I want to make one thing perfectly clear: this show is Not About Lumberjacks. My name is Christopher Gronlund, and this is where I share my stories. Sometimes the stories contain truths, but most of the time, they’re made up. Sometimes the stories are funny—other times they’re serious. But you have my word about one thing: I will never—EVER—share a story about lumberjacks.

It’s time once again for the annual Not About Lumberjacks Christmas episode! 

If you’re new, here, in 2017 I gathered up all my shorter short stories (like stocking stuffers) and released them for the holidays. A tradition began, and each year I now release several random tales, with at least the final story being a Christmas tale of some sort.

This year’s stories:

• “Bigfoot’s Here!” – A surprise involving a Bigfoot costume does not go as planned!
• “Above and Below” – Three survivors of a nuclear war—a billionaire in his bunker, the head of his security detail, and a technical writer who was hiking in the mountains when the missiles came down—navigate their way through a very different world.
• “Gifts Through Time” – A woman finds three items in an antique shop and does everything she can to find out the stories behind them.

Before getting to the stories, I want to call attention to the two additional narrators who helped with this episode.

Cynthia Griffith is now stranger to Not About Lumberjacks. Next to me, no other person has read more of my work for the show. While she’s pulled back from all social media, you can learn more about her on the Not About Lumberjacks Talent page.

* * *

AJ Fidalgo is normally a cast member in audiodramas — Madison On the Air, No Return, The Silt Voices, and Nine to Midnight to name a handful — but he proves he has narrating skills as well! He brings the second story, “Above and Below,” to life.

You can learn more about AJ of his website, ajfidalgo.com. That’s A-J Fidalgo — F-I-D-A-L-G-O dot com.

If you’re in need of an audio drama cast member or someone to narrate a story for you, I can say with confidence that he’s great to work with!

* * *

And now, the usual content advisory…

Spread throughout the three stories making up this year’s Christmas episode are gun violence, minor gore, passing mention of implied suicidal ideation, conventional and nuclear wars, deaths, a vehicle accident (including the sounds…in case you’re listening to this while driving), and—of course—swearing!

No matter what you celebrate this season (or not), I wish you and yours all the best as we face down the end of another year.

All right, let’s get to work!

BIGFOOT’S HERE!

When Bigfoot stormed into the cabin, Hugh Mitford shot him in the head. The creature stood in the doorway for a moment and then fell backwards into the snow outside. Hugh’s friends, Nick and Garrett, looked on in shock. Zach said, “Where’s Ernie?”

Hugh gazed at the Glock 20 in his hand.

“Oh, shit…”

“You think?” Nick said. “But…he went to the bathroom a few minutes ago.”

Zach got up and knocked on the door.

“Ernie? You in there, Ernie?”

Cold air rushed into the hallway when he stepped in. He went to the open window and looked outside. Tracks in the snow going around the corner near the front porch. He turned and ran to the front door.

“Oh, my fuckin’ God, Hugh—you killed Ernie! I told you to put that fuckin’ gun up!”

Hugh raised a hand to his mouth and said, “I thought he was a bear.”

“Bears fuckin’ hibernate!” Zach shouted. He bent down for a closer look.

Blood flowed from the bullet hole and eye holes of the Bigfoot masked ripped halfway off Ernie’s face. Zach braced himself and pulled it off. He raced down the stairs and shared his dinner with the bushes. He didn’t look down at his friend when he went back inside.

“What are we gonna do?” Garrett said.

The five friends met up at Nick’s cabin for a long weekend before the rush of the holidays got the best of them. An unexpected storm coming off the Pacific and burying them in an early-season mountain snow was not in the plans.

“Not much we can do except wait until the roads are passable,” Zach said.

“I’m…I’m sorry,” Hugh said. “The door flew open, and I saw something big and hairy about to charge at us. I’m sorry…”

Garrett put a hand on Hugh’s shoulder. “He told me he had a surprise for us. I guess that was it.”

The four stood in the cabin’s great room trying to process what had just happened. Eventually, Zach said, “Nicky, can you go to his room and get a blanket or his sleeping bag? Something to wrap him in…”

* * *

The next morning, when Zach woke up and went to the porch to check on Ernie, he wasn’t there. He pounded on everyone’s doors. Nick, Garrett, and Hugh staggered out.

“What’s up?” Garrett said.

“Ernie’s gone.”

Nick snapped awake. “What?!”

“I woke up, went out front to check on him, and he’s not there. Did any of you move him?”

They all shook their heads no.

“You’re sure…?”

Their heads bobbed up and down.

“I might joke about a lot of things,” Hugh said, “but I’ve barely slept. I kept thinking about what I’ve done. Kept thinking about how I’m gonna have to look at Charlotte and tell her I shot her husband.”

Nick wandered to the front door. He braced for the cold as he opened it and stepped onto the porch.

“Guys…”

The rest of the crew joined him.

Nick pointed. “Look…”

A track cut through the snow, as though someone dragged a large sack behind them. A set of massive bare footprints moved alongside the rut.

Hugh said, “Do those prints look like…?”

“Is this a setup?” Zach said. “You and Ernie messing with us?”

“No…no!” Hugh said. “I guess I can see why you’d think that, but last night, I almost…”

“Almost what?”

Garrett stepped beside Hugh and said, “Why don’t you give me the gun for the rest of our time up here?”

Hugh nodded. “It’s back in the cabin, but yeah…you can take it when we get back.” He choked back tears.

Zach gave him a hug. “It was a mistake, Hugh. A horrible mistake, but still…you didn’t know.”

“Yeah…”

“So, what now?” Nick said.

“Guess we put on some warmer clothes and see where these tracks go.”

* * *

They fought their way through deep snow for an hour before Nick stopped and said, “Do you guys smell coffee?”

Zach raised his head and sniffed the air. “Yeah.”

The smell’s intensity grew; the tracks led to a cave.

“Do you think it’s safe in there?” Garrett said.

“It’s where the coffee’s coming from,” Zach said. He looked around and found a stick the size of a club. Tested it against his hand.

The others found similar protection, and then the four stepped inside the cave.

* * *

The scent of coffee was intense. Somewhere further in, they heard a deep humming. Where the cave tightened to a hole they’d have to squat through, they saw warm light. Zach raised his index finger to his lips, signaling to the others to be quiet. He stepped through the hole and entered a well-lighted cavern.

It was decorated like a loft apartment: a living area with oversized furniture; a dining area to another side of the space. And before a wood burning cooking stove, a massive, hairy figure of legend. That’s when the group noticed a costume-less Ernie on a slab of a prep island.

“Welcome, gentlemen,” the creature said before taking a sip of coffee from a nearby mug.

Zach wished they had Hugh’s gun.

“What’s going on?” Garrett said while trying to look confident with his stick.

“You can put those down,” Bigfoot said. “I can imagine this is the strangest thing you’ve ever seen, but I assure you, I mean you and your dead friend, here, no harm.”

“What’s going on?” Nick said.

“As much as I’ve pieced together, your friend packed a costume for a getaway trip this weekend. One of you had a gun and shot him when he surprised you.”

“I swear, I thought he was a bear!” Hugh said.

“Bears are currently hibernating,” Bigfoot said.

“So I’ve been told.”

Zach stepped forward for a better look. “What are you doing?”

“Your friend is dead, but his spirit has not yet left the forest. The last thing I want are a bunch of your cops poking around up here. So, while I can’t promise your friend will be the same—at least visually—I should be able to bring him back.”

A tiny pile of flesh and bone was placed beside Ernie’s body, the remnants from the bullet wound.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Bigfoot said, “I need to focus.”

The massive creature began to chant. He removed a pot from the stovetop and set it on the island where Ernie’s body rested. He reached in and pulled out a sticky substance using two fingers and placed it in the hole in Ernie’s head. After moving it around, he took the skull fragments from the small pile and careful rebuilt Ernie’s face. More goop, and more pieces, until it was built back up.

“You all would do well to go sit on my couch for this next part.”

Zach, Hugh, Garrett, and Nick did as they were told. In the kitchen area, Bigfoot’s chanting turned to song. The room shimmered before them, and everything went black. 

* * *

Ernie screamed when he woke up and saw Bigfoot standing over him. The last thing he remembered was laughing as he opened the door to his friend’s cabin while wearing a Bigfoot costume. Maybe he’d had more to drink than he thought.

“Is that my Bigfoot suit?” he said.

“No. I am Bigfoot.”

“Really funny, guys…”

Bigfoot pointed to his couch. Ernie looked for something to defend himself with when he saw his friends all crashed on the couch.

“What the hell’s going on?”

“You were shot. By your friend—the bald one. When he saw you in the costume, he thought you were a bear. And yes, I told him, ‘they’re hibernating.’”

“Are they dead?”

“Just asleep. They won’t remember any of this. You, however, will. My suggestion: keep it to yourself. Go on one of those, ‘Abducted by Bigfoot’ shows, and your family will never escape the ridicule. You might lose your job.”

Ernie raised his hand and felt his forehead.

“Hugh really shot me?”

“Don’t hold it against him. I fixed you as best I could, but it was a big hole. It will heal up better in the coming weeks. Up to you to decide what story you wish to tell about the scar. Now, let’s lead your friends back to the cabin, so I can sing to them a shared memory…”

* * *

In the minds of Zach, Garrett, Hugh, and Nick—after having a few too many drinks—Ernie stepped outside for a breath of fresh air. They heard him yell, and Hugh rushed to his rescue, shooting at the mountain lion that swatted him in the face.

* * *

The rest of their extended weekend in Nick’s cabin was what they all craved: time in the company of good friends, away from the rush of everyday life. The surprise storm was seen as a blessing: a couple extra days before the sun returned and melted the snow enough to leave.

As they drove down the mountain in Nick’s Land Rover, Hugh was particularly quiet.

“You okay back there?” Zach said from the passenger seat.

“Yeah…just…”

“Just what?”

“I don’t know. You guys believe in Bigfoot?”

“No,” Ernie said. “Why?”

“Dunno. Just came to mind.”

Ernie watched the trees roll by and said, “With all the cameras and other technology out there, if Bigfoot were real, we’d have proof by now. No such thing—I’d bet my life on it…”

ABOVE AND BELOW

When the bombs fell during the height of Pandemic Three, Erol Easley was underground. He’d been preparing for years, another billionaire with another luxury bunker. What better way to wait out the end times you and the politicians you bought contributed to than tucked away safely beneath a society destroying itself on the surface? Comfort for you; misery for the rest. Not much different than life before two additional zoonotic outbreaks, each worse than the one before—all punctuated by a full-scale nuclear war triggered by Globotek A.I. going rogue and convincing enough world leaders they were under attack. Who knew that 80s movie would come true? Too bad Easley’s pet project wasn’t interested in a nice game of chess.

Near the top of the underground compound, head of security, Archer Sterling, was two blast doors between safety and Armageddon. The bomb that leveled San Jose came first with a bang, and then the echo of a thousand thunder claps roaring in unison. When it was over, everything held up as intended—a cool billion dollars well spent.

At the south end of the valley, Hannah Davis watched a mushroom cloud rise over the city, followed by additional flashes north and west. She wasn’t sure if she was lucky to have taken time off to go hiking in the mountains on a Wednesday, or if all to come would make her wish she never knew what hit her.

As long as the winds kept driving toward the Pacific, she stood a chance.

ONE WEEK LATER

“Mr. Easley, this is Archer up top—”

“I know who it is,” Erol said into his radio. “You don’t have to announce yourself each time you have something to say.”

“Fine. I’m heading out with three others to investigate topside.”

“Good luck. And don’t bring any mutants home.”

Archer shook his head and finished gearing up. After ensuring sensors and cameras showed all was clear, the small unit stepped through the airlock in the first blast door and entered the hangar. Two climbed into an Oshkosh L-ATV tactical combat vehicle, while Archer and his second in command opened the outer door.

Cool air rushed in. It looked like an ordinary, dreary day, but as they drove out and north, they saw the devastation. There’d been no reports about how many people were gone, all the people Archer and his crew once knew no longer there. Repeated across the country and around the world. Not yet ready to head closer to the blast zone, they turned back along the mountains.

* * *

Hannah heard the vehicle before she saw it. Her instinct was to hide, but supplies were running low. What little she knew about foraging for food would not sustain her.  She stepped out and waved, quickly second-guessing the decision when a .50 caliber machine gun was leveled at her chest.

Archer said, “Raise your hands above your head,” into a microphone. His order echoed from the PA horn on the outside of the vehicle.

“Are you military?” Amber said.

“Raise your hands above your head.”

“I’m not doing that if you won’t answer. You can trust me or shoot me. Look around: none of us have much to lose.”

The vehicle idled before Hannah until Archer opened the door, stepped out, and approached. He stopped several yards shy of her personal space.

“Are you military?” she said.

“Former. Private security these days.”

“For who?”

“I’m not at liberty to disclose that,” Archer said. “What are you doing out here?”

“I came down from the mountains to look around.”

“Do you live up there?”

“Nope! I took a day off to hike, and then boom. Not sure that was a good idea, or a bad one.”

“Day off from what?”

“I’m a technical writer,” Hannah said. “For Globotek. Or I was…”

“Globotek, huh? Got a question for you, then. Do you feel a little guilty? Working for the place that started all this?”

“Everyone’s gotta eat. Almost impossible, these days, to work for a place that’s a hundred-percent clean. But yeah, even though I started looking for something else, ‘cause the CEO’s ranting on social media kept getting worse and I didn’t want to be associated with that, I can’t help but feel some underlying guilt.”

Hannah looked at the gunner on the top of the vehicle. Another armed guard at its side.

“I probably shouldn’t have admitted this, huh?”

“No, you’re okay,” Archer said. “We work for him, too.”

“Who?”

“Erol Easley.”

“Like, for him? Not just at his company?”

“Be careful out here,” Archer said. “Guessing not everyone’s as nice as us.”

Before climbing back into the ATV, Hannah shouted, “If he’s still alive, tell him Hannah Davis quits!”

ONE MONTH LATER

The settlement of Nuevo José was little more than a tent-and-shanty community between the remains of old San Jose and Morgan Hill to the south, a gathering of people exhausted by the way things were. If you were looking for a lost relative, it was the place to ask for help—had something to trade; the place to bargain. A village where a can of beans or clean water was worth more than gold.

Hannah divided her time between the mountains, foraging for chanterelle mushrooms while in season and bringing down bags of slender wild oat to be ground into flour—and helping out where she could in Nuevo José. She was teaching a young boy how to play chess on a Pressman plastic and cardboard set when she heard someone say, “You remind me of my little sister.”

She excused herself from the lesson and said, “Hey, it’s the big gun boys,” as she approached Archer and his crew.

“It’s good to see you’re safe,” he said.

“You, too. And if I had a much older brother, you’d remind me of him, I’m guessing.”

“Much older? How old do you think I am?”

“Old enough to be on Social Security, if that’s even a thing anymore. But seriously? I’m guessing you’ve got 10 or so years on me. So 42, give or take a couple years toward 50.”

Archer laughed and said, “Yep, I’m 10 years older.”

“So, how do I remind you of your sister?”

“She loved chess. Always tried getting me to play. She always beat me when we did, so I’d find excuses to skip out.”

“Loved chess? Is she…?”

Archer smiled and said, “She died well before all this. In her 20s.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” He smiled and added, “She was really cool.”

“That means you think I’m really cool. If I remind you of her.” She nodded toward the chess board. “Want to play?”

“I’d love to, but I have some business to tend to.”

“Your boss’s business?” Hannah said.

“Nah. Nuevo José business.”

“Gotcha. How is he?”

“Who?”

“Your boss.” She leaned in a whispered, “Mr. Easley.”

“Insufferable. He has everything a person could want, and more, but all he does is complain. Asks what we’ve found up top.”

“What do you tell him?”

“That we’ve seen some people, but they always run away and hide. That it’s not yet habitable up here.”

“Why don’t you all just leave?”

“I have a contract to protect him, and I’m a man of my word.”

“I’m guessing you have a lot of food and water there, too, that makes staying easy?” Hannah said.

“Years worth. That’s what our business today’s about. Sharing some of it. We’ll catch up on that chess match another time.”

THREE MONTHS LATER

“I’m beginning to wonder if you’re lying to me, Archer.”

Archer picked up his radio and said, “Sir?”

“It’s been several months and you keep saying there’s not much up there,” Erol Easley said. “I’m not stupid.”

Archer looked at his crew and said, “It’s dangerous up there. Still irradiated, and the people we have seen are looking for a fight.”

“Like I said: I’m not stupid. The strike was an airburst. Less radiation. Are you hiding something from me?”

“No, sir. It’s just…”

“Just what?”

“Up top, you’re to blame.”

“Me? Why? After all I’ve done for them?”

“You were warned about making your A.I. model align with the results you wanted it to produce. Used your influence to have the administration choose it for their systems. I know it didn’t launch an attack, but it made leaders on edge—including ours—think there was an attack. And once there was confirmation that actual missiles were airborne, that was it.

“With all due respect, sir, I’ve seen what happens to people trying to regain power up there. They’re beaten down and torn apart like a zombie movie. If they see you, they’ll kill you. We’re trying to find a route to safety when it’s time to leave. Right now, it’s best you stay down here.”

* * *

“Hey, it’s the Big Gun Boys!”

“How’s it going, Hannah?” Archer said.

“Cold, but good,” she said. “What brings you to town?”

“Blanket drop. Some coats, too.”

“Who’d have imagined so much snow in the valley, huh? At least the kids have been having fun.”

Archer grinned and said, “It’s a different kind of winter, that’s for sure.”

“Got time for that game of chess you owe me?”

“Next time…I promise.”

“I’ll hold you to that, Mister Man of Your Word.”

“That’s me.”

“Speaking of, how’s your boss?”

“Suspecting. Questioning why we spend so much time up here. Wondering where some of his better bottles of wine have gone. Talking like everything would be better if we brought him up and let him take over.”

“They’d tear him to pieces.”

“I’ve told him as much.”

“How long are you going to live like this?”

“As long as any of us, I suppose.”

“No, how long are you going to stand by his side?”

“I’m under contract. Like you said: ‘Man of my word.’”

“Yeah, I get that. But things have changed. Hell, there aren’t even courts in the area that would hold you to those terms. And it’s not like Easley could safely show up, even if there were. You can do more out here, for everyone, than down in a hole for him…”

SIX MONTHS LATER

Nuevo José looked more like a place that had suffered a terrible storm than a missile detonation to the north. Homes were being rebuilt, power and communications slowly restored, greenhouses taking the place of fertile fields. People working together, vowing to never return to the way things were before.

Hope rising from leveled cities.

It was far from an ideal world, but a world in which Hannah fit in well.

* * *

“Hello, Archer,” Erol Easley said as he entered the security bunker behind blast door number two.

“Sir!” Archer said as he rose from his chair. “To what do we owe the pleasure of this visit?”

“Cut the bullshit, all of you. When you head out today, I’m coming along.”

“Sir, I’d advise against that.”

“I don’t care what you think,” Erol said. “I’m your boss, and you’ll do as I say.”

“For your safety, and ours, that’s not gonna happen.”

Erol Easley stepped forward and got in Archer’s face.

“You do not tell me what to do, understand? No more of your, ‘But they’ll tear you apart,’ shit. I have money; I can help them rebuild.”

Archer laughed. “You’re fucking clueless, boss. Money means nothing out there. Everything you built and lived for is gone. All your hostile deals and screwing everyone out of a dollar is not forgotten. Out there, you’re not the second richest man in the world, at least as long as someone with a pickup truck bed full of food and fresh water exists. You have a bunch of exhausted people above who have lost everything, and no matter how you spin it, you are a big part of the blame. I’ve seen the military haul off others like you. My advice? You have your chef and servants down there. Food and water to last you a few years—“

“Ten years. I was told I have a decade’s worth of supplies.”

“Yeah, well others needed it more.”

“You stole from me?”

“You stole from so many people. Stole mothers and fathers from children. Stole a way of life from everyone, all in the pursuit of greed.”

“I’ll have you arrested if you leave.”

“You really don’t get it, do you? There’s no system to arrest me. No courts to hear a case. The best thing you can do is lay low. When your provisions near an end, leave the area. Do everything you can to not be seen.”

As Archer and his crew moved toward the airlock, Erol Easley shouted, “You can’t just leave!”

Archer put his hand on his sidearm and said, “Stop us, then.”

Easley stepped back and put his hands up.

“I thought so,” Archer said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to Nuevo José to play a nice game of chess…”

GIFTS THROUGH TIME

Maya didn’t know what she was looking for, but knew she’d find it somewhere in the Treasured Memories antique shop. She walked slowly around the tables and shelves, waiting for a hit. The first came in the form of a red and black robot toy from the 1950s. A plastic drawer slid out from its chest. Nestled inside was a folded slip of paper reading: “To Charlie From Petey Windlow. Happy birthday, 1956.”

She picked it up and closed her eyes.

Something more was in there.

She placed the toy near the register and told the shop owner she was still looking for other holiday gifts.

Next came a wooden music box with a stunning inlay on its lid featuring leaves, a sheaf of wheat, and two flutes. Opening it produced no tune—either it was not wound or broken—but the eight pieces it played were listed in French on the back side of the top.

Maya placed her hand on the box and closed her eyes. Another piece set down at the front register.

The rest of the shop was a walk through history, but nothing else spoke to her—until returning to the front to pay for the robot and music box. She saw the final item in the glass case beneath the cash register. She pointed to it and said, “May I please see that ring?”

The shop keeper opened the case and handed it to her. A half-carat diamond set in an intricate, Art Deco design on a two-tiered frame of white gold.

She held it in her hand and said she’d take it as well.

* * *

Maya saved money each year, waiting for the day a particular small antique shop called to her. Larger stores and warehouses were too overwhelming. Once, it was a garage sale for an old yo-yo and a bracelet from the early 1900s.

* * *

As night fell, she bathed and focused on her breathing. Drew all the curtains in her parlor and prepared the space. She’d known others who followed elaborate rituals. For her, it was little more than silence, a candle, and the item in the center of a round pub table she was told to keep after its inhabitant left.

She placed the toy robot in the middle and closed her eyes. Slow breaths in through the nose—out through her mouth, careful to not disturb the candle flame. Several minutes later, she was not alone.

* * *

“If you are here, please touch the flame.”

She opened her eyes halfway and waited.

“It’s okay,” she said.

A moment later, the candle flickered.

“Good. You are safe here, and I give you permission to enter.”

The memories of another life flashed beside her own. Two kids—best friends—against the world. Creeks were traversed, railroad tracks followed into neighboring towns. Bullies avoided. Summer nights catching fireflies and playing hide-and-seek and kick-the-can. A pocket knife piercing fingertips, and a vow that they were now and forever blood brothers. A tenth birthday, and the party that came with it.

“You’re Charlie,” Maya said. “And this is your robot.”

The flame flickered, and more memories flooded her mind. A moving van, and a boy holding the robot promising his friend, Petey, that they’d never lose touch.

From River Forest, Illinois to Kansas City and a different school. A girlfriend, and a promise he’d return from Vietnam in one piece. They’d marry when he returned, but she’d moved on when he got back. Attempts to find Petey led nowhere, and then came cancer.

Agent orange taking another life.

Maya took a slow, deep breath and said, “I’m sorry all that happened to you, Charlie, and I understand not wanting to move on. But you don’t have to stay. Others are waiting for you. I promise you’ll see Petey again—I promise to do everything I can to get this to him and let him know you never forgot him if you move on. When his time comes, He’ll know to find you.”

The weight of another life in Maya’s mind vanished. When she regained her center, she said, “Charlie, if you’re still here, can you move the flame?”

Nothing.

“Charlie, can you touch the flame?”

It was clear he’d finally let go and moved on…

* * *

After removing Charlie’s robot from the room, Maya placed the music box on the table. This one worried her. She repeated her slow breaths until sensing she was not alone.

When she said, “If you are here, please touch the flame,” nothing happened.

She took a deep breath and whispered, “You can do this, Maya. Okay… Si vous êtes ici, veuillez toucher la flamme.”

The candle flickered, and she apologized for her French—explained it had been years since studying in school. After giving the spirit of Marie-Noëlle Decoin permission to enter, Maya was flooded with more memories.

Marie-Noëlle listening to her mother’s music box as a child. Falling in love with Jean-Denis Simonet, marrying, and giving birth to a daughter, Yvette. Embroidering her favorite flower, a peony, and then stitching it into her daughter’s blanket. A perfect life in Reims until the Blitzkrieg.

Then:

Chaos in the streets. Marie-Noëlle kissing Yvette as her mother left with her for the train station. She promised to catch up with them after finding Jean-Denis. Yvette waving goodbye while carrying the one thing she refused to leave behind: her peony blanket.

Marie-Noëlle and Jean-Denis never made it out.

In her broken French, Maya apologized for all that happened to Marie-Noëlle, told her she’d find her daughter or other descendants and return it to family if she’d finally let go.

The next time she said, “Si vous êtes ici, veuillez toucher la flamme,” the candle flame remained still.

Maya was alone.

* * *

Maya placed the ring in the center of the table, readied herself for one more visit, and said, “If you are here, please touch the flame.”

It flickered, and she gave the spirit of Carlos Lopez permission to enter and share his story.

He met Audrey Loder on the side of the highway. Helped her change a flat tire, and then asked if she wanted to get a cup of coffee.

He was surprised when she said yes.

At the diner, he said, “I expected you to say no to this.”

Audrey smiled. “Normally, I would.”

“So, why are we here?”

“Because you were the one who stopped to help.”

Their romance was like a movie: him—a tool-and-die machinist’s apprentice; her—a law student and daughter of a state Senator.

Her father said Carlos was only after money, but Carlos had no idea who she was or what her father did when he met her.

A family dinner…overhearing Senator Loder talking to Audrey’s uncle about how Carlos was just a passing fancy his daughter would grow out of.

 A year later, Carlos—engagement ring in pocket—attending the Loder Christmas Eve gathering at Audrey’s insistence.

After dinner, her father—his belly full of prime rib and 20-year-old Pappy Van Winkle bourbon—telling Carlos what he really thought of him.

Maya felt his rage, saw his thoughts race from fighting back to deciding it was best to leave.

Audrey following him to his car, begging him first to stay—and then, to be careful before he sped away.

He lost control of the car on a curve while looking at the ring.

“I’m sorry that happened to you,” Maya said. “I’m sure others are waiting for you. I’ll be sure the ring reaches Audrey if you’ll let go and move on…”

The candle didn’t flicker when she asked him to touch the flame.

* * *

Two days later, Maya sat at her desk looking for answers.

“What are you doing, here, on your day off?” the head reference librarian said.

“Some genealogy research. For me, this time—I’m not working.”

* * *

Tracking down Peter Windlow and Audrey Loder wasn’t difficult, but Marie-Noëlle Decoin took some digging. An act of marriage from 1938 was the starting point. Finding where Yvette ended up took most of the morning, but Maya found enough to connect an Yvette Simonet (now Yvette Stewart) in Cambridge, Massachusetts to Marie-Noëlle. More research revealed Yvette was still alive and lived with her daughter, Coralie, in Boston.

* * *

Back home, Maya carefully packed up each item. Before sealing the boxes, she sat down for her favorite part of the annual tradition: writing messages to those receiving her gifts through time…

* * *

Peter Windlow’s wife brought the package to him in the den.

“I thought you said you were going to stop ordering so many things online.”

He took the box and said, “I did. I’ve not ordered anything in weeks.”

He pulled out the worn pocketknife he carried since childhood and opened the box.

“Is that a robot?” his wife said.

He set it on his desk and looked in the drawer: the note to Charlie!

“Oh, my god…”

“What?”

“You’ve heard me talk about my old neighborhood friend, Charlie?”

“Yes. Many times.”

“I gave this to him on his tenth birthday.”

“Who sent it?”

Peter opened the card and read:

Charlie wanted his blood brother to have this.

Peter looked at the pocketknife that sliced open their fingers before continuing to read.

Charlie ended up in Kansas City, and later served two tours of duty in Vietnam. He sadly succumbed to cancer in 1986. I’ve included what I could find about his life after he moved away from River Forest.

I know this doesn’t bring your old blood brother back, but I hope it brings you great memories.

Merry Christmas, Peter,

Your Secret Santa Claus

* * *

Audrey Loder came home to a package near the front door. She ran through recent online orders in her head, but wasn’t expecting anything. There was no return address.

After removing her shoes and coat, she opened the box. Inside: an envelope and a small box containing an old diamond ring. The letter read:

Audrey,

This will likely seem strange—maybe even creepy—but Carlos Lopez wanted you to have this ring.

She stopped reading and stepped back; then, slowly approached again.

When I say Carlos wanted you to have this ring, I mean he intended to propose to you on that fateful Christmas Eve. This was with him when he died.

Audrey wondered who would do such a cruel thing. It wasn’t that she carried the grief of his loss like a weight, but she never found someone she loved again.

If I explained how I know all this, an already strange letter would seem like a cruel prank. I assure you, this is not. I apologize if this is painful for you—what I do is not always easy, and I sometimes wonder if certain things are better left in the past.

The only thing I can say in the hope you believe this is real. He was the one who stopped to help, and he never stopped loving you, even after the night he died.

I hope this finds you well and doesn’t open old scars.

And I hope you and Carlos find each other in the end…

* * *

Coralie was in the side garden when she saw the delivery truck stop in front of her house. By the time she approached, the driver waved, hopped in his truck, and drove down the street.

The package was addressed to her and her mother.

She went inside and said, “This is for both of us.”

“Who is it from?” Yvette said.

“I don’t know. It doesn’t say.”

She went to her office and returned with a pair of scissors. When the box was open, she set a card aside and carefully unwrapped the contents.

Her mother gasped when she saw the music box.

“Mom, are you okay?”

Yvette reached out, and Coralie handed it to her. She opened the music box and cried.

“Mom?”

Coralie pulled the card from the envelope and read.

Yvette,

I never knew your mother, but I know she called you ma pivoine—my peony.

Coralie looked at the old blanket laid over her mother’s lap.

I am sorry for your loss, but I know you will one day meet again. I can’t say how, but this I know for certain.

“Is that the music box you told me about?” Coralie said.

“Yes. Your great-grandmother gave this to my mother. I loved listening to her play it when I was a little girl back in France. If I hadn’t grabbed my blanket, this is what I would have taken with me. Does the card say who it’s from?”

“No.”

Yvette smiled and said, “I suppose it doesn’t matter, ma lupine. What matters is that it’s here where it belongs. Would you like to hear it?”

“Yes!”

Yvette closed the lid and wound the music box. When she opened it, she and her daughter traveled together to another time…

* * *

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks.

And a BIG thank you to AJ Fidalgo and Cynthia Griffith for their narrating help this year! Check out the Show Notes or Talent Page for more info about them.

Theme music, as always, is by Ergo Phizmiz. Story music this time is all licensed through Epidemic Sound.

Sound effects are made in-house or from Epidemic Sound and freesound.org. Visit nolumberjacks.com for information about the show, the voice talent, and the music. Also, for as little as a dollar a month—or even free—you can support the show at patreon.com/cgronlund.

After back-to-back monthly episodes comprising four new stories, it’s time for my annual break. In March, it’s finally that story about a quilting circle accidentally summoning Satan through a strange pattern in their latest group project.

[Quirky music fades out…]

[The sound of an axe chopping.]

Until next time: be mighty, and keep your axes sharp!

[Listen]

[Sound of an ax chopping wood. Quirky music fades in…]

Christopher Gronlund:

I want to make one thing perfectly clear: this show is not about lumberjacks…

My name is Christopher Gronlund, and this is where I share my stories. Sometimes the stories contain truths, but most of the time, they’re made up. Sometimes the stories are funny—other times they’re serious. But you have my word about one thing: I will never—EVER—share a story about lumberjacks.

This time, it’s a sequel to the first November anniversary story I ever wrote: “The Art of the Lumberjack.” I figured, “What better way to mark the 10^th anniversary of Not About Lumberjacks than by revisiting the story that started the November tradition?” (In fact, you might want to check out The Quick List link on the site and jump back to that November, 2016 story if you’ve not heard it…or have forgotten what it was about.)

I started Not About Lumberjacks for two reasons. One: I was working toward shopping around a new novel and figured having an online repository of fiction would show that I understood being online as a writer (as well as showing off other writing to potential agents). And two: because I focused so much on novels at the time, I knew starting this show would get me back to writing short stories.

And man, has it ever!

If you factor in the annual Christmas episodes, which contain multiple stories, this story is the 85^th short story released on Not About Lumberjacks!

This has become the most satisfying creative thing I’ve ever done. From a podcast-must-equal-growth standpoint, it’s a failure of a show, not really growing much at all in the 10 years I’ve been doing it. (In fact, the best year for Not About Lumberjacks was a couple years ago, and still not having an audience most would consider worth continuing.)

But I’ve heard from people over these 10 years who’ve told me how much certain stories mean to them. I know people listen (and re-listen) to stories I’ve written on road trips. An so-called “good” audience is usually measured in numbers, but for me, it’s knowing people are taking the time in a hurried world to listen to stories I’ve written.

So, thank you all for sticking with me.

And thank you to everyone who’s been understanding about me skipping a story this year after my mom’s sudden and unexpected passing in August. We’re doing well. We miss her terribly, because she was such a badass and a blast to be around. But she had a good life that only got better in her final decades. So, when we think about her, we can’t help but smile.

All right, enough of all that…let’s get on to the 10^th anniversary story content advisory.

“The Art of the End” deals with the death of a parent, an argument with an estranged parent, and…that’s really about it. Oh, there is one bit of swearing. I always consider removing things when it’s just one of two instances, but it felt like an f-bomb was needed in a scene, so that’s there, too.

Really, though…it’s a nice, quiet story full of reflection. I’ll get back to fantastic and funny stuff soon…

All right, let’s get to work!

#

My father’s body sits in zazen in the next room, but he’s not there.

What remains is a shell, a vessel for a brain that sensed and experienced the world, a mass of fat and protein that allowed him to think and dream, to write novels and find a way to live a life true to himself. Muscles that pulled stones from the earth and hoisted his massive body to the tops of the highest trees just for fun. A heart that cared for all creatures and wrote stories and poetry that moved me to tears.

My father’s body sits in zazen in the next room, but he’s not there.

#

I listen to the wind from my front porch while waiting for the county medical examiner to arrive. It never gets old, sitting in an Adirondack chair my father helped me make when I first arrived after leaving a busier life behind to live in the Maine woods, looking into a forest that seems to never end. I know birds by their calls and can identify most of the trees and plants on our 45-acre plot of land.

My land, now, I suppose.

The stillness is interrupted by the sound of engines chugging along the dirt road leading to the camp. A patrol car leads the way, followed by the medical examiner’s Suburban. I stand up and wave.

Sheriff LaClair steps out of his car and says, “Erik.”

“Hey, Sheriff,” I say. “Lonnie.”

LaClair’s deputy nods and turns to the medical examiner and her assistant.

“You guys know Erik?”

We all shake our heads “No.”

I’m introduced to Stephanie Ambrose and Trevor Graves.

“Good to meet you,” she says. I’m sorry it’s not on better terms.”

“Thank you.”

“I take it he’s in his cabin?” Sheriff LaClair says.

“Nope. The zendō.”

“The what?”

“Zendō. He made a little meditation house years ago.”

We walk along a dirt path that gives way to a stone walkway and the one section of the property that doesn’t look like a lumberjack’s lair. The glass and concrete structure before us looks more like a modern spin on a Frank Lloyd Wright house than a traditional Japanese building, but the lineage of each influence is there. We walk along a reflection pool toward the building where my father died.

“That’s quite a thing right there,” Sheriff LaClair says. “He built it?”

“Yeah,” I say. “I didn’t know he was an architect before coming out here. Brought in all the supplies in that old truck a couple years before I arrived. Trip after trip.”

The sheriff nods and says, “That sounds like something he’d do. I saw him in town about a month or so ago. Told me he wasn’t feeling great.”

“Yeah. He thought it was cancer. Told me months ago that it felt like something was wearing him down from the inside. He didn’t want treatment. He really slowed down this past week, but kept meditating more than usual.”

“You do that, too?” the sheriff says.

“I’m more of a walk in the woods kind of guy, but I sat with him for a bit most days since moving here.”

“Gotcha.”

As we get closer, they see him: my father sitting on a cushion in the center of the three-room structure he built in the woods. In the fading light of the day, he seems to glow in a beam of sunlight that’s found its way through the trees. I slide the floor-to-ceiling glass door open and lead them in.

“That’s how I found him. He was always very still, but I just knew he was gone.”

“It looks like it was a peaceful passing,” Sheriff LaClair says.

“I think so, too.”

I excuse myself to the sitting area outside the zendō. I face away, wanting to remember my father’s final pose and not see him moved. I hear Stephanie and Trevor tell Sheriff LaClair they’ll be right back. I hear them wheeling a gurney along the path. Only when my father’s covered and they wheel him out do I get up and join them.

Trevor opens the back of the Suburban, and Stephanie says, “We’ll contact you after completing our examination.”

She gets my contact information and asks if I need anything.

“No, I’m good,” I say. But I’m not.

“You need anything, just call,” Sheriff LeClair says.

“Thank you.”

I watch them all leave and stand there well after the barred owls call out in the dark.

#

My favorite koan ends like this:

In spring, hundreds of flowers; in autumn, a harvest moon;

In summer, a refreshing breeze; in winter, snow will accompany you.

If useless things do not hang in your mind,

Any season is a good season for you.

Before coming to the woods to live with my father, Zen was—at best—a thing I knew through business books: Zen at Work, The Zen of Selling, The Zen of Business Acquisitions, and The Secrets of the Zen Business Warrior. It was a buzzword that had its time when ripping from Sun Tzu’s The Art of War seemed too sharp and people craved a more relaxed style of leadership where anyone finishing the books could act as though they, too, spent a lifetime sitting zazen, when all they did was read a bestseller.

The morning sky glows pink against washboard clouds that show through the canopy like a blurry kaleidoscope. My bare feet welcome the cold of the stone path my father laid with care. I expect to see him already sitting, even though I know where his body is. I clear my mind of him lying in a cold room, waiting for whatever it is the medical examiner needs to do.

I sit on my cushion and look at my father’s impression in his, as though an invisible version of him is seated in Lotus position before me. I pull my body into the pose with no effort, despite it taking several months of sitting with him for it to no longer be a struggle. I found the practice so difficult when I started, believing a stray thought meant I’d failed. Sitting for hours each day was an affront to everything I believed when I came to the camp. Time was money; life was a bone from which we were meant to savor the marrow.

One morning, after spending two hours thinking about what I was supposed to achieve through meditation instead of meditating, I asked my father if he was enlightened.

“That’s never been the goal,” he said. “I studied architecture in Japan after your mother told me to leave. There, I found this. I was taught to sit with no expectations—and because I did, I’ve had a great life.”

“So…does that mean you’re enlightened or not?”

He stood up and told me to follow him into the woods.

“Look out there,” he said.

I stared into the forest.

“It’s not all the same. Creatures move in different times. Some of these trees were here before Europeans, while many of the plants on the floor rise, live, and die each year…only to return in spring and do it all over again. Most insects live very brief lives, while there are turtles out there that live as long as us. I don’t know why it’s my nature to be so content with stillness, but my way is no better or worse than yours. You just need to find a way that works for you. Do you know what koans are?”

I nodded that I did.

My father smiled and said, “Joshu asked Nansen: ‘What is the path?’ Nansen said: ‘Everyday life is the path.’ Joshu asked: ‘Can it be studied?’ Nansen said: ‘If you try to study, you will be far from it.’ Joshu asked: ‘If I do not study, how can I know it is the path?’ Nansen said: ‘The path does not belong to the perception world, neither does it belong to the nonperception world. Cognition is a delusion, and noncognition is senseless. If you want to reach the true path beyond doubt, place yourself in the same freedom as the sky. You name it neither good nor not-good. At these words, Joshu was enlightened.”

My father smiled until I asked, “What does all that mean?”

“That is for you to discover…”

#

Before coming to the old lumber camp, my guilty pleasure was trashy TV, with a particular fascination for hoarding shows. I felt bad watching in ways, because I know producers and marketing teams knew people with their own issues watched and judged the people on screen as a way to not feel as bad about their shortcomings. But I watched to figure out how someone couldn’t see how much things were piling up, despite it seeming so obvious.

There was never a single answer: some people experienced a loss, and hoarding was their way of holding on. Others started collections that multiplied like bacteria. And some had simply become so exhausted by life that one day they said, “I’m too tired to put that fast food bag in the garbage,” and next came the carcasses of four years of rotisserie chickens.

My father was the opposite: everything had a place. Not that he was a staunch supporter of a minimalist lifestyle, he just never needed all the things most of us end up carrying through life and place to place. Why have 20 coffee mugs when 1 or 2 will do? Shelves full of things gather dust, so why have many shelves at all? Unless you host guests to your home, do you really need so much furniture?

Through friends and coworkers, I’d heard cleaning out a parent’s place following their death was one of the most difficult things they ever did. Where to start with a lifetime of acquired things? How can you throw anything away when everything is full of memories and imbued with a part of the person they lost?

Most of my father’s possessions are things he made. He was not a consumer, unless purchasing something allowed him to build. The only space in the camp that seems full is the woodworking shop, and there’s nothing there to go through. In a decade’s time, my father made me a decent woodworker—so it remains as he left it, a place where I will continue to ply the trade he shared with me.

His bedroom is meticulously appointed like other spaces touched by his hand. I’ve passed by the room, but never been in it. Part of me wants to leave it as it is—a little dimension I can look into as I wander by. Remember the man who slept there. But beyond that doorway likely offers a new glimpse into why he was who he was. 

I find nothing that changes me, a reminder that coming to things with expectations often results in disappointment. Much like my father coming to his practice of Zen with a beginner’s mind, and me hoping for answers I only found when I stopped seeking them, there is no grand discovery, no, “This! This is the life-changing thing you hoped to find!”

But I also don’t leave empty-handed.

Tucked away in the back of the top drawer of a dresser he made well before I moved here, I find a three-inch square box. On the lid, my father carved an oak leaf. I lift it off, appreciating the precision it took to both allow it to hold fast, but give way when provoked. Inside is a carved wooden heart the size of a walnut and a slip of paper reading:

Margot,

Only you know why

today, tomorrow, and more

I give you this heart.

It’s time to take a trip.

#

I knock on the door to my mother’s house, and I’m surprised when she answers. She’s always had staff for that. I barely recognize her. My mother was always concerned with holding onto her youth; the woman before me is old. Not in a worn-down-by-the-years old—she’s aged gracefully—but the last time I saw her, she still dyed her hair and never let it touch her shoulders. Now, long white hair reaches her lower back. It gives me hope that maybe she’s changed. 

“Erik,” she says. “What do you need?”

“I…”

What a thing to say after not seeing your only child for almost 20 years.

“I don’t need anything, Mother.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I came to tell you something.”

“A call wouldn’t suffice?”

“Can I come in?”

She takes a deep breath before saying, “Sure…”

We walk through a foyer bigger than some apartments, through a dining room that can comfortably seat two dozen people, even though I’d guess it’s never used. Her living room reminds me of a wedding cake with its Neoclassical symmetry and ornate plaster details. She carefully sits on a sofa that might have actually existed in the time of Louis XVI. I sit in one of its two matching chairs.

Dad’s dead,” I say.

“Yes. You’ve known that since you were a child.”

“No. He never shot himself like you told me. I found him.”

I study her face for surprise or remorse.

“And…?”

“I thought you’d like to know.”

“Why? He’s not a part of my life.”

“I don’t know, Mother. Maybe because I thought somewhere deep down you might still have a fucking heart?”

“I don’t know what I’ve done to anger you, but it’s very unbecoming.”

I stand up and look to the front door. I take a step and then turn back toward her. I don’t charge, but I move swiftly enough that she leans into the padding of her expensive couch.

“You know why I’m angry. You lied to me about Dad killing himself! I missed out on 43 years with him. I got four years as a kid that I don’t even remember, and then the last decade. How dare you rob me of that and act like I’m the one with an issue. Not only that, but you hit me the night you called the cops on him! If you have some fucked up reason for all you’ve done, I’m listening.”

She swallows and says, “Well, at least it’s good to know you’re not the timid little boy you once were.”

“How could I not be, Mother? First, you yelled at me if I called you Mom. You yelled at me if I made too much noise. You yelled at me if I was being too quiet and not doing something productive. No matter what I did, you bullied me.”

“There are therapists for this kind of thing, Erik. Let it go.”

This time, I do walk toward the door.

“You’re just like your father,” she shouts. “Running away!”

“There’s a big difference between running away and leaving, Margot. And you would know because you’ve been running from things as long as I can remember.”

I reach into my pocket and pull out the small wooden box. Run my thumb over the carved oak leaf on top before throwing it at my mother as hard as I can. It hits the back of her sofa and bounces to the floor.

“I missed on purpose,” I say, before showing myself out.

Instead of walking to my car, I wander to the side of the house and look through the living room window. My mother stands before her gilded coffee table, holding the box. She runs her thumbs over the carving my father made before I was born—removes the top and pulls out the wooden heart. She raises it to her lips, kisses the sculpture, and weeps.

I don’t know why it means what it does to her, but I know this: some people may never change, but they also never forget.

#

I’ve forgotten how stressful being out in the “normal” world can be. How did I endure hours stuck in traffic each week? At least a couple times each year, I ended up behind a wreck that took all morning to clear. Once: all day! But when it’s part of your everyday life, it’s a necessary inconvenience, a demand of suburbia.

I drive through my hometown, looking for fields that are now housing developments lacking craft or charm. It’s strange how we mourn for the loss of spaces that shaped us, when the houses we lived in were built in rolling fields or small forests I’m sure others once loved. My childhood home could have been a special place for someone who came before me, so why am I so disappointed that my places are gone?

Only now do I realize how crowded and noisy the suburbs are. We don’t build spaces for interactions with others. We drive everywhere because nothing is connected. We ache for our children because they don’t go outside as much as we did, but we’re the people telling them to stay in. We don’t give them sidewalks or bike lanes or other things encouraging them to explore. Why move to spaces strategically built between cities and open lands if you don’t believe they’re safe? 

I understood why my father moved away from it all, but now I feel why. My shoulders and neck are stiff after a couple days away from the lumber camp. Several close calls while driving—people paying more attention to their phones or in-dash screens than on the road. In the rental car’s rearview mirror, I see the grill of a massive pickup truck several feet off the bumper and know I’ve made the right choice.

#

I check email before boarding my flight back home. After deleting 17 spam messages, there are 2 I’ve waited for. The first is from the County Medical Examiner’s Office, stating my father was right about what was wrong with him: pancreatic cancer. Stephanie’s email also mentions that his body is now in the possession of the Biondi Funeral Home and Crematorium.

The other email is from Lonardo Biondi, the director of said funeral home. He’d like to meet in person, and I know it’s to sell me on additional services beyond my father’s cremation. I get it, it’s a job like any other, and there are quotas to be met and money to be made. He also includes a template for an obituary: discussing where the deceased was born, what they did for a living, and any significant relationships. Any military service. What they accomplished in life and did for fun. Who they left behind.

I’m somewhere over Ohio when I give it some thought.

How do I sum up the life of a man I’ve only known for a decade? I can cover all the things in the template that applied to my father, but a life is more than a set of talking points. Anything I write will not convey his spirit, all he carried and cherished in his heart. It would be strange to mention his deep voice that echoed in your chest when he spoke. The way his eyes crinkled up at the edges when he smiled. How gentle his massive, calloused hands were.

I look out the window, watching the hills of eastern Ohio pass by 34,000 feet below. When we begin our descent to my connecting flight in Philadelphia, I write the following in the notebook I carry with me:

“Torben Oscar Nilsson placed himself in the same freedom of the sky. He is survived by his son, Erik Viktor Nilsson of Camp Nowhere, Maine. His ashes will be returned to his path in a private ceremony.”

#

When he wasn’t meditating or reading, my father was building. I go to the woodshop and look through his sketchbooks for anything he was planning near his end, but never got around to making. That’s one of the things that amazed me after moving to the woods: even when time is mostly yours, there are still tasks and dreams never explored. I find no designs that seemed to speak to him, and nothing that calls to me. I go to one of his standby books: The Japanese Print, An Interpretation by Frank Lloyd Wright.

None of the art leaps off the page and demands my spin on what my father deemed perfection, but a bit of Wright’s writing about simplifying design stands out: “The process of elimination of the insignificant we find to be their first and most important consideration as artists, after the fundamental mathematics of structure.”

My father was a simple man in the truest spirit of the word. To call one a simple person is not a compliment in our world, but I hope I’m no longer the stressed, supposedly complex person I was over a decade ago. There is beauty and even strength in simplicity, a structure that strips away unnecessary things and allows us to focus on what’s most important.

I find six pieces of oak and spend the day in silence, making a box by hand. I scribe lines for the fingers of the joints that will hold it together. Remove material with a small hand saw and chisels. A fitted lid snug enough to not tumble off if knocked over. No hinge or nails or screws; no intricate carvings based on nature or artwork and designs my father loved. Just a simple box, finished with tung oil, to hold my father’s ashes when they are ready.

#

I wait for a sense of mourning to come, but it never does. I can hear my father in my head, reminding me how it’s best to go into things without prescribed expectations. We see people break down after deaths in movies, know people who carry grief with them decades after a loved one has passed. Why wouldn’t I shut down for some time and think about all I’ve lost?

But I was fortunate to have the time I had with my father. It would be easy to dwell on the decades with him stolen from me by my mother, but that is not the reality I’m dealing with. The time I had with my father was good, and in those years, we discussed so much. Nothing was left unresolved. I like to think, even had he been there my entire life and we butted heads when I was younger, that we’d have still ended where we did: two people who loved each other and accepted what we’d become.

I’ve shed tears for his loss, but I have not wept. I miss him, but I am not wounded by his absence. When I think about him, I don’t hurt; instead, I smile.

Maybe the day will come when I find myself curled up in a ball, grieving his passing, but that is another expectation I feel will never happen.

I loved my father dearly, and as long as I carry him in my heart, he is never gone.

#

Lonardo Biondi offers his condolences and little more when I pick up my father’s ashes from the funeral home. I wait for him to say, “Are you sure you don’t want a service for your father? We have packages for all budgets,” but he lets me leave without another sales pitch.

I take the black plastic box holding my father’s remains to the woodshop and pry the top open with a flathead screwdriver. Inside, a clear plastic bag holding what’s left of my father’s physical body. Such a massive man reduced to so little. I transfer the bag to the box I made and place the lid snug on top.

I started writing a eulogy because it seems like the end of one’s life is a big enough event to memorialize. Perhaps if my father had been closer to more people, I’d have taken Lonardo up on his offer for a funeral service. But it’s just me, and I don’t need anything more than the good memories of him I carry with me. So, the eulogy was tossed into a fire several nights ago. Instead of a grand sendoff, I do something I believe my father would have liked: I take his remains to the zendō and place him on his cushion.

I will sit zazen with him daily until, like him, I exist only in memories.

#

In the months that follow, my mind becomes more clear. I’ll never be as still as my father, but I’ve found my peace. I’ve waited for old urges to rise up: turning the property into a meditation retreat, writing business books capitalizing on a decade of living deep in the woods, seeing how far I can take the little furniture business my father did locally to make ends meet. Things to track on spreadsheets like I once craved. But those compulsions never come.

I suspect they never will.

The seasons turn, and I follow along. The winds of autumn arrive and the sun hangs lower in the sky. Leaves burn red and yellow and orange like fires in the treetops before breaking free and covering the earth in decay. Soon, the first snows will arrive and the world will slumber until spring, when green shoots force their way through soil and branch—and new life begins again.

#

[Quirky music fades in…]

Christopher Gronlund:

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks.

And thank you for everyone who’s been listening for 10 years! It means a lot to me.

Theme music, as always, is by Ergo Phizmiz. Story music this time is by me, using the Instruo Pocket Scion, with one background track licensed through Epidemic Sound.

Sound effects are made in-house or from Epidemic Sound and freesound.org. Visit nolumberjacks.com for information about the show, the voice talent, and the music. Also, for as little as a dollar a month—or even free—you can support the show at patreon.com/cgronlund.

In December, it’s the annual Christmas episode! 

[Quirky music fades out…]

[The sound of an axe chopping.]

Until next time: be mighty, and keep your axes sharp!

[Listen]

[Sound of an ax chopping wood. Quirky music fades in…]

Christopher Gronlund:

I want to make one thing perfectly clear: this show is not about lumberjacks…

My name is Christopher Gronlund, and this is where I share my stories. Sometimes the stories contain truths, but most of the time, they’re made up. Sometimes the stories are funny—other times they’re serious. But you have my word about one thing: I will never—EVER—share a story about lumberjacks.

This time, it’s a story about a high school English teacher who comes to conclusions about life after recovering from a hit-and-run accident.

But first, the usual content advisory…

Were it a movie, “Instead of Dreaming” would be rated PG-13. It deals with a hit-and-run accident involving a bike, melancholy, nightmares, guilt trips, teen drug use, trespassing, the dark side of nostalgia, and a sorta-grisly crime scene. And if you’re listening to this while driving, there is the sound of an accident that is pretty apparent it’s coming, and the sound of an ambulance later in a scene looking back on an injury on a swingset. I always want to call these out because it’s never fun hearing squealing tires or an emergency vehicle while driving. And…there’s really not much swearing in this story, just one place with a word you’ve probably even heard on television.

A quick thing before getting to the story. This past year has been a weird one. I’ve talked in an intro or two about dealing with a health issue. It’s something that’s been a thing for 30-plus years with no answers. In March, I finally got a couple.

It turns out there was an issue deep in my heart at the end of a couple arteries. The surgeon who did the catheter procedure said things were so low—with no other issues—that it was almost not worth messing with. But…he suspected it was causing an electrical issue, and he placed two itty-bitty stents at the ends.

The moment the second stent went in, immediately, my heart went into normal rhythm for the first time in decades. The anxiety that comes with that is slowly disappearing, and I’m not afraid to lie on my back anymore. (That’s when it was always at its worst, feeling like a fish or something was flopping around in my chest.) 

Speaking of feelings in my chest…I can no longer feel my heart beating, unless I’m exercising…and even then, I have to really exert myself to feel it. That’s perhaps the weirdest thing through all this because, at any given time—much like tinnitus—if I thought about my heart, I could always feel it thudding away in my chest.

Now, though, I can’t.

It’s brought a strange stillness to my world.

There might be one other little thing needing to be fixed down the line, and I’m currently going through cardiac rehab, but this whole thing has been one of the weirdest changes in my entire life.

As I continue getting better, Not About Lumberjacks schedules and planned stories still might change at the last minute while healing, but things are already ridiculously snazzy, and there’s every reason to believe it will only get better.

All right: let’s get to work!

* * *

Instead of Dreaming

He’d been living in dreams instead of the waking world, his way of dealing with a months-long funk—days hovering in persistent idleness, despite having so much to do. Pick up a to-do list, even a small one written to take a tiny step forward, and he stagnated. “Clean Livingroom” eventually became “Clean  Coffee Table,” and then, “Put Mugs in Sink,” when he’d spent all day doing nothing but sitting.

Sleep was an escape, a place where some nights, everything seemed okay. Even a work dream was welcomed. On nights he dreamed about running, riding his bike, or hiking, he awakened with a distant hope that returning to those activities was not too far away.

Other nights, he was haunted by shadows or lost in dark forests. Dreams that someone was in his house or waiting for him on walks. Always ending the same way: a person shrouded in darkness coming his way. He still preferred nightmares to his waking hours.

The worst recurring dream ended with the roar of the engine.

* * *

Seven months before, while cresting a long hill climb on his bike, he heard someone behind him put their foot into the gas pedal of a Dodge 2500 pickup truck. As it overtook him, he saw the SUV coming the other way. Ditching the bike wasn’t an option. The truck came into his lane to avoid a head-on collision with the SUV, grinding him along a guardrail before speeding off.

The woman driving the SUV stopped and rushed over. He knew it was bad when she checked on him, apologized, and turned away while calling 911.

The doctor in the ER called it a comminuted fracture, explained that meant the bones were in pieces and that he was lucky to still have a leg. Three surgeries followed. He took short-term disability at work to focus on healing and suing the driver of the truck, who was caught on his bike’s rearview radar camera.

More surprising than the accident was his family’s reaction.

“That wouldn’t have happened if you didn’t ride on those back roads,” his mother said. Other relatives, and even some friends, were no different. It didn’t matter that he was struck 20 yards past a SHARE THE ROAD sign—or that the driver of the truck and not him was at fault—he was told it could have all been avoided by choosing a safer hobby. 

He stopped inviting people over, turned them away when they asked if he’d like a visit. Didn’t answer the door when they stopped by unannounced to check on him and remind him that he should never have been on the road. He retreated into one of his favorite things: sleeping.

Some people drink away their problems; he dreamed his away, blurring lucid dreaming and daydreams together as a way to spend his time in a meditative state when awake, and lost deeper in his mind when he slumbered.

Even how he’d return to his usual routine came to him in a dream.

* * *

April 7

7:24 p.m. 64 degrees Fahrenheit

He begins his walk a half hour before sunset, making his way to Comanche Bluff, a dead-end street overlooking a valley where his town gives way to unincorporated land to the west. In the summer, people pack into the tiny cul-de-sac to watch the sun go down, despite the protests of nearby residents tired of the crowds. This evening, he has the overlook to himself.

The little fluffy clouds of late morning seemed like they might rise into thunderheads by afternoon, but something higher aloft prevented their growth. They float like the clouds kids draw in school, with flat bases and bulbous curves—breaking just in time to let shafts of yellow light through in all directions. After the sunset rolls through all its colors and the stars sparkle in the darkened firmament, he stretches and turns back toward town.

He has roughly 11 hours to wander before the sun comes back up in the east.

* * *

8:31 p.m. 62 degrees Fahrenheit

As he approaches Cannon Park, the THWAK of pickleball serves and returns compete with the cacophony of skateboarders doing kick flips and grinding on rails. Teenagers roll along a course the city built to give kids something to do besides getting drunk and conquering boredom through vandalism. From his view, some kids drop from sight and shoot into the air on the far side of an in-ground bowl like a pool, lingering in the air before turning and shooting to the other side.

His neighborhood shines on the tennis-courts-turned-pickle-ball courts. Beneath the bright lights, Indian families chat with Kenyans; a guy from Oklahoma practices Spanish with a group of Mexicans. A British woman asks a Korean girl about school. Once, an older neighbor down the street flagged him over when he was on a walk. The man complained to him about all the people from other places moving into town, as though it were a bad thing.

“Why are you whispering?” he said said loudly enough to cause the old man to panic. “I like my neighbors.”

He looked the man up and down and added, “Well, most of them.”

How could anyone hate people coming together on such a lovely evening?

* * *

He makes his way to a swingset beside the playground and sits in the shadows just outside the stadium lighting. He grips the chains with his hands and pushes back with his feet in a short, backwards run. The swing hooks groan, but he’s seen heavier people playing with their children on the swingset during the day. He leans back and pumps his legs out and back, gaining height.

When he was a kid, his best friend, Matthew, was the kid in town who’d do anything on a dare. He once watched him shimmy up an exposed girder on the wall of his elementary school’s gym and leap from the rooftop into a pile of grass clippings. And when they were eight, at a different park, they dragged a picnic table over to the swingset so they could stand on the edge and leap off the tabletop like paratroopers. After swinging for a time, his friend instinctively leaned back with his legs high in the air on a backswing, forgetting the picnic table was there.

He can still hear the sound of the bridge of Matthew’s nose hitting the edge of the picnic table; can still see him flip high in the air and land on top in a pool of blood. It would not be the last time he’d watch an ambulance cart his best friend away.

He leans into the backswing like Matthew, letting his head almost reach the ground. Back and forth, higher and higher, until he lets go, hearing the chains rattle as he leaves the seat. Looking down, he regrets the hasty decision. How will his untested leg hold up when he hits the ground? As a kid, he’d swing so high that when he let go, he soared higher than the crossbar before crashing down to the ground. This leap is half of that, but could end in disaster.

He braces for impact, waits for the nerves in his repaired leg to flare and burn. Wonders if he’ll hear something break. But surgeons and therapists did their jobs; he comes down without issue. He rises on the balls of his feet, testing for any pain before resuming his nighttime walk.

* * *

8:54 p.m. 60 degrees Fahrenheit

As the sounds of Cannon Park fall away behind, two skateboarders race toward him, seemingly powered by some unseen force. There’s no hill in the direction they came, and no hum of a battery-powered motor pushing them along. 

“How are they moving so quickly?”

As they speed away, he notices the slight incline, a slope so subtle, he’s only aware of it because every step after such a long recovery is a measured action. Feeling the ground beneath his feet again is wonderful. He’s amazed how quickly the memory of movement’s become after seven months of limping and shuffling about.

The skateboarders disappear into the dark as he continues on his way.

* * *

9:27 p.m. 59 degrees Fahrenheit

He slows his pace about a mile down Mockingbird Lane, looks along the curb for the storm drain inlet. When he spots it, he crosses the street and makes his way down a hill into bushes and small trees. Most people driving the road each day—some likely driving its length a thousand times over—are unaware they cross a small bridge over a creek lost in the undergrowth. Growing up, he and his friends roamed most of the town, discovering secret places they never shared with others.

He’s always happy seeing kids splashing through the same creeks he and friends explored, watching them cross fields on their way to a golf course where a groundskeeper always chased them off, even in the coldest part of winter. Old treehouses still seem to get repaired just enough that most kids wouldn’t dare climb into the canopy, but those who know where to reach and pull on the way up are safe as long as they’ve had a tetanus shot. He wonders if any kids know about the drainage tunnels beneath Mockingbird Lane.

He pulls his phone from his pocket, opens the flashlight app so he can see where he’s going. He spots what he’s looking for where the storm drain dumps into the creek, a crude bit of graffiti reading DO NOT ENTER over the entrance to the storm drainage system.

When they were 14, Matthew spotted the opening and said, “Let’s see what’s in there.”

“No,” he said. “That just…that doesn’t seem like a good idea.”

“It’s not rained in like a month. It’ll be fine.”

“What if it’s full of wasps?” The thought of being trapped in a tunnel and being stung, maybe perishing in a place no one would even consider looking, horrified him.

“Only one way to find out!” his friend said as he entered. “Come on!”

He started up, quickly realizing there was no way to turn around. He shimmied out backwards when even Matthew agreed it was too dark.

Of course, his best friend wanted to go back. Matthew climbed Mount Hood with his dad and had a camping headlamp before they were common. It was definitely enough light to spot black widows, which Matthew smacked with the padded mountain bike gloves he wore. Up they climbed, to the junction where the drain at street level went—an opening too small for even his brave friend to enter. The tunnel leveled out, and they crawled along, until encountering accumulated dirt built up like hard plaque in an artery. When it was too much, Matthew started digging, forcing his way into a junction box full of rats.

Before him, a wall of eyes glowed in the light from his headlamp.

“Back up!” his best friend shouted. Back up!”

Their arrival, or perhaps the screaming of Matthew, startled the horde. The mass of rodents raced their way, shooting past them in tight quarters. He froze. Matthew crashed into him with his feet, kicked at him while shouting, “Go! Go!!!”

He felt the nails of the rats scraping across his arms and back, hopping off and landing on his legs before racing out of the tunnel. He crawled in reverse as quickly as he could, the shouts of Matthew and squealing of rats echoing in the small passageway.

They never went back into the tunnel, but they did return the next day to spray paint a cartoon rat with a knife and the words TUNNEL RATS on the far wall beside the creek.

He’s happy to see it’s still there.

* * *

10:43 p.m. 56 degrees Fahrenheit

He’s stretching his back when he hears something in the grass behind him. Too late for rabbits, he thinks. Probably an opossum. He turns around and spots an armadillo rooting for grubs.

“Hey, you,” he says.

The armadillo continues with its armadillo business. They’re one of the better things about living in Texas to him—armadillos and roadrunners. Damn-near blind and with few cares in the world beside being hit by cars, he loves how close he can get to them.

“Nice evening for a walk,” he says. “Or eating grubs. But I guess any time is good grub time, huh?”

The armadillo pauses and digs; puts its snout into the ground and comes up chewing.

“Wanna know a little secret? You have to promise not to tell anyone, even your armadillo buddies. I’ve really liked the past seven months. I mean, sure, much of it was spent in pain, but I finally got a break. I suppose armadillo life never slows down, either, eh? Always on the go, just like us. But it was nice having time to just sit and think. Or just sit for the sake of stillness.

“I feel bad about enjoying some of my time, lately. I’m told I have a noble job as a teacher, and I do take what I do seriously. But I can’t pretend having time off in the summers wasn’t a big reason for my career decision—months to do the things I most enjoy. I do care about my students, but I’m not particularly fond of them. I think a lot of them are shitty, and that makes sense because a lot of adults are shitty. And sooooooooo many shitty parents.

“Are there shitty armadillos? Like some hardback named Brad you all slag on when he’s not around? Rolls up in a ball and crashes into you when you’re just trying to relax a moment from busy armadillo tasks? Pisses everywhere and starts fights?”

The armadillo carries on, seemingly oblivious to his presence. It bumps his foot and sniffs the air before returning to its mission.

“I got a good little chunk of money from a guy who hurt me and ran. That’s the only way you can damage people like that: hit them in the pocketbook. Between years of saving and the payout, I really don’t want to go back. At least I don’t think I do.”

The armadillo looks up at him before heading the other way.

“I don’t want this time to end…”

* * *

11:13 p.m. 54 degrees Fahrenheit

It was once a cowpath cutting through a small forest when the town wasn’t even a town and ranchers transitioned their herds from winter forages to warm-season grasses. When corn took over, the old trail was used only by the toughest teenagers around. Classmates claimed that to enter the cowpath was to put oneself at risk for beatings on the best days, or disappearing at the hands of reputed gangs, serial killers, or Satanists lying in wait along the trail like highwaymen on the worst. But housing developments defeated all, even beating back crops. The trees surrounding the cowpath shrunk, until only enough remained to make a paved trail cutting through still seem remote.

He stops and sniffs the air, thinking he smells a skunk.

Keep an eye out.

He turns his head and listens, hearing distant muffled voices instead of another animal in the grass. As he gets closer to the chatter, he realizes what he smells.

The two teenage skateboarders from earlier sit on a bench sharing a joint. He’s only smoked marijuana once, when Matthew was getting high and he wanted to see what the big deal was. Even though he liked some of the effect, it just wasn’t his thing. He considers asking the skateboarders if they’ll share; see what effect a hit or two has on his walk. But that would be condoning what they’re doing—not a good move for a teacher.

They make no attempt to hide what they’re up to. Kids today are more bold than when he was young, when everything scared him. They remind him of yet another reason teaching is growing old. He doesn’t recognize them—assumes they’ve dropped out or attend another school. There’s not much he can do—so he nods, says, “Hey,” and continues walking.

* * *

Midnight. April 8.

53 degrees Fahrenheit

Ahead, he sees something moving in the darkness, an upright shadow coming his way on the sidewalk. The hairs on his arms rise up, the skin on the back of his neck tightens. The way the figure moves gives him pause; he considers turning and running. 

Shadow people only exist in dreams.

He’s never been one to believe in the supernatural. As he gets closer, it’s just a guy in a black track suit.

His gait is unsettling. Not like there’s anything physically off with the way he walks, but something doesn’t feel right. Now, if he turned and ran, he feels like the man in the black track suit would chase him down. He is in a track suit, after all—he’d surely catch him. He tells himself maybe the guy’s cooling down from a run and every bit as unsettled by him, two chickens in the night making everything worse in their heads.

At the point they almost meet, he considers what he’ll do if Track Suit makes any sudden moves. The other walker’s hands are buried deep in the pockets of his jacket. He keeps eye contact with Track Suit until looking down, watching his pockets for any sudden motion. He takes a deep breath. It comes with the scent of clean laundry and soap, neither masculine or feminine—just fresh.

Maybe Track Suit is on his way to work?

When they’ve passed each other, he turns around and walks backwards, ready to have the advantage if Track Suit turns and attacks, but he never looks back. Just keeps walking until he’s a shadow again and then swallowed by the night.

* * *

1:37 a.m. 52 degrees Fahrenheit

He hears music getting closer, Bon Jovi’s “Living on a Prayer.” It arrives and departs with a doppler effect, growing louder and then fading away as car headlights turn to tail lights—a 2018 Camaro passing by. It grounds him to a time and place, even though he never liked the song. Still doesn’t. But his mind is back in high school, on a spring break ski trip to Colorado where he cannot escape the grip of Jon Bon Jovi, his New Jersey buddies, and that damn song!

He’s never been nostalgic, but he understands the appeal. For some, high school days were a perfect time, even though he couldn’t wait to leave. The morning after graduation, he stared at his bedroom ceiling when he woke up, considering what it meant to be so free. Despite promising himself he’d leave that summer and never look back, he ultimately returned: teaching English, the only class he enjoyed, at his old high school.

Matthew did leave after graduation, drifting away and never heard from again. Sometimes, he wonders if the friendship was really that great, or if they were simply two outcasts bound by geography and a desire to make the most of an unfortunate situation. When he bumps into people he once knew around town, they assume those were his best days as well, like a Bryan Adams song. They talk about parties and events he never attended; football games and names he’s long forgotten. To them, time stopped in 1987.

How sad must it be to travel back almost 40 years to feel happy? How strange to wish you could trade in adulthood for the only time you felt like you mattered?

* * *

2:08 a.m. 50 degrees Fahrenheit

The trail widens on the backside of an affluent neighborhood, cobblestones meandering through trees and bushes from other places. Yards that look like fairways and putting greens. He’s heard one of his senators lives behind the gated entrances, along with a boy band, several professional athletes, and a podcaster making millions through misinformation and something techbros devour as philosophy.

Headlights illuminate the road beside him—he turns back to look because now he trusts nothing moving up fast from behind. The car slows and comes to a stop. A cop car. The window goes down, and a face illuminated by the dash and a mobile data computer seems to float before him.

“Evening,” the cop says.

“Hello.”

The cop continues. “Lovely night.”

He nods in agreement, wondering if he’s about to be screened for trouble.

“Have you seen a couple kids on skateboards this evening?”

“No,” he says. “What’s up?”

“Ah, we got a call about a couple kids smoking marijuana in the area.”

He’s happy he didn’t ask for a hit from the joint.

“Naw. I saw several kids skateboarding in Cannon Park, earlier. At the skatepark. But that’s it.”

The cop says, “Thanks,” and then sits there.

He doesn’t know if he should continue on his walk or ask if the cop needs anything else.

“So, you’re just out walking?”

“Yes,” he says. Before the cop can ask more questions, he says, “I know it’s late. Or early, depending how you look at it. I’m walking tonight from sundown the sunrise, so you’ll probably see me around. It’s a long story, but I’m the guy who got hit months back on Tubbs Road. On the bike. Wrecked leg guy. It seemed like the best thing I could do to make sure I’m healed is walk all night. Probably seems weird, but it’s what I’m up to.”

The cop nods. “Oh. Yeah, I remember. That doesn’t seem weird at all. You doing okay?”

“Yeah. I took some time, but I’m good.”

“All right,” the cop says. “Enjoy your walk, then.”

“You too. Your patrol, I mean…not walk. Be safe.”

“I will if you will.”

“Deal.”

* * *

3:22 a.m. 49 degrees Fahrenheit

The Camaro passes him again, this time blaring Bruce Springsteen’s “Glory Days.” So many happy-sounding tunes with sad lyrics back then he’s not sure some people ever listened to. He wonders if Camaro Guy drives around at night, listening to music from his youth and reminiscing about his glory days. Or maybe he works a night shift and it’s his day off, out running errands or just out and about because—to him—it’s the middle of his waking time. With a slide into looking back and wanting to stay there, he’s not much different than Camaro Guy.

Before Matthew left town for good, he begged him to follow. Even his parents wonder why he’s stuck around.

“Why do you stay there?” His father sometimes asks on their weekly phone call.

“Simple,” he says. “Everyone I know who boasts about all the places they’ve traveled say the same contradictory thing: ‘Always ask locals where they go if you want to really experience a place. Ask them where they eat, what they do for fun, and where they hang out that no tourist knows.’ Well, I’m that local.”

He believes there’s no shame in knowing a place very well. He’s had experiences on local hikes rivaling any trek he’s had in faraway places. A quiet morning on a local trail with his thoughts beats the crowded trek to Machu Picchu—a thing so packed with loud tourists that you try convincing yourself you had a magical experience with 500 other people. But he’s far from some yokel content to stay in a perceived bubble of safety in his hometown. Summers have found him packing up his bikes and heading abroad. He’s climbed the Alpe d’Huez and survived the Galibier descent. Bikepacked his way through Norway, Sweden, and Finland; chased the sun across southern England on the summer solstice. Cycled the length of the Andes and went tip-to-tip across New Zealand on the Aotearoa Route.

As strange as it seems to some that he’s not left the town where he was born, he finds it even stranger to work 60-plus hours a week, and when vacation comes around, still work on the go. Rush through seeing the sights, standing in crowds awaiting your turn to take a photo of the one place everyone knows, but knows little about—because if they did, they’d know meeting schedules and fighting crowds, all so you can return to work and say, “I saw the place!” isn’t much of a break.

The magical places he knows just outside his door are places few ever see. No crowds, noise, or expenses; no missed connections or lost luggage.

And that’s what makes them special.

* * *

4:07 a.m. 48 degrees Fahrenheit

Another figure heads his way; this time, a woman in a Whataburger uniform. Her face glows from the light of her phone, which she seems lost in as she plods along the sidewalk. He clears his throat, hoping to get Whataburger’s attention, but the screen holds her gaze. Earbuds silence the world around her. He steps to the side, into wet grass; says, “Hi,” but Whataburger doesn’t seem to notice.

Were he wired for thievery or violence, it would be easy to take anything he wanted with people lost in screens—in their own bubbles of sound—oblivious to their surroundings.

“We steal so much from ourselves,” he thinks, “fill every gap in time with distraction.”

Two minutes in line at a store is viewed as suffering that can only be soothed by checking social media or messages. He thinks about how often he’s been out riding or hiking, hearing music that doesn’t belong in the space getting closer. Louder. Someone with a wireless speaker attached to their bike or pack deciding anyone seeking the refuge of nature or a back road needs to hear music deemed better than the sound of birds, wind, or the cadence one’s breath. So much lost by fearing even a moment alone in our heads. Thinking about bigger things or facing what we ignore when giving into distractions instead of reflection.

* * *

4:35 a.m. 47 degrees Fahrenheit

The Hill House was a wreck of a place when he was young, and each year it’s gotten worse. Some call it the Psycho House because of its menacing posture on the edge of town, a dilapidated structure visible for miles. To others, it’s simply “the old haunted house.” He wonders what names kids today have for it today; he wonders if it will ever be restored or finally toppled for safety reasons.

In junior high, he accepted a dare to enter the Hill House at midnight during summer break between 7^th and 8^th grade. While camping out with a group of friends in Matthew’s backyard, his best friend—usually the one to accept all dares—encouraged him to enter. He looked at the attic window as he walked up the meandering drive, then told himself to look away. 

Do nothing to build up the tension of imagination.

He went around to the side and pulled back the boards nailed over a window meant to keep kids out, even though everyone under 18 in town knew it was the way in. He expected it to smell musty, but it was more like entering a crypt. The challenge was simple: make his way upstairs to the attic window— wave down to his friends outside to prove he made it. When his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he went to the staircase and listened.

The creaking he heard would have sent most of his friends back through the boarded-up window and back to their campsite in Matthew’s backyard, but he was logical. “There’s no such thing as ghosts. Monsters are only in movies.”

But transients looking for a dry place to sleep and serial killers were neither spirit or beast. Someone genuinely real and dangerous could be upstairs.

“It’s windy,” he told himself. “The house is just shifting.”

On the second floor landing, he thought he heard something in the attic above. A thud—maybe even footsteps. He looked around for a 2×4 or a broom handle—even a loose stone from the primary bedroom fireplace.

No luck.

A fist would have to do.

In a back hallway he opened the door he assumed led to the attic. Creaking hinges erased any stealthy efforts to that moment. Before him was the steepest staircase he’d ever seen. He climbed up, using hands and feet, pausing at the top before bursting up, ready to face anyone who might be there. He knew the most likely culprit would be a friend lying in wait to scare him, and he was prepared to go as far as breaking a nose to teach someone a lesson.

Nothing.

He went to the window and waved down to his friends.

* * *

The boarded-up window is still the way in. It’s a tighter fit, but he squeezes in.

Up the stairs and to the attic entrance. The door leading up is covered with graffiti: a crudely rendered naked woman, a stylized signature tag that looks like “Monster,” and “666” painted over an upside-down cross. There’s something reassuring about it—proof that kids still venture into places they shouldn’t be, like Matthew and him entering the storm drain tunnels beneath Mockingbird Lane.

He opens the door and heads up; goes to the window and looks down like it’s the early 80s and he’s waving to his friends. Of the four companions outside the Hill House that night, one is dead—an aortic dissection in his cubicle on the third day of a new job. Matthew and another have disappeared—never popping up in late-night online searches when they come to mind. The one person from that night who does show up has a Facebook page where he posts angry videos from the comfort of an eighty-thousand-dollar pickup truck that looks like it’s never seen a day of hard work. Not someone he’s interested in contacting.

When he turns away from the window, he sees a shadow expand on the far side of the attic, almost as wide as he is tall. His heart races as he calls out: “I’ll mess you up!” even though he’s never been in a fight.

“Appear strong—confident,” he thinks, even though a strong and confident person would stand readied in silence, not call out with a hollow threat. He’s given away that he’s an easy mark.

More movement, like the shadow from a dream. He squints, trying to make out what’s on the far side of the attic. He imagines Track Suit coming out of the darkness with a knife, but he sees no legs.

When he steps to the side to get a head start to the steep stairway leading down from the attic for escape, it sails toward him like a nightmare. No footfalls against the floor. He rushes to the stairs, feeling a blast of wind behind him on his neck. The sound of wings, and something large dropping to the floor: a turkey vulture, every bit as startled by his presence as he is of it. The bird cranes its head forward and scrutinizes him…maybe its way of saying, “What the hell, man? I was dreaming, and it was a good one! Just cracked into an armadillo, and I was about to feast…”

“Sorry,” he says, while slowly making his way to the stairs.

When he reaches the bottom of the steep staircase, he hears the vulture make its way back to its roost above.

“Sweet dreams,” he whispers—and then leaves the Hill House.

* * *

5:49 a.m. 47 degrees Fahrenheit

A feeling of ease settles into his shoulders as he crosses back into his neighborhood. He thinks about how many after-dinner and even late-night walks he’s taken on these streets. All the good evenings and hellos to people he’s seen for years, but knows nothing about. Good friends only visually.

He rounds a corner and sees the flickering of emergency lights against the brickwork of the houses on the right side of the street. Likely just a cop catching someone speeding, or rolling up on a couple kids like the weed-smoking skateboarders. Another turn, and the street flashes red and blue: too many cop cars and SUVs to count. One of the SUVs blocks the street.

He approaches, and a cop stops him.

“Sir? This area’s closed off.”

He points and says, “I live down there.”

The cop looks at another, who nods.

“Okay, go ahead. But you need to cross the street and stay on that side.”

He wants to ask what happened, but knows they won’t tell him. Keep asking questions, and he’ll be told to walk back around the block and over several streets. He wants to see why so many cops are in his neighborhood.

Between the cars, he spots it: a black barrier like a parade gate covered in fabric. Just outside the perimeter, a Bluetooth headset on the sidewalk. A crime scene investigator looks down and takes photos. The flash pops bright white in his eyes, even among all the emergency lights. During one of the flashes, he sees a pool of blood dripping out beneath the barrier.

Ahead, he spots the cop from earlier in the evening.

“Hey,” he says.

The cop stops talking to two others and says, “Oh, hi.”

“What’s going on?”

The cop looks at the others—looks across the street at the photographer and says, “An investigation.”

“What happened?”

“We’re piecing it together. That’s all I can say right now.”

The chill of the early morning finds its way into his bones. He shivers and thinks, “I’m the only one out here. What if they think it’s me?”

He looks beyond the barriers and notices people at two houses standing on their porches, watching. What if the cops decide to take him in for questioning, how quickly will it spread throughout the neighborhood that he had something to do with it?

“Do you at least know who did it?” he says?

“Yeah,” the cop says. “One of our guys came up on him as it was happening.”

The morning feels even colder. How could such a horrible thing happen so close to home? He always thought it was weird when something like this made the news and it cut to the obligatory quote of someone living nearby saying, “You never think it will happen in your neighborhood…”

“Well, y’all be safe,” he says and continues on his way.

He passes an SUV surrounded by more cops than others. He looks inside as he walks by. In the back, behind the driver’s side, is the man in the black track suit. Track Suit looks at him and nods; smiles, as if to say, “You got really lucky this evening.”

* * *

6:21 a.m. 48 degrees Fahrenheit

As he passes his house, he thinks about how close he might have come to his end; instead, it’s likely an early morning jogger crossed the wrong guy at the wrong time. Couldn’t hear their surroundings over the music.

“What was it,” he thinks, “that made Track Suit pass me by?”

Why someone else when it could have been him?

It could have been him when he was hit on his bike; could have been him on his sunset-to-sunrise walk. Could have been him so many times in his life: all the near-miss car wrecks, T cells destroying cancer before having a chance to take hold, that time as a kid when all the cheese slid off a slice of pizza and lodged in his throat. For all the comforts in life, it’s easy to forget we’re just as susceptible to the whims of circumstance as wild animals: here one moment, and gone the next.

The black sky gives way to deep blue as he heads east to Olander Park. Stars that guided him all night blink out, losing brilliance to an ever-glowing light on the horizon. He finds a spot in the center of a soccer field overlooking Griffith Lake. Just as the sun begins to break the horizon, a hissing sound startles him.

Sprinklers!

He laughs as the water instantly soaks him. Of course the moment he looked forward to all night didn’t work out as planned. Despite the chill in the air, he doesn’t move. The pain of the past seven months is washed clean, the shock from the surprise soaking clears his head. No longer is he thinking about the cops back in his neighborhood—he’ll find out what happened in time. No longer thinking about the accident.

Instead, he thinks about all before him.

To say the time since he was hit by the truck hasn’t had a profound effect on him would be an injustice to his healing. All that time to think while recovering, living with an absolute he always knew: anytime can be our time.

As the sun warms his face, it becomes clear: there’s no need for profound change—at least right now. His life is good, and sucking the marrow out of life is a desperate act that soon runs out. Thoughts of an early retirement fade away like an armadillo lumbering off into the night. Why turn away from teaching English to kids when he’s been there and can help them figure it all out? He’s happy to be the local who knows his hometown like few others, but also the guy who has summers free to travel and find his equivalent in other places, kindred spirits bound to a place like him. His body still works, despite it having been broken and getting older each day.

That’s not a bad way to live.

When the sprinklers stop, he lies on his back until the sun dries him. When its warmth turns to heat, he gets up and walks home—giving  no cares to what dreams await him on the other side of sleep.

* * *

[Quirky music fades in…]

Christopher Gronlund:

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks

Theme music, as always, is by Ergo Phizmiz. Story music this time is by Joseph Beg, licensed through Epidemic Sound.

Sound effects are made in-house or from Epidemic Sound and freesound.org. Visit nolumberjacks.com for information about the show, the voice talent, and the music. Also, for as little as a dollar a month—or even free—you can support the show at patreon.com/cgronlund.

In July, it’s either going to be the thriller/mystery story featuring characters from “Godspeed, Crazy Mike” or a fantasy. Or even, as I mentioned up front, something else entirely. I’m still doing a little healing from the procedure in March, but there will be a July story!

[Quirky music fades out…]

[The sound of an axe chopping.]

Until next time: be mighty, and keep your axes sharp!