March 14, 2024 • 34 mins
Our story tonight is called “Sugar Snow,” and it’s a story about shifting seasons. It’s also about pots of pansies, breakfast for dinner, and the people and places that teach us to play.
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Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
Speaker 1 (00:01):
Welcome to bedtime stories for grown ups in which nothing
much happens, you feel good, and then you fall asleep.
I'm Catherine Nikolay. I write and read all the stories
(00:23):
you hear on Nothing Much Happens Audio Engineering is by
Bob Witttersheim. My book, also called Nothing Much Happens, is
available wherever books are sold. For extra coziness, follow us
on Twitter, Instagram, or Facebook, and you can always learn
(00:47):
more or get yourself a cozy Nothing Much Happens hoodie
at Nothing Much Happens dot com. Now, let me say
something about how this works. Your mind needs a place
to rest, and without one, it's apt to race and
(01:08):
wander and keep you up all night. Following along with
my voice and the simple shape of the story I'm
about to tell you gives it that resting place, and
it trains your brain over time to more quickly settle
and turn off. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll
(01:33):
go a little slower the second time through. If you
wake in the middle of the night, turn your thoughts
right back to whatever you can remember about the story,
or even just the details of a pleasant memory, and
you will drop right back off. Our story tonight is
(02:00):
called Sugar Snow, and it's a story about shifting seasons.
It's also about pots of pansies, breakfast for dinner, and
the people and places that teach us to play. Okay,
(02:25):
it's time. Put down whatever you've been looking at and
switch off the light. Slide down deep into your sheets,
and get as comfortable as you can. There's nothing you
need to keep track of. No one is waiting. You
(02:49):
have done enough for today. You're safe. Take a slow
breath in through your nose, let it out with a sigh. Nice.
Do one more in and out. Good Sugar Snow. I'd
(03:26):
noticed at first in the evening, I'd been locking up
the flower shop, and when I turned toward the street
and slipped my keys back into my pocket, I suddenly
realized that the air was warm and sweet, that there
(03:52):
was still a sliver of daylight glowing in the evening sky,
and a feeling familiar but it had been a while
since I felt it, a feeling of spring. The next morning,
(04:13):
before I'd even opened my eyes, I could hear the
slow drip of melting icicles on the roof, and birds,
so many birds, I smiled, still wrapped in my blankets.
(04:35):
Winter can be very quiet, with the eaves wrapped in snow,
working like the soft petal of a piano, blotting out
the sounds from the street, and so many neighbors, whether
(04:56):
human or avian, ding to stay tucked in against the cold.
Now it sounded like we were about to have a
lively day. It had gone on like that for a
(05:17):
week or more, bright days, fresh air that smelled of
soaked earth, and the mounds of snow that we'd shoveled
away from the sidewalks shrinking bit by bit. Would it last?
(05:37):
We asked each other as we stood in lying at
the coffee shop or passed on the sidewalk. We'd all
been fooled before. We determined to enjoy it while it
was here, no matter the expiration date. I bought a
(06:02):
few baskets of pansies, bright purple and yellow, and set
them cautiously on my front stoop. I remembered my mother
telling me they were hardy and a safe bet in
the early spring. For years, I'd spelled that word h
(06:29):
e a r t y, thinking that the root of
it was tied to a strong heart. Then when I'd
started in the flower shop, I'd seen it printed on
packages of astellby and realized that the root wasn't heart
(06:58):
but hard. I wasn't sure it was different, though. Brave
open hearts are often that way because they have been
broken open. They've been through hard things and continue to beat.
(07:23):
Sure Enough, a few days after I'd set out my pansies,
I woke up to three inches of fluffy snow laying
thick on the ground. I dusted off my flowers and
pulled them inside to warm up on my kitchen window sill.
(07:48):
I still had a pair of boots and a coat
by the door. A combination of laziness and superstition had
kept me from putting them away, and I pulled them
all on and stepped back outside. The clouds that had
(08:12):
dropped this snow had moved on. When the sky was
a bright, enthusiastic blue, I started to walk through the neighborhood,
feeling the snow, so soft and full of old rain drops,
(08:35):
disappear into nothing underfoot. It was a lovely combination of sensations,
the sun warm on my face, the quiet of the snow,
and the air still sweet and smelling of spring. I
(09:02):
turned a corner and watched as a couple of dogs
were let out of a side door to run in
their yard. They leapt through the snow, flipped over, and
rolled joyfully in it. I'd heard someone say once that
(09:25):
play is a sign of safety. That once our basic
needs are met and we feel protected from harm, well,
that's when we can play. We can be creative and
open and silly. I watched the dogs skidding through the
(09:51):
soft snow. One found a ball and squeaked it in
his teeth, and they both went running along the fence
into their backyard. I put my hands in my pockets
and kept walking, thinking about the places in my life
(10:18):
where I felt like I could play. There were a
lot of them, I realized when the places I didn't play, well,
that was useful to think about too. Sometimes there are
(10:38):
things we can do about that, and sometimes it's just
time to move on. At some point, I realized I'd
been walking toward a tiny park hidden down a dirt
road on the edge of my neighborhood. I'd walked by
(11:02):
it a few times before, i'd ever seen the sign
inviting passers by to enjoy the spot from dawn till dusk.
There was a patch of open space, now covered by
a smooth expanse of unbroken snow, a few tall trees,
(11:26):
and a path that led through a grove of maples
that eventually came out at a dead end a few
blocks over here. The snow had a thin crust of ice,
like the crackly caramelized top of a crambouleet. It was
(11:52):
oddly satisfying to hear its faint snap with each step.
The air was warming in the sun, and I had
a feeling this snow could easily be gone by sunset.
(12:15):
I left footprints all the way up to the edge
of the woods, where the thicket of trees had protected
the gravel path from snow. A few feet in, I noticed,
at chest height on the nearest tree a galvanized bucket
(12:40):
suspended from a hook in the bark. I rushed over
to it with the excitement of a child. I had
seen this before, and the memory was sweet in every
(13:03):
For many years in my childhood, my siblings and I
had spent our week of spring break at our aunt's
old white farmhouse a few hours north of home. Some
years the winter would drag her feet through that week,
(13:29):
and we'd spend our days baking muffins and cookies in
Auntie's warm kitchen, are bundled up on sofas, watching funny
old movies and playing board games. And sometimes we'd arrive
(13:51):
for a week of fine warm weather, and we'd play
croquet in mud boots in the yard and hunt for
treasures in the hayloft of the big red barn. An
once or twice we'd been there for a sugar snow.
(14:16):
It was a time just like now, when after a
bit of warm weather, a sudden cold snap fell, making
the sap run quick from the trees. We'd all gone
out together to see how the metal spouts spiles she'd
(14:41):
called them, were screwed into drilled holes in the bark.
We'd hung buckets from hooks to collect the sap, and
some days had to empty them every few hours. In
the barn, she had an old wood burning stove, and
(15:04):
it was one kid's job to bring firewood, another's to
stir the pot of sap on top, and another's to
pet the barn kiddies when they came out to warm
themselves by the fire. Auntie watched over, laughing at our
(15:28):
goofy stories and songs. As we worked with a big
batch of sap. It might take us all day to
cook it down into syrup. But once we'd done it,
we'd pour it carefully into jugs and go stickily into
(15:49):
the farmhouse. We'd make plates and plates of pancakes and
eat them for dinner with the fresh syrup, slices of
banana and chewy pieces of pecan. If we could find
(16:11):
clean patches of snow, she'd help us pour the hot
syrup into it, making shapes stars and hearts and our
initials to eat like candy. I laughed, walking through the woods,
thinking of my poor saintly aunt to have a household
(16:37):
full of rowdy children stuffed full of sugar for a
whole week. I guessed someone would be out soon to
collect the sap. I hoped they might have a little
helper with them, and that they might feel as safe
(17:00):
as I had with Auntie and play as hard as
they liked sugar snow. I'd noticed it first in the evening.
(17:22):
I'd been locking up the flower shop, and when I
turned toward the street and slipped my keys back into
my pocket, I suddenly realized that the air was warm
(17:44):
and sweet, that there was still a sliver of daylight
glowing in the evening sky, and a feeling familiar, but
it had been a while since I'd felt it, a
(18:08):
feeling of spring. The next morning, before I'd even opened
my eyes, I could hear the slow drip of melting
icicles on the roof, and birds, so many birds, I smiled,
(18:40):
still wrapped in my blankets. Winter can be very quiet,
with the eaves wrapped in snow, working like the soft
petal of a piano, blotting out the sounds from the street,
(19:10):
and so many neighbors, whether human or avian, opted to
stay tucked in against the cold. Now it sounded like
we were about to have a lively day. It had
(19:37):
gone on like that for a week or more, bright days,
fresh air that smelled of soaked earth, and the mounds
of snow that we'd shoveled away from the sidewalks shrinking
(19:59):
bit by bit. Would it last? We asked each other
as we stood in line at the coffee shop. Were
pasted on the sidewalk. We'd all been fooled before. We
(20:23):
determined to enjoy it while it was here, no matter
the expiration date. I bought a few baskets of pansies,
bright purple and yellow, and set them cautiously on my
(20:44):
front stoop. I remembered my mother telling me they were
hardy and a safe bet in the early spring. For years,
I'd spelled that word h E a r t y,
(21:12):
thinking that the root of it was tied to a
strong heart. Then when I'd started at the flower shop,
I'd seen it printed on packages of a still by
(21:34):
and realized that the root wasn't heart but hard. I
wasn't sure it was that different, though brave open hearts
are often that way because they have been broken open.
(21:59):
They've been hard things and continued to beat sure enough.
A few days after I'd set out my pansies, I
woke up to three inches of fluffy snow laying thick
(22:23):
on the ground. I dusted off my flowers and pulled
them inside to warm up on my kitchen window sill.
I still had a pair of boots and a coat
(22:43):
by the door. A combination of laziness and superstition had
kept me from putting them away, and I pulled them
all on and stepped back outside. The clouds that had
(23:11):
dropped the snow had moved on, and the sky was
a bright, enthusiastic blue. I started to walk through the neighborhood,
feeling the snow so soft and full of old rain
(23:35):
drops disappearing into nothing underfoot. It was a lovely combination
of sensations, the sun warm on my face, the quiet
(23:56):
of the snow, and the air still sweet and smelling
of spring. I turned a corner and watched as a
couple of dogs were let out of a side door
to run in their yard. They leapt through the snow,
(24:25):
flipped over, and rolled joyfully in it. I'd heard someone
say once that play is a sign of safety, that
once our basic needs are met and we feel protected
(24:47):
from harm, well that's when we can play. We can
be creative and open and silly. I watched the dogs
skidding through the soft snow. One found a ball and
(25:14):
squeaked it in his teeth, and they both went running
along the fence into their backyard. I put my hands
in my pockets. I kept walking, thinking about the places
(25:35):
in my life where I felt like I could play.
There were a lot of them, I realized, and the
places where I didn't play. Well, that was useful to
(25:59):
think about. Two. Sometimes there are things we can do
about that, and sometimes it's just time to move on.
At some point I realized I'd been walking toward a
(26:21):
tiny park hidden down a dirt road on the edge
of my neighborhood. I'd walked by it a few times
before I'd ever seen the sign inviting passers by to
(26:43):
enjoy the spot from dawn till dusk. There was a
patch of open space, now covered by a smooth expanse
of unbred broken snow, a few tall trees, and a
(27:07):
path that led through a grove of maples that eventually
comes out at a dead end a few blocks over here.
The snow had a thin crust of ice, like the
(27:30):
crackly caramelized top of a crumb bruleet. It was oddly
satisfying to hear its faint snap with each step. The
air was warming in the sun, and I had a
(27:54):
feeling this snow could easily be gone by sunset. My
left footprints all the way up to the edge of
the woods, where the thicket of trees had protected the
(28:16):
gravel path from snow. A few feet in I noticed
a chest height on the nearest tree, a galvanized bucket
suspended from a hook in the bark. I rushed over
(28:40):
to it with the excitement of a child. I had
seen this before, and the memory was sweet in every sense.
For many years. Years in my childhood, my siblings and
(29:04):
I had spent our week of spring break at our
aunt's old white farmhouse a few hours north of home.
Some years the winter would drag her feet through that week,
(29:27):
and we'd spend our days baking muffins and cookies in
Auntie's warm kitchen, or bundled upon sofas, watching funny old
movies and playing board games. And sometimes we'd arrive for
(29:52):
a week of fine, warm weather and we'd play okay
in mud boots in the yard and hunt for treasures
in the hayloft of the big red barn. And once
(30:16):
or twice we'd been there for a sugar snow. It
was a time just like now, when after a bit
of warm weather, a sudden cold snap fell, making the
(30:39):
sap run quick from the trees. We'd all gone out
together to see how the metal spouts spiles she'd called them,
were screwed into drill holes in the bark. We'd hung
(31:04):
buckets from hooks to collect the sap, and some days
had to empty them every few hours. In the barn,
she had an old wood burning stove, and it was
(31:29):
one kid's job to bring firewood, another's to stir the
pot of sap on top, and anothers to pet the
barn kiddies when they came out to warm themselves by
the fire. Auntie watched over, laughing at our goofy stories
(31:59):
and songs. We worked with a big batch of sap.
It might take us all day to cook it down
into syrup, but once we'd done it, we'd pour it
(32:20):
carefully into jugs and go stickily into the farmhouse. We'd
make plates and plates of pancakes and eat them for
dinner with the fresh syrup and slices of banana and
(32:48):
chewy pieces of pecan. If we could find clean patches
of snow, she'd help us pour the hot sirup up
into it, making shapes, stars and hearts and our initials
(33:11):
to eat like candy. I laughed walking through the woods,
thinking of my poor saintly aunt to have a household
full of rowdy children stuffed full of sugar for a
(33:35):
whole week. But all I remembered was laughing and eating
and playing. Passing by the tapped trees, I guessed someone
(33:55):
would be out soon to collect the sap. I hoped
they might have a little helper with them, and they
might feel as safe as I had with Auntie, and
(34:16):
play as hard as they liked. Sweet Dreams
Welcome to bedtime stories for grown ups in which nothing
much happens, you feel good, and then you fall asleep.
I'm Catherine Nikolay. I write and read all the stories
(00:23):
you hear on Nothing Much Happens Audio Engineering is by
Bob Witttersheim. My book, also called Nothing Much Happens, is
available wherever books are sold. For extra coziness, follow us
on Twitter, Instagram, or Facebook, and you can always learn
(00:47):
more or get yourself a cozy Nothing Much Happens hoodie
at Nothing Much Happens dot com. Now, let me say
something about how this works. Your mind needs a place
to rest, and without one, it's apt to race and
(01:08):
wander and keep you up all night. Following along with
my voice and the simple shape of the story I'm
about to tell you gives it that resting place, and
it trains your brain over time to more quickly settle
and turn off. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll
(01:33):
go a little slower the second time through. If you
wake in the middle of the night, turn your thoughts
right back to whatever you can remember about the story,
or even just the details of a pleasant memory, and
you will drop right back off. Our story tonight is
(02:00):
called Sugar Snow, and it's a story about shifting seasons.
It's also about pots of pansies, breakfast for dinner, and
the people and places that teach us to play. Okay,
(02:25):
it's time. Put down whatever you've been looking at and
switch off the light. Slide down deep into your sheets,
and get as comfortable as you can. There's nothing you
need to keep track of. No one is waiting. You
(02:49):
have done enough for today. You're safe. Take a slow
breath in through your nose, let it out with a sigh. Nice.
Do one more in and out. Good Sugar Snow. I'd
(03:26):
noticed at first in the evening, I'd been locking up
the flower shop, and when I turned toward the street
and slipped my keys back into my pocket, I suddenly
realized that the air was warm and sweet, that there
(03:52):
was still a sliver of daylight glowing in the evening sky,
and a feeling familiar but it had been a while
since I felt it, a feeling of spring. The next morning,
(04:13):
before I'd even opened my eyes, I could hear the
slow drip of melting icicles on the roof, and birds,
so many birds, I smiled, still wrapped in my blankets.
(04:35):
Winter can be very quiet, with the eaves wrapped in snow,
working like the soft petal of a piano, blotting out
the sounds from the street, and so many neighbors, whether
(04:56):
human or avian, ding to stay tucked in against the cold.
Now it sounded like we were about to have a
lively day. It had gone on like that for a
(05:17):
week or more, bright days, fresh air that smelled of
soaked earth, and the mounds of snow that we'd shoveled
away from the sidewalks shrinking bit by bit. Would it last?
(05:37):
We asked each other as we stood in lying at
the coffee shop or passed on the sidewalk. We'd all
been fooled before. We determined to enjoy it while it
was here, no matter the expiration date. I bought a
(06:02):
few baskets of pansies, bright purple and yellow, and set
them cautiously on my front stoop. I remembered my mother
telling me they were hardy and a safe bet in
the early spring. For years, I'd spelled that word h
(06:29):
e a r t y, thinking that the root of
it was tied to a strong heart. Then when I'd
started in the flower shop, I'd seen it printed on
packages of astellby and realized that the root wasn't heart
(06:58):
but hard. I wasn't sure it was different, though. Brave
open hearts are often that way because they have been
broken open. They've been through hard things and continue to beat.
(07:23):
Sure Enough, a few days after I'd set out my pansies,
I woke up to three inches of fluffy snow laying
thick on the ground. I dusted off my flowers and
pulled them inside to warm up on my kitchen window sill.
(07:48):
I still had a pair of boots and a coat
by the door. A combination of laziness and superstition had
kept me from putting them away, and I pulled them
all on and stepped back outside. The clouds that had
(08:12):
dropped this snow had moved on. When the sky was
a bright, enthusiastic blue, I started to walk through the neighborhood,
feeling the snow, so soft and full of old rain drops,
(08:35):
disappear into nothing underfoot. It was a lovely combination of sensations,
the sun warm on my face, the quiet of the snow,
and the air still sweet and smelling of spring. I
(09:02):
turned a corner and watched as a couple of dogs
were let out of a side door to run in
their yard. They leapt through the snow, flipped over, and
rolled joyfully in it. I'd heard someone say once that
(09:25):
play is a sign of safety. That once our basic
needs are met and we feel protected from harm, well,
that's when we can play. We can be creative and
open and silly. I watched the dogs skidding through the
(09:51):
soft snow. One found a ball and squeaked it in
his teeth, and they both went running along the fence
into their backyard. I put my hands in my pockets
and kept walking, thinking about the places in my life
(10:18):
where I felt like I could play. There were a
lot of them, I realized when the places I didn't play, well,
that was useful to think about too. Sometimes there are
(10:38):
things we can do about that, and sometimes it's just
time to move on. At some point, I realized I'd
been walking toward a tiny park hidden down a dirt
road on the edge of my neighborhood. I'd walked by
(11:02):
it a few times before, i'd ever seen the sign
inviting passers by to enjoy the spot from dawn till dusk.
There was a patch of open space, now covered by
a smooth expanse of unbroken snow, a few tall trees,
(11:26):
and a path that led through a grove of maples
that eventually came out at a dead end a few
blocks over here. The snow had a thin crust of ice,
like the crackly caramelized top of a crambouleet. It was
(11:52):
oddly satisfying to hear its faint snap with each step.
The air was warming in the sun, and I had
a feeling this snow could easily be gone by sunset.
(12:15):
I left footprints all the way up to the edge
of the woods, where the thicket of trees had protected
the gravel path from snow. A few feet in, I noticed,
at chest height on the nearest tree a galvanized bucket
(12:40):
suspended from a hook in the bark. I rushed over
to it with the excitement of a child. I had
seen this before, and the memory was sweet in every
(13:03):
For many years in my childhood, my siblings and I
had spent our week of spring break at our aunt's
old white farmhouse a few hours north of home. Some
years the winter would drag her feet through that week,
(13:29):
and we'd spend our days baking muffins and cookies in
Auntie's warm kitchen, are bundled up on sofas, watching funny
old movies and playing board games. And sometimes we'd arrive
(13:51):
for a week of fine warm weather, and we'd play
croquet in mud boots in the yard and hunt for
treasures in the hayloft of the big red barn. An
once or twice we'd been there for a sugar snow.
(14:16):
It was a time just like now, when after a
bit of warm weather, a sudden cold snap fell, making
the sap run quick from the trees. We'd all gone
out together to see how the metal spouts spiles she'd
(14:41):
called them, were screwed into drilled holes in the bark.
We'd hung buckets from hooks to collect the sap, and
some days had to empty them every few hours. In
the barn, she had an old wood burning stove, and
(15:04):
it was one kid's job to bring firewood, another's to
stir the pot of sap on top, and another's to
pet the barn kiddies when they came out to warm
themselves by the fire. Auntie watched over, laughing at our
(15:28):
goofy stories and songs. As we worked with a big
batch of sap. It might take us all day to
cook it down into syrup. But once we'd done it,
we'd pour it carefully into jugs and go stickily into
(15:49):
the farmhouse. We'd make plates and plates of pancakes and
eat them for dinner with the fresh syrup, slices of
banana and chewy pieces of pecan. If we could find
(16:11):
clean patches of snow, she'd help us pour the hot
syrup into it, making shapes stars and hearts and our
initials to eat like candy. I laughed, walking through the woods,
thinking of my poor saintly aunt to have a household
(16:37):
full of rowdy children stuffed full of sugar for a
whole week. I guessed someone would be out soon to
collect the sap. I hoped they might have a little
helper with them, and that they might feel as safe
(17:00):
as I had with Auntie and play as hard as
they liked sugar snow. I'd noticed it first in the evening.
(17:22):
I'd been locking up the flower shop, and when I
turned toward the street and slipped my keys back into
my pocket, I suddenly realized that the air was warm
(17:44):
and sweet, that there was still a sliver of daylight
glowing in the evening sky, and a feeling familiar, but
it had been a while since I'd felt it, a
(18:08):
feeling of spring. The next morning, before I'd even opened
my eyes, I could hear the slow drip of melting
icicles on the roof, and birds, so many birds, I smiled,
(18:40):
still wrapped in my blankets. Winter can be very quiet,
with the eaves wrapped in snow, working like the soft
petal of a piano, blotting out the sounds from the street,
(19:10):
and so many neighbors, whether human or avian, opted to
stay tucked in against the cold. Now it sounded like
we were about to have a lively day. It had
(19:37):
gone on like that for a week or more, bright days,
fresh air that smelled of soaked earth, and the mounds
of snow that we'd shoveled away from the sidewalks shrinking
(19:59):
bit by bit. Would it last? We asked each other
as we stood in line at the coffee shop. Were
pasted on the sidewalk. We'd all been fooled before. We
(20:23):
determined to enjoy it while it was here, no matter
the expiration date. I bought a few baskets of pansies,
bright purple and yellow, and set them cautiously on my
(20:44):
front stoop. I remembered my mother telling me they were
hardy and a safe bet in the early spring. For years,
I'd spelled that word h E a r t y,
(21:12):
thinking that the root of it was tied to a
strong heart. Then when I'd started at the flower shop,
I'd seen it printed on packages of a still by
(21:34):
and realized that the root wasn't heart but hard. I
wasn't sure it was that different, though brave open hearts
are often that way because they have been broken open.
(21:59):
They've been hard things and continued to beat sure enough.
A few days after I'd set out my pansies, I
woke up to three inches of fluffy snow laying thick
(22:23):
on the ground. I dusted off my flowers and pulled
them inside to warm up on my kitchen window sill.
I still had a pair of boots and a coat
(22:43):
by the door. A combination of laziness and superstition had
kept me from putting them away, and I pulled them
all on and stepped back outside. The clouds that had
(23:11):
dropped the snow had moved on, and the sky was
a bright, enthusiastic blue. I started to walk through the neighborhood,
feeling the snow so soft and full of old rain
(23:35):
drops disappearing into nothing underfoot. It was a lovely combination
of sensations, the sun warm on my face, the quiet
(23:56):
of the snow, and the air still sweet and smelling
of spring. I turned a corner and watched as a
couple of dogs were let out of a side door
to run in their yard. They leapt through the snow,
(24:25):
flipped over, and rolled joyfully in it. I'd heard someone
say once that play is a sign of safety, that
once our basic needs are met and we feel protected
(24:47):
from harm, well that's when we can play. We can
be creative and open and silly. I watched the dogs
skidding through the soft snow. One found a ball and
(25:14):
squeaked it in his teeth, and they both went running
along the fence into their backyard. I put my hands
in my pockets. I kept walking, thinking about the places
(25:35):
in my life where I felt like I could play.
There were a lot of them, I realized, and the
places where I didn't play. Well, that was useful to
(25:59):
think about. Two. Sometimes there are things we can do
about that, and sometimes it's just time to move on.
At some point I realized I'd been walking toward a
(26:21):
tiny park hidden down a dirt road on the edge
of my neighborhood. I'd walked by it a few times
before I'd ever seen the sign inviting passers by to
(26:43):
enjoy the spot from dawn till dusk. There was a
patch of open space, now covered by a smooth expanse
of unbred broken snow, a few tall trees, and a
(27:07):
path that led through a grove of maples that eventually
comes out at a dead end a few blocks over here.
The snow had a thin crust of ice, like the
(27:30):
crackly caramelized top of a crumb bruleet. It was oddly
satisfying to hear its faint snap with each step. The
air was warming in the sun, and I had a
(27:54):
feeling this snow could easily be gone by sunset. My
left footprints all the way up to the edge of
the woods, where the thicket of trees had protected the
(28:16):
gravel path from snow. A few feet in I noticed
a chest height on the nearest tree, a galvanized bucket
suspended from a hook in the bark. I rushed over
(28:40):
to it with the excitement of a child. I had
seen this before, and the memory was sweet in every sense.
For many years. Years in my childhood, my siblings and
(29:04):
I had spent our week of spring break at our
aunt's old white farmhouse a few hours north of home.
Some years the winter would drag her feet through that week,
(29:27):
and we'd spend our days baking muffins and cookies in
Auntie's warm kitchen, or bundled upon sofas, watching funny old
movies and playing board games. And sometimes we'd arrive for
(29:52):
a week of fine, warm weather and we'd play okay
in mud boots in the yard and hunt for treasures
in the hayloft of the big red barn. And once
(30:16):
or twice we'd been there for a sugar snow. It
was a time just like now, when after a bit
of warm weather, a sudden cold snap fell, making the
(30:39):
sap run quick from the trees. We'd all gone out
together to see how the metal spouts spiles she'd called them,
were screwed into drill holes in the bark. We'd hung
(31:04):
buckets from hooks to collect the sap, and some days
had to empty them every few hours. In the barn,
she had an old wood burning stove, and it was
(31:29):
one kid's job to bring firewood, another's to stir the
pot of sap on top, and anothers to pet the
barn kiddies when they came out to warm themselves by
the fire. Auntie watched over, laughing at our goofy stories
(31:59):
and songs. We worked with a big batch of sap.
It might take us all day to cook it down
into syrup, but once we'd done it, we'd pour it
(32:20):
carefully into jugs and go stickily into the farmhouse. We'd
make plates and plates of pancakes and eat them for
dinner with the fresh syrup and slices of banana and
(32:48):
chewy pieces of pecan. If we could find clean patches
of snow, she'd help us pour the hot sirup up
into it, making shapes, stars and hearts and our initials
(33:11):
to eat like candy. I laughed walking through the woods,
thinking of my poor saintly aunt to have a household
full of rowdy children stuffed full of sugar for a
(33:35):
whole week. But all I remembered was laughing and eating
and playing. Passing by the tapped trees, I guessed someone
(33:55):
would be out soon to collect the sap. I hoped
they might have a little helper with them, and they
might feel as safe as I had with Auntie, and
(34:16):
play as hard as they liked. Sweet Dreams
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