, I meant to make it out earlier, but work kept me late. And I just don't want to go home one more day without one. I'll take any tree you've got. Must be Kismet.

I just found an orphan tree in the lot. I pulled the tree down from the trailer and stood it for him beside the baler. The piney scent was thick in the air, and I saw his face soften as he looked at it. That's just the kind we had when I was a kid. smells just the same. Well then, I thought someone had left it behind, but now I guess they'd cut it for you.

They must have known you'd be late and that you needed it. His eyes brimmed and he bent his head feeling around in his pockets for his wallet. The shop was closed, our register shut down for the day, and as he drew out a card, I reached for the baling twine to tie the tree to his roof. Ah, never mind, I said. Just pass it along before the year is out. Deal?

He helped me hoist the tree up onto his car and caught the edge of the twine as I tossed it. Deal. And Merry Christmas. game night. The tree was still up and we still had plates of cookies decorated with red and green icing and plenty of leftover holiday cheer. And while the days before the 25th were full of that lovely anticipation that only happens once a year.

The days immediately after felt like a deep sigh of relaxation. Everything was done. And now we could just enjoy a bit of time before we put our ducks in a row for the coming year. A few years back, we'd started a tradition for the 31st, and it had stuck. We'd had our fair share of glamorous,

New Year's Eves, nights out, dancing into the wee hours, coming home with confetti in our hair and crumpled noisemakers in the pockets of our coats. At some point, that kind of celebration had slipped down the other side of the hill and gone from exciting to exhausting. And that's when we started game night.

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