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Have you ever noticed how certain things just quietly change and one day you realize you don't quite remember how they used to be?
Like when slow dancing disappeared.
Or when drinking water became a whole personality.
Or who decided the word mullet should describe that haircut?
Those are exactly the kinds of everyday mysteries explored on Decoder Ring Slate's podcast hosted by Willa Haskin.
Every episode takes something familiar, something hiding in plain sight, and gently pulls it apart to uncover the history, context and surprising turns beneath it.
Willa brings curiosity, humor and deep reporting to questions you didn't even realize you were asking.
It's thoughtful without being stuffy, smart without being overwhelming, and genuinely fun to listen to, a kind of show that makes you see the world a little differently afterwards.
Decoder Ring was named one of the best podcasts of 2023 by the New York Times, and once you start listening, it's easy to understand why.
You can find new episodes of Decoder Ring every two weeks, wherever you get your podcasts.
Some mornings I wake up knowing I've got a full day ahead of me.
Projects, calls, lots of writing and planning.
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First this, then that.
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Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Everyone, in which nothing much happens.
You feel good And then you fall asleep.
I'm Catherine Nicolai.
I write and read all the stories you hear when nothing much happens.
With audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. we give to a different charity each week.
And this week we are giving to My Sister Susan's House, serving Greensboro's youth since 1971 and giving them help today and hope for tomorrow.
Learn more about them in our show notes.
If you are hearing this, in December of 2025, we have a special gift for those of you who've been eyeing the premium subscription.
Join or gift it now, and you'll get the first two months for free.
Let me take a moment to explain how this works.
Quiet nights are actually a pretty new thing.
For most of human history, people drifted off beside the sounds of a fire, the soft movements and murmurs of others nearby and the natural hush of the world outside.
Those sounds meant safety, warmth and company, which is why a calm voice and a simple story can ease you toward sleep.
The more often you listen, the more your body learns to follow that path back to rest.
I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little bit slower the second time through.
And if you find yourself awake later on, feel free to just start the episode over again.
Our story tonight is called Candle Walk and it's a story about a special holiday tradition in downtown, Nothing Much.
It's also about tea lights and snow shovels, Christmas cookies and Coco keeping warm in a thermos.
A smiley face on a sticky note, voices in harmony and a winding, forgotten alley where light begins to shine.
So, lights out, campers.
It's time.
Snuggle down and get as comfortable as you can.
I know I'm just a stranger on the internet.
But I hope you can feel how earnestly I care about your rest.
That you feel safe and at ease.
So let my voice be like a guardian.
I'll take the next watch.
You let go.
Take a deep breath in through your nose.
And sigh from your mouth.
One more time, breathe in and out.
Good.
Candle walk.
I had a hand-drawn map in the pocket of my coat and a red wagon beside me full of supplies.
It wasn't dark yet, but in another quarter of an hour the deep blue of the sky would shift to purple and then to the bottomless midnight black of night in the heart of winter.
As I pulled the cart, it jostled over the cracks in the sidewalk and the jars inside clinked in rhythm with my steps.
I stopped to check the map and crossed a street into the section of town I'd volunteered to adorn.
I was helping to set up for Candle Walk.
It was a holiday tradition in our little village. and one that I remembered fondly from childhood.
I was eager to be a part of bringing it to life now that I was grown.
Through all of downtown and a bit into the surrounding neighborhoods.
We would line the streets on both sides with candles that would hopefully burn all night.
The effect was a magical glow that drew folks to downtown to enjoy an evening of holiday cheer together.
In my little red wagon I'd wedged four crates of half-pint jam jars, with dozens of jars in each one, a bag of playground sand with an old measuring cup stuck in the grains, about 200 tea-like candles and the long-necked lighter I used to light my fireplace.
I also had a thermos of hot cocoa that I'd been able to fill at the bakery as I passed through town for supplies.
I was saving it to drink at just the right moment.
I'd been assigned the stretch of streets north of town running down from the library to Main Street.
The library had its own lanterns set out, big ones balanced on the stone wall that ran in front of the building, and a few of the houses that lined the street had paper luminaries lit along their front walks.
I liked that.
We all brought a bit of brightness to the evening.
There was a bit of snow, enough to cover lawns and drift into sloping piles on rooftops.
But the sidewalks were clear and salted.
I laughingly remembered taking my kitchen table salt shaker outside that first snowfall of freshman year at my little college apartment in an old house with slippery front steps.
Reasoning that salt was salt, after all, wasn't it?
And yes, my dad had suggested more than once.
I pick up a bucket of the sidewalk sort to keep at the door.
But it just hadn't seemed that important.
I'd rushed off to class hoping that my few sprinkles would do the trick, and come home to find the sidewalk shoveled and copiously coated with proper ice melt.
A nearly full bucket of the stuff on the step beside a new shovel.
A note stuck on the handle, just a smiley face, and a love dad scrawled on it.
That shovel had seen me through quite a few winters and it had felt so good to be looked after like that that I did my best to pay it forward, shoveling for a neighbor whenever I could.
I noticed a few shovels now on front porches or leaned against garage doors waiting for the next big snow.
I had a feeling it could be coming tonight, there was a sharpness in the air.
And it occurred to me that snow might smell like silent sounds.
The very molecules in the air were wrapped in ice, muted and blanketed, like the land would soon be.
I shook the poetry from my head and turned to my wagon to start my work.
I took a few jars from a box and examined them.
They were small, half-pint jam jars and their surface was made of beveled glass in a design I'd sometimes heard called quilted.
Who had thought of this detail, I wondered.
The candlelight would do more than glow inside of them.
It would throw its illumination in pretty patterns onto the snow and sidewalks.
I scooped a half cup or so of sand into the bottom of each one, then dropped a tea light on top of it.
The sand would smother aflame in a moment, if someone accidentally kicked a jar over.
And since the candles were small, they would only burn for the evening anyway.
The jars were meant to go just a few feet apart on the sidewalk for maximum magical effect.
And at first I was clumsily walking a few steps, juggling a jar as I tried to light the candle and find an even piece of pavement to set it on.
Then, as with most things, a little bit of experience led to a lot more expertise.
And I stood at my wagon, prepping a dozen jars at a time.
Jar, sand, candle. jar, sand, candle, and back into their box.
Then I filled one pocket with tea lights, and as I worked my way down the street toward downtown I'd just stop every few feet, grab a jar, light the candle and settle it onto the ground.
By the time I pulled my wagon to the corner of downtown where the café sat, its windows strung with lights and fogged from the warmth inside, night had truly fallen.
All around me, the streets shone with hundreds, maybe thousands of candles, and villagers were turned out in their hats and coats enjoying the winter magic.
Each shop had special offerings inside for the candle walkers.
Christmas cookies and cider.
Keepsake ornaments.
Beautifully decorated trees to tie a wish on.
Santa and elves to visit.
I checked my map and saw there was one small alley that I still needed to visit.
I tugged at the handle of my wagon and headed off.
It sat between a row of stores and the movie theater and I think even long-time residents sometimes forgot that it was here, an old narrow lane with a few small offices and doorways in it.
It was twisty and winding, and as I lit candles and laid them down, the shadows bounced off the brick walls around me.
Even in this little used spot, I noticed wreaths in the windows. red bows and jingle bells on doors.
Just as I was opening my last box of jars and scraping the bottom of the bag of sand, I heard music coming from farther down the alley.
A Christmas choir warming up and walking my way.
They were dressed in deep green coats, with white scarves and gloves and singing in harmony a song about repeating the sounding joy.
I slid my wagon to the side to make room in the narrow space and held my lit candle in a jar in front of me as they passed, like I was holding up a lighter in the dark of a stadium at Encore.
We smiled at each other, knowing we were sharing a pure moment of delight, and their blended voices thrummed through the air around me.
I thought of the beveled glass of the jam jars, the note from Dad on the shovel, the lanterns at the library, the cocoa in my thermos, the wreaths in the alley windows and felt a swell of love for the things that are good in this world and those who make them.
I whispered a small promise to keep seeking them out as the new year arrived.
Candle Walk.
I had a hand-drawn map in the pocket of my coat and a red wagon beside me full of supplies.
It wasn't dark yet, but in another quarter of an hour the deep blue of the sky would shift to purple and then to the bottomless midnight black of the heart of winter.
As I pulled the cart, it jostled over the cracks in the sidewalk and the jars inside clinked in rhythm with my steps.
I stopped to check the map, and crossed a street into the section of town I'd volunteered to adorn.
I was helping to set up for Candle Walk.
It was a holiday tradition in our little village, one that I remembered fondly from childhood, when I was eager to be a part of bringing it to life now that I was grown.
Through all of downtown and a bit into the surrounding neighborhoods.
We would line the streets on both sides with candles that would hopefully burn all night.
The effect was a magical glow that drew folks to downtown to enjoy an evening of holiday cheer.
In my little red wagon I'd wedged four crates of half-pint jam jars, with dozens of jars in each one, a bag of playground sand with an old measuring cup stuck in the grains, about 200 tea-light candles and the long-necked lighter I used to light my fireplace.
I also had a thermos of hot cocoa that I'd been able to fill at the bakery as I passed through town for supplies.
I was saving it to drink at just the right moment.
I'd been assigned the stretch of streets north of town running down from the library to Main Street.
The library had its own lantern set out, big ones, balanced on the stone wall that ran in front of the building.
And a few of the houses that lined the streets had paper luminaries lit along their front walks.
I liked that.
We all brought a bit of brightness to the evening.
There was a bit of snow, enough to cover lawns and drift into sloping piles on rooftops.
But the sidewalks were clear and salted.
I laughingly remembered taking my kitchen table salt shaker outside.
That first snowfall of freshman year at my little college apartment in an old house with slippery front steps.
Reasoning that salt was salt after all, wasn't it?
And yes, my dad had suggested more than once.
I'd pick up a bucket of the sidewalk sort to keep at the door, but it just hadn't seemed that important.
I'd rush off to class hoping that my few sprinkles would do the trick, and come home to find the sidewalks shoveled and copiously coated with proper ice melt.
A nearly full bucket of the stuff on the step beside a new shovel with a note stuck on the handle.
Just a smiley face and a love dad scrawled on it.
That shovel had seen me through quite a few winters and it had felt so good to be looked after like that that I did my best to pay it forward, shoveling for a neighbor whenever I could.
I noticed a few shovels now on front porches or leaned against garage doors waiting for the next big snow.
I had a feeling it could be coming tonight.
There was a sharpness in the air, and I thought that snow might smell like silent sounds.
The very molecules in the air were wrapped in ice, muted and blanketed like the land would soon be.
I shook the poetry from my head and turned to my wagon to start my work.
I took a few jars from a box and examined them.
They were small, half-pint jam jars.
On their surface was made of beveled glass in a design I'd sometimes heard called quilted.
Who had thought of this detail, I wondered.
The candlelight would do more than glow inside of them.
It would throw its illumination in pretty patterns onto the snow and sidewalks.
I scooped a half cup or so of sand into the bottom of each one, then dropped a tea light on top of it.
The sand would smother aflame in a moment if someone accidentally kicked a jar over.
And since the candles were small, they would only burn for the evening anyway.
The jars were meant to go just a few feet apart on the sidewalk for maximum magical effect.
And at first I was clumsily walking a few steps, juggling a jar as I tried to light the candle and find an even piece of pavement to set it on.
Then, as with most things, a little bit of experience led to a lot more expertise.
And I stood at my wagon, prepping a dozen jars at a time.
Jar, sand, candle.
Jar, sand, candle. and back into their box.
Then I filled one pocket with tea lights, and as I worked my way down the street away from the library and toward downtown, I would just stop every few feet, grab a jar light the wick and settle it onto the ground.
By the time I pulled my wagon to the corner of downtown where the cafe sat, its windows strung with lights and fogged from the warmth inside, night had truly fallen.
All around me, the streets shone with hundreds, maybe thousands of candles.
And villagers were turned out in their hats and coats, enjoying the winter magic.
Each shop had special offerings inside for the candle walkers.
Christmas cookies and cider, keepsake ornaments, beautifully decorated trees to tie a wish on Santa and elves to visit.
I checked my map and saw there was one small alley that I still needed to visit.
I tugged at the handle of my wagon and headed off.
I sat between a row of stores and the movie theater.
And I think even long-time residents sometimes forgot it was there.
An old, narrow lane with a few small offices and doorways in it.
It was twisty and winding.
And as I lit candles and laid them down, the shadows bounced off the brick walls around me.
Even in this little used spot, I noticed wreaths in windows, red bows and jingle bells on doors.
Just as I was opening my last box of jars, scraping the bottom of the sandbag, I heard music coming from farther down the alley, a Christmas choir warming up and walking my way.
They were dressed in deep green coats, with white scarves on gloves and singing in harmony a song about repeating the sounding joy.
I slid my wagon to the side to make room in the narrow space and held my lit candle in its jar in front of me as they passed by, like I was holding up a lighter in the dark of a stadium at Encore.
We smiled at each other, knowing we were sharing a pure moment of delight, and their blended voices thrummed through the air around me.
I thought of the beveled glass of the jam jars, the note from Dad on the shovel, the lanterns at the library, the cocoa in my thermos, the wreaths in the alley windows and felt a swell of love for the things that are good in this world and those who make them.
I whispered a small promise to keep seeking them out as the new year arrived.
Sweet dreams.
