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

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 to just look. I learned a long time ago that when the days are cold and dark, you have to look for the things that can be enjoyed 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 arrived at the theater, my cheeks were stung with cold, and stepping into their old-fashioned lobby felt wonderfully warm. They had thick red 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.

It 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 the snowy landscapes, set across a dozen platforms, spanning nearly the full width of the 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 travel an 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 little 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 streetlights, with fir trees tied to the roofs. I leaned down to look into the shops.

where people were buying toys and 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 first. Or maybe because they were just running on the schedule, set by the tiny station master. Either way, with a whistle and a whir, they all 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 trains grew brighter. The Christmas tree in their 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 must have taken hours and hours. And I felt quite lucky to get to experience it at all. It's a thing I love about humans, when they find a passion and put themselves into it. The gardener who knows the Latin names for all the plants in their greenhouse.

The amateur astronomer watching for a comet in the quiet of early morning. Knitters and potters and model railroad enthusiasts. Isn't it just a different version of the little kid who knows every kind of dinosaur? When I was in college, there was a storefront between the bagel shop I stopped at most every morning and my first class of the day.

In that shop, a man with silver hair made fine suits by hand. And I often peered in to watch him, dressed neatly in one of his own suits, as he ironed a fabric and marked it with chalk. Years later, I still thought of him often. His work was clearly a passion. and he did it with such care and skill. The people who wore his suits must have felt like they were walking around in a work of art.

My box of popcorn was nearly empty, and remembering that the trains would be on display all month. I pulled my hat tight over my ears and got ready to head back into the night. I pretended I was stepping off a train rather than out of a theater. And as I strolled through town, I made up a story about coming home for the holidays. My first time back in my hometown after a while away.

And who might be waiting for me? Caring a lot about something. Finding a passion. Imagining. Telling stories and playing pretend. I would never be too grown up for any of it. The Innkeeper's Holiday For most of the winter season, the inn sits quiet and dark. There might be a light on in one of the rooms on the top floor or in the library as the innkeeper caught up on her rest and relaxation.

she cooked small meals for herself down in the kitchen and shoveled just enough of the front drive to get in and out. She watched from the back porch as the lake froze over and answered the phone when it rang, with guests calling to book their summer stays. But starting in the middle of December, the great house began to light up.

Strands of twinkle lights were wound around the fence posts in the drive and along the roof lines and porch rails. The window boxes were stuffed with pine boughs and holly berries and tall, dried pine cones. The innkeeper thought that there was something reminiscent of a honeycomb in their shape. as she tucked them into place.

In the attic, she found boxes of glass ornaments and pretty ceramic reindeer that looked like they'd been sculpted by hand. She'd been pushing the attic stairs back up into place when she heard a car door slam from the drive. she hurried to the window in the staircase and saw Chef standing on the cobblestones looking up at her.

She waved and Chef waved back and popped open the hatchback on their car, showing the crates of fresh food and cases of champagne they'd brought. The innkeeper smiled wide and clapped her hands like a child, She liked having the place to herself for a while, to read her books and make plans for next summer.

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