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

But I was completely surprised by his passion for tabletop RPGs and near-encyclopedic knowledge of the history and flavor profiles of many, many varieties of chilies. I think I had surprised him too.

When I'd replaced the sconces in the bedroom with some vintage ones I'd rebuilt and rewired, he joyfully flicked the switch off and on several times, admitting that this was well above his skill set and that it seemed like magic to him. I had a feeling that this was one of the joys of loving someone for a long time, realizing that there was always more to learn about them.

The animals had also learned more. For example, that Bertie liked to graze and didn't usually eat his breakfast all at once. Once Crumb realized there was a second breakfast available, just one bowl over, he'd scarf his own and then dive into Birdie's.

This had led to a somewhat complicated morning routine involving shooing Crumb out into the yard as soon as he'd finished his last kibble and convincing Bird to go on and clean his plate. but most days we managed it. Marmalade, as usual, took it all in stride. She had priorities. She needed to lay on her perch and watch the birds at the feeder.

She needed several naps to bathe her paws and face and have some uninterrupted one-on-one time with me. And whether there was one dog chasing his tail or two while she did it, she didn't much care. I knew some of her disaffected nature was put on. She liked to appear a bit above her brothers. But I'd also seen her bathe both of their faces when they'd come back from their checkups at the vet.

And on movie night, her favorite spot was right between them. Her chin resting on Bird's back, and her back paw stretched out to touch Crumb's belly. We were a happy little pack heading into the holidays. And decorating had been a good deal of fun for all of us.

I wasn't a very organized person, so when it came time to gather together all the bulbs and strands of light and little houses for the Christmas village, we'd had to troop up to the attic, down into the basement, root through the garage, and dig under the bed. But eventually, we found nearly everything.

our tree went up in the living room, right in front of the big picture window, where it could be seen from the street. There was a moment of contention while we debated white lights versus colored lights, but luckily, my sweetheart realized I'd made a very convincing argument, and my pick was strung up. as we hung up bulbs and ornaments, some from my collection and some from his.

We told the stories of them. Here was the bulb my mom had been gifted the year I was born, with the date still etched on the side and the crack that had been carefully glued after I'd pulled the tree down when I was three. Here was the ornament made of popsicle sticks and cotton balls he'd glued together in kindergarten. Unrecognizable as any particular thing, but cherished just the same.

As we decorated, the animals watched a bit nervously from their beds. Boxes were often regarded with suspicion by all of them. Things were either coming in or going out, and they weren't sure they approved of either. Finally, Marmalade, bravest of the three, tiptoed up to the tree and reached a paw out toward a green glass bulb.

I could see her curious eyes reflected in the surface, and whether she broke the bulb or not, I thought I was likely to remember this moment for years to come. Her wonder at it, the glow of the tree lights through the fur of her ears, 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 tilt 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 he watched the suspended snowflakes slowly drift down over a little house not so different from our own. I hummed along, 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 little 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 Bertie 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. Oh, they probably 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 year. Even the bah humbugliest 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.

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