[Listen]

[Intro music plays]

[Woman’s Voice]

This is Behind the Cut with Christopher Gronlund. The companion show to Not About Lumberjacks.

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Christopher Gronlund:

Behind the Cut is an in-depth look at the latest episode of Not About Lumberjacks and often contains spoilers from the most recent story. You’ve been warned…

* * *

My first novel, Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors, was a screenplay before it was a novel. In the final scene of the screenplay, the one-time atheist protagonist, Michael, wears a cross around his neck. While it’s not as evident in the novel, Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors can be seen as a story about an atheist becoming a Christian.

The funny thing?

I’m a life-long atheist.

* * *

I have always been, and will always be, an atheist.

When people hear I’m a life-long atheist who doesn’t believe in any gods or paranormal things, people assume I was raised that way. But my father was an altar boy growing up (which is a riot if you knew my father), and my mom was also raised very Catholic. Hell, my dad attended a Catholic school for boys, and while my mom attended public school, the church was a big part of her life growing up.

My parents divorced when I was five, and neither were particularly interested with instilling a sense of faith in my sister and me. I think my sister was Christened, but only to appease older family members. She believed in a variety of things at different points in her life—my mom did as well.

Growing up, my mom never forced religion on me. She thought maybe I had a bad experience with faith and talked about other kinds of Christianity beyond those I knew (that is: Catholics). She talked about Buddhists and Hindus and Muslims and metaphysical movements. I grew up with Jewish cousins, so I was very familiar with Judaism, even celebrating Passover and Hanukkah with them.

But none of the other things I was exposed to made any more sense to me than Christianity.

* * *

So, why am I talking about this?

The latest Not About Lumberjacks story, “The Sinister Quilt of Agnes Burr,” is about a group of older women who unwillingly summon Satan through a quilt design.

Growing up an atheist, I was never pushy about it. In fact, I often hid it because, when classmates in junior high school found out I didn’t believe in God, I went from being pretty invisible to one of the most hated and picked on kids in Carl Sandburg Junior High. I was beaten, spit on, and ridiculed on a very regular basis by Christian kids.

While I sometimes write humorous stories with Christian imagery in them, I take care to not be an asshole about it. Most of my friends are Christian…maybe not by a huge percentage, but I’m sure at least a slight majority would say they’re Christian.

So, why would I rip on something so important to most of my friends?

I don’t.

Even when writing a story where Satan is a knock-about schlub with a sick sense of humor and a job he takes seriously, I approach things with these friends in mind. Any of Satan’s criticisms of Christians in “The Sinister Quilt of Agnes Burr” are criticisms of those who use Christianity as a political cudgel; not an overall criticism of a faith so many people I care about hold dear.

* * *

I moved to Texas when I was 15. Not only did I move to Texas, I went from a decent-sized town in northern Illinois to a smaller town down here with a population not much bigger than my high school up north. (When I attended a meeting as a new student, I was told my new high school had 394 students.) Many of those students were fundamentalist Christians, so I hid being an atheist.

Of course, keeping secrets in a small school in a tiny town isn’t easy.

As a teenager, I believed I needed to be open-minded about religion, even though it took years for me to realize the people hoping—even demanding—that I consider their ways of thinking refused to listen to mine. They were right; I was wrong. In my efforts to be seen as open-minded, I went to many a conservative church in Texas when invited. I was promised eternal life, and on one occasion—in a roundabout way—told, “Look at that goofy motherfucker over there and his hot little wife. You can have that, Chris…all you gotta do is believe…”

I realized many Texas churches didn’t want to instill kindness for all in their parishioners—they wanted to win. Saving my soul didn’t seem as much about eternal life for me, but rather: a personal victory for them.

“I was the one to finally convert the life-long atheist pain in the ass!”

My favorite conversion tale is why I often write about the humorous side of religion…

* * *

A high school friend invited me to a Bible study at his house. It was…weird. A guy in his late 20s or early 30s, who seemed to have a lewd eye on several girls in the room, gave his interpretation of the Bible.

Every one of his takes was twisted to his desires, much like the current administration in the U.S. uses faith to justify their not-so-Christlike ways…all in the name of Christ.

A guy named Adam recognized that I had checked out.

He said, “Hey, Chris—wanna go for a ride on my motorcycle?”

It was better than listening to the creepy pastor wannabe man with a clear fetish for teenaged girls…

We rode out to a long road that ended in a dead end. Adam looked back at me and said, “Chris, if I die right now, I know where my soul is going—do you know where yours will go?” And then he showed my how fast his motorcycle could go. At one point I looked over his shoulder, at a speedometer that could advance no further.

At the dead end, he shouted, “CHRIS, ARE YOU NOW READY TO ACCEPT JESUS CHRIST INTO YOUR HEART AS YOUR LORD AND PERSONAL SAVIOR?!”

I told Adam to fuck off, and ZOOOOOOOM, off we raced again.

After about the fifth time of being “open minded” and attending churches and Bible studies and considering things others wanted me to consider (but never listening to me), I made a vow to no longer waste my time.

* * *

I mentioned stories I’ve written where Christianity is featured are humorous, but that’s not entirely true.

“Lakeview Estates” features a small-town church and a larger megachurch in another town. The protagonist trying to save the trailer park where he lives from being turned into a golf course meets with others at the church where they all grew up.

Before dropping out of the University of North Texas for financial reasons in the 90s, I was the night janitor at the First United Methodist Church in Denton, Texas. I understand the comfort and feelings of safety a church can provide. The fellowship and being around good stewards of the faith who have given their lives to helping others—not positioning themselves as thought leaders and twisting a faith to their cravings.

So even when writing a humorous tale about a crass and goofy Satan dragged into a living room in Quincy, Illinois against his will by a group of older women, I approach things with care. Granted, there are some who will never see that, or argue that making Satan an almost-likable schlub is wrong. But I usually write with an audience in mind, and “The Sinister Quilt of Agnes Burr” is no exception.

My Christian friends would likely agree with this story’s Satan that so many horrors in the world aren’t his doing, but on humanity…and that we’d all do better being kinder to each other.

Even most atheists I know believe we’re here to love each other…or at least not get in each other’s way.

* * *

It’s likely “The Sinister Quilt of Agnes Burr” won’t be the last story I write in which faith is examined. I’ve long wanted to write a story about a small church trying to stay open when a megachurch comes to town…and “Lakeview Estates,” gives me that church and already familiar characters.

And last November’s “The Art of the End” is a spiritual story, whether one wants to see it being about Buddhism or—as intended—focusing on Zen meditation. (And yeah, I know…Zen is a Buddhist tradition, but westerners have a way of taking aspects they like about a spiritual concept and making it their own—Oskar Nilsson included.)

If you look at The Quick List page on the Not About Lumberjacks website, quite a few stories deal with gods—even the sci-fi adventure tale, “Rockbiters.”

People’s beliefs in “other things” shape our world, whether we like it or not.

It’s only natural to write about that now and then.

* * *

I mentioned earlier that I’ve always been—and will always be—an atheist.

I’ve had many religious people over the years tell me that’s a close-minded way of looking at things.

But when I’ve asked them if they ever see a day when they are no longer Christians, the answer is always, “Of course not!”

I’d argue that running the gauntlet of so many churches, listening to friends of different faiths talk about what they love about their beliefs, and even spending hours talking to the Assistant Pastor at the church where I once worked is more open minded than those people.

It’s just not for me because the mechanics are all so easy to take apart—and it’s been that way since childhood.

But what I can’t take apart (nor would I want to) is what good believers of any faith hold in their hearts.

I like to think, in all the stories I’ve written where religion or other systems of deep belief are the focus, that I’ve treated it with respect…even if it’s Satan leaving a living room in Quincy, Illinois with a noxious fart as a final goodbye before returning to Hell…

* * *

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks and Behind the Cut. Theme music for Behind the Cut is a tune called “Reaper” by Razen. Visit nolumberjacks.com for information about the music, the episodes, and voice talent.

Also, for as little as  free, you can have access to a bigger behind-the-scenes look at Not About Lumberjacks on Patreon. Check out patreon.com/cgronlund if that sounds like your kinda thing.

In May, several towns in northern Illinois undergo a sudden (and very strange) transformation.

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 group of older women in a quilting circle who unwillingly summon Satan through their latest project’s design.

But first, the usual content advisory…

“The Sinister Quilt of Agnes Burr” deals with summoning Satan to our plane of existence, so of course there’s mention of ancient cults, magic, and other paranormal things. While the violence in the story is mostly comedic, there is a fairly grisly scene not necessarily played for laughs. (But it is still kinda funny.) I also threw in trespassing, auto theft, property destruction, and passing mention of infidelity to round things out. And, of course, there’s swearing.

But really, it’s a goofy story that still made me laugh after returning to it after a five month long break. 

All right: let’s get to work!

The Sinister Quilt of Agnes Burr

The quilt was a construct unlike anything the four existing members of the Quincy Quilting Circle had ever seen, a design chosen by their newest member, a 62-year-old from Peabody, Massachusetts named Agnes Burr. They’d seen her work in multiple quilting magazines and books and were ecstatic she sought them out after moving to town. But her first project with the group wasn’t what they hoped for. In the private company of the original members, Florence Johnson said she found the pattern too avant-garde for the group, while Karen Stockton made no attempt to be so kind, calling it, “a garbage-ugly travesty beneath our usual fare.” Violet Merriweather admitted she found it disturbing, but couldn’t tell anyone why. The president of the tiny group, Martha Washburn, reminded the others to be nice. They all agreed, that in their combined 220 years of quilting experience, it was a pattern defying description.

It was assembled in stages, using fabric and a pattern provided by Agnes. Each week, the group worked on squares, with Agnes bringing it all together at home before planning a big reveal. She promised the group would be astonished by her experimental, bold design.

But the Quincy Quilting Circle was a sisterhood rooted in tradition, a place to gather as friends—not a group created to push boundaries. With each members’ decades of experience, there were few techniques or ways of working they’d not encountered. While Agnes’s permanence with the group was yet to be decided, they all agreed that her leading a project would likely never happen again.

* * *

“All right, everyone,” Agnes said, “gather around for the big reveal.”

She had placed the quilt on the floor in Martha’s living room and covered it in black cotton fabric. The other four stood in a circle around the piece. Agnes bent over, grabbed a corner, and pulled it back—uncovering the quilt.

“This might sound strange, but at my old circle in Massachusetts, we always joined hands around a new piece.” Agnes extended her right hand to Martha and her left to Florence. They reluctantly took Agnes’s hands in theirs. Martha shrugged and reached for Violet; Florence reached for Karen. When Karen and Violet held hands—completing the circle—they all looked down at the quilt.

It looked like black and red static, similar to an optical illusion where a three-dimensional image appears if you look at it just right.

“Are you all seeing what I’m seeing?” Violet said.

Karen nodded. “Yes, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t bring myself to look away.”

And that’s when it happened: Agnes Burr tightened her grip on Martha’s and Florence’s hands and yelled, “Oh, mighty Satan, Prince of Lies and Deceiver of All, I call upon you to enter this earthly realm!”

The center of the quilt swirled at their feet, where an endless void opened below. Deep down, a pinprick of orange light grew to an ember, and then a raging inferno.

 “I have provided the means for visitation and offer you entrance to this physical realm to do as you please, save but one request.”

The flames morphed into a great horned head. As Satan floated toward the edge of the pit, Martha pressed a finger into the the joint on Agnes’s hand at the base of her pinky finger. She twisted her grip to increase pressure, causing Agnes to yelp and let go.

Martha raised her free hand above her head and chanted in a language older than the written word:“Ahs-furr mor-octa trobe. Mee-long narra-bock!”

A green bubble of energy surrounded Satan when he stepped into Martha’s living room. As he pushed against it and howled, Agnes pulled something from her pocket and hurled it at the floor. The room filled with acrid smoke. When it cleared, Agnes Burr was gone.

Satan looked at the remaining four women and said, “Would one of you ladies kindly explain to me just what in the name of my abode is going on?”

* * *

Martha’s three closest friends stared at her in disbelief.

“I don’t know,” she said. “It just…happened.”

Florence shook her head. “No, something like that doesn’t just ‘happen.’ I know when you’re hiding something. Sixty years of friendship, and this is a new one to me.”

“It’s nothing, really,” Martha said.

“You just trapped the Prince of Darkness in a glowing green cage. That’s much more than something. Really!”

“All right, fine. But you’re all going to think I’m making this up. When I went to San Francisco in the late 60s, I wanted to experience as much as I could. That included spending a bit of time at the Black House.”

“What’s that?” Violet said.

Florence shook her head. “The Church of Satan is what that is.”

“Sure, that’s what it was,” Martha said, “but I wasn’t a member. A friend brought me along for a ceremony one night. The church’s founder, Anton, played organ. Because I played and wanted to learn more, he gave me lessons.” 

Karen said, “You mean to tell us you play every Sunday at our church, led by the hands of  the founder of the Church of Satan?”

“I swear I only took lessons. During those sessions, he said he could show me ways to unlock my mind and have all I craved. He never charged me, so I figured the least I could do was listen to him while we played.”

Karen crossed her arms. “Just listen to the Father of Satanism spout off. Nothing bad could come from that!”

“It was the 60s, Kare. We all had our moments.”

“Well, I didn’t!”

“Enough with the bickering, ladies. You’re not the ones summoned and bound against your will.” Satan clapped his hands. “Hurry, hurry, hurry!”

Martha continued. “I did find the different ways of thinking I was exposed to fascinating. Quincy, Illinois isn’t known for its diverse ways of looking at the world. So much opened up to me in those three years out west. Let’s just say I delved deeper than the simplicity the Church of Satan offered. After a blood oath to an ancient cult, I was granted access to archaic tomes that spoke of gods eons older than any I’d find at home. I no longer practice, but much like a lapsed Catholic, once you’ve given yourself over to the Old Gods, they never fully let go.

“So, that’s how I knew a way to imprison Satan to this spot in my living room. Unfortunately, only Agnes has the power to send him back.”

* * *

“Well,” Satan said, “if I’m Agnes’s problem, you can just release me, and I’ll be on my way.”

“Nuh-uh,” Florence said. “What makes you think we’d just let you go?”

“It never hurts to ask.”

“You’re not going anywhere. Martha and I will go find Agnes and bring her here so she can send you back to Hell where you belong.”

“What about us?” Violet said.

“Just…” Florence looked at her best friend.

Martha said, “I’d suggest you go to the kitchen and make a pot of tea or coffee. Have some cake and pretend he’s not here. We shouldn’t be long.”

* * *

On the drive to Agnes’s house, Florence said, “Do you really think it’s a good idea to leave those two alone with Satan?”

“If it was just Violet,” Martha said, “I’d worry he’d try tricking her into somehow releasing him. But Karen trusts no one.”

“Can he be released?”

“No. As long as I’m awake, the cage stays up and we’re good. But he will talk to them. Try getting something out of them he can use against us all. Karen will tell him to shut up, though.”

“I still can’t believe you never told me about all you did out in California.”

“I’m sorry,” Martha said. “Those days are long behind me.” 

“Yeah, because I’m sure taking a blood oath to an ancient cult just goes away on its own.”

“I was eighteen and on my own for the first time, Flo. It’s not like it was planned.”

“Well, you still could have told me…”

* * *

Karen and Violet sat at Martha’s kitchen table, finishing their tea. When they were done, Violet got up and lifted the top off the cake stand.

“Do I smell chocolate?” Satan said from the living room. “Devil’s food cake?” 

“It is,” Violet said.

Karen shook her head at her and then shouted, “You shut up in there!”

“You have to give me a piece. It’s in the name. It’s my foooooood.”

“I said shut up!”

The two returned to their discussion about how Karen was never fond of the thought of bringing Agnes into the circle when Satan said, “You know, this is all your fault.”

“What do you mean, this is all our fault?” Karen said.

Violet raised her index finger to her lips. “Shh, don’t speak to him.”

“You all made me,” Satan said. “Humans, that is. You do know there’s no unified concept of Hell in the Bible, right? You just bought into a version made up in a book by an Italian guy in the 1300s, and a British poem written after Shakespeare was dead and buried. In fact, most places in the Hebrew Bible refer to ‘the satan,’ not plain old ‘Satan.’ Meaning various human accusers—not me.”

“Well, that’s not the Bible I follow!” Karen said.

“Well…that became the first part of your Bible so many love quoting to keep others down.”

“You can try tempting us like you tempted Eve, but we’re not biting.”

“See, even that’s wrong. I wasn’t the serpent in the Garden of Eden.”

“You sure were!” Karen said. “It’s even mentioned in the Book of Revelations!”

“First, you mean Revelation—not Revelations. A book written after the fact to scare people into following your god. It’s just apocalyptic fan fiction written by man. Second: that’s still not me, Karen, it’s—“

“How do you know my name?”

“There are so many things I know…”

Violet shouted, “She said shut up!”

* * *

Martha pulled up to Agnes’s house, and she and Florence got out. She knocked on the front door several times to no response. After that, she tried the doorbell and pounding on the door.

“Agnes, we know you’re in there. Open up! We’re not mad.”

Nothing.

Martha checked the door, but it was locked. When she went to look in a window, Florence lifted the doormat in the hope of finding a key, but only found debris. She eyed the line of bushes and stones at the front of the house and found what she was looking for.

“Psst!”

She got Martha’s attention and pointed.

Martha picked up the fake stone among the others and removed a backup key from the bottom.

She unlocked the door, and the two entered the house.

* * *

The inside of Agnes’s home looked like the set of The Addams Family: floors covered in Persian rugs, walls decorated in tapestries; velvet curtains pulled back with braided cord at the windows; old paintings hanging from rails running around each room; antique furniture sought after in its day, now seeming garish to modern eyes; taxidermy animals and oddities in glass cases.

Not a quilt to be seen.

“Agnes,” Martha said. “We just want to talk.”

They wandered the first floor of the house, marveling at the nicer antiques she owned, but also recoiling at some of the oddities: a china cabinet full of broken porcelain dolls on display; an ornate mahogany side table holding a jar filled with a murky liquid preserving what appeared to be a two-headed baby alligator.

“I’d be afraid these things would come to life at night and kill me,” Florence said.

Martha shook her head. “I’d just hate dusting all this stuff.”

The last room they entered on the first floor was the only space that didn’t fit in with the rest of the decor.

* * *

Even if Martha and Florence worked together on their dream quilting space, it would have paled in comparison to Agnes’s. In the center of the room was a workbench that appeared to be made from a massive kitchen island, with cabinets and cubby holes to keep tools and works in progress. On one wall, a clean desk; across from that, a sewing station with two machines. A lounge chair with task lighting for hand-stitching in comfort. Shelving and cabinets holding as much fabric as some stores. Along the back wall, beneath a quilted banner reading WALL OF FAME were all of Agnes’s award-winning quilts, mounted and protected in swing-frame panels. Martha and Florence wandered over and looked.

Each frame also contained the cover of the magazine in which the quilt appeared, or the award certificate or medal it won.

“These are good,” Florence said. “Some even great, but I never understood the appeal of her work. It doesn’t seem like it should have won this many awards and been featured in so many places.”

They flipped through each quilt as though they were teenagers flipping through posters in a store rack at the mall. When they neared the end of the wall of quilts, Agnes charged in and hit Martha in the back of the head with the shell side of a taxidermy tortoise, sending her crashing to the floor. When Agnes reared back to take another swing, Florence squared up, ready for a fight.

“You don’t want a piece of this, Morticia. Take another swing, and you’ll be joining her down there.”

Agnes set the tortoise on a nearby desk and then squatted down to check on Martha. 

“I’m so sorry,” she said while checking the back of Martha’s head for damage. At least there was no blood. Florence gently patted the side of Martha’s face.

“Martha. Martha, wake up. Martha…”

Her eyelids flickered a moment before opening.

“What happened?”

Florence said, “Spooky-Pookie, here, hit you in the back of the head with a turtle.”

“Tortoise. It’s a tortoise.”

“Oh, I stand corrected. She knocked you out with a tortoise.”

“I was out cold?”

“Yes,” Agnes said. “I can’t apologize enough. I was scared and didn’t know what else to do.”

Martha tried standing, but Florence kept her seated on the floor.

“I need to get up,” Martha said. “And we need to get back to my house. Karen and Violet are in danger.”

* * *

Satan said, “Do you really believe a loving god would send people to hell for things beyond their control?” Or for making human mistakes, like a parent who gets mad at an six-year-old and punishes them for not coming into the world with full knowledge of everything?” 

“That’s not how it works,” Karen said. “Only bad people go to Hell.”

“Nuh-uh. Most believers—at least here—think anyone not believing in Christ’s sacrifice ends up with me. And they do, but it’s not my fault. It’s all on humanity. You underestimate your power for creation. Billions of people fixated on the the same belief and willing it to life, all because humans crave power and control. And others are willing to follow. Y’all needed a boogie man, and here I am. ‘Be good, or the Romans will come for you. You’d better behave, or the banshee will scream! Oh, that darn Satan—he’s gonna getcha if you don’t finish all your dinner!’

“I’m not the one bombing poor people and starving children. I’m not turning away refugees or locking migrants up for profit. You can blame me in an attempt to absolve yourself of the sin of looking away, but I’m the nice guy when compared to—”

Satan stopped speaking when the cage surrounding him dissolved. He waved his hand where it was and felt no resistance.

“Compared to what?” Karen said.

She and Violet screamed when Satan stepped into the kitchen to finish his tirade.

“I’m just humanity’s reflection in the mirror, and I don’t like what I see when I look out from it. Y’all make horrors far greater than any I can imagine, and in doing so, insult the God you claim to worship by doing it all in his name.”

Karen grabbed the cake knife and held it out in front of her in defense.

“You can put that down,” Satan said. “I’m not gonna hurt you ladies. But if you’d be so kind as to cut me a piece of that delicious-looking cake, I’d really appreciate it.”

Karen slid the cake off the table and stomped on it when it hit the floor.

“Oh, that’s just hurtful.”

“I can scoop some up and put it on a plate for you,” Violet said.

“Thanks, but that’s nasty now. I’m not eating off the floor.”

Satan stepped to the kitchen door and opened it. He smiled and said, “Please consider my words,” before walking away.

* * *

As Florence drove toward Martha’s house, Agnes said, “I’m so sorry I hit you. I’m sorry I dragged you all into this.”

Martha turned around and said, “You don’t need to keep apologizing for hitting me with your turtle—uhm, tortoise. We’ll call it even if you tell us why the hell you summoned Satan to my living room.”

“I made a deal with him when I was eighteen. Just joking around that I’d give my soul up to be able to quilt like my mom. She never understood me—she wanted someone very proper and reserved. Instead, she got gothy little me. My mom lived for quilting. I gave it a try to bond with her, but it wasn’t my thing.

“I was stunned when Satan appeared in my bedroom. I was a sarcastic, misanthropic thing at that age, so I thought it was funny. ‘Sure, I’ll give my soul for quilting skills.’ Poof—there he was! He held a contract in his hand, and I signed it. Of all the dumb things I did when I was young, that was the dumbest. Not trading for power or musical skills or something I really loved at the time. Quilting! I sold my soul for quilting! But…my mom warmed up to me, so it wasn’t all bad.”

“How did you summon him?” Martha said.

“Turns out I had some innate abilities. No idea if it came from being in contact with the literal Devil or not, but look at me: I was way into studying magic when I was young. And I saw enough to know that some of it was real. I didn’t know it would actually work, but I figured I’d try.”

Martha looked back again and said, “But why?”

“I’m sick. Lung cancer, even though I never smoked. Not even a clove cigarette in a club back in the day. I thought I beat it, but a followup appointment showed it’s back. I don’t want to spend an eternity in Hell, so I figured I’d see if I could pull him here and bind him to me. Release him back to Hell in exchange for my soul.”

“I can’t knock that thinking,” Florence said, “but you could have left us out of it.”

“I didn’t want to bring anyone else in. I tried summoning him by myself, but realized I needed five points to do so. Me, plus four others. I can’t explain how, but I can sense things, and I knew something was different when I met Martha. I’m so sorry. I really do enjoy the group. And I’m sorry I ran. When I saw Martha do what she did, I thought I was next.”

“I wasn’t going to do anything to you,” Martha said. “I just hope when I was knocked out that the cage somehow stayed up. If he’s loose, there’s no telling what horrors society will face.”

* * *

Before leaving Martha’s backyard, Satan morphed into human form: a lithe, seedy-looking guy with slicked-back black hair, a thin mustache, and a pointed goatee. His skin still blazed red, although it didn’t appear as extreme in an even darker red leisure suit. He rolled a toothpick back and forth over his yellowed teeth, appreciating the way the clacking sound echoed in his skull. Three blocks later, he stole a Tesla Cybertruck, just so he could roll along at six miles under the speed limit and send people behind him into fits. He waved to people giving him the finger and gunning their engines to get around him.

“Gas pedal! Use it, CuckTruck!” someone shouted at him, bringing joy to Satan’s dark heart.

Once in town, he rolled down the windows, blasting a variety of the worst songs ever recorded: “Baby Shark,” “Barbie Girl,” “Who Let the Dogs Out,” and “Kokomo” by The Beach Boys. He was rocking out to “The Macarena” when he pulled into the Jiffi Stop parking lot. He got out of the Cybertruck and loitered near the front door, eventually stopping a 12-year-old heading in on his way home after school.

“Hey,” Satan said while pulling money from his pocket. “I’ll give you a hundred bucks if you go into the store and kick that guy in the nuts.”

He pointed through the window at a middle aged balding man obsessed about which variety of bottled water to purchase.

The kid looked at him, shook his head, and went inside.

“Little fucker,” Satan muttered. “What kid turns down a Benjamin?”

Next, a group of four teenagers approached the store. As they neared the door, he said, “Hey, fellas. Gimme twenty bucks and I’ll buy y’all some beer.”

“No, we’re good,” one of them said.

“All right: ten bucks.”

One of the kids sniffed the air.

“Dude, you smell like matches!”

“Yeah, well you smell like a kid whose parents don’t love him, so we’re even!”

“What the hell’s wrong with you?” another said.

Satan grinned.

“Look around, kiddo, and you tell me. A world where you’ve all been through active shooter drills, instead of leaders actually fixing things. Parents who didn’t let you play outside when you were younger and then later, held it against you. The unfair expectations failed adults put on you all to succeed, all so they can pretend the nights you were conceived in a drunken mess weren’t mistakes after all, even though you’ll go on to repeat. That, and so much more, is what’s wrong with me.”

The four teenagers turned and walked away from the store. Satan opened the door and went inside.

The cashier looked up and and said, “Hey.”

“Howdy,” Satan said. “Do you have restrooms. I’m gonna buy something—not just dump and run if you know what I mean?”

The cashier pointed to a back corner of the store.

* * *

There were few things Satan loved more than wrecking a public restroom. He squatted in the urinal and left a foul surprise for the next person in need. The paper towel dispenser was emptied, and its contents shoved into the toilet to clog the commode. Just to be sure, he pulled all the toilet paper off the rolls and filled the bowl. Soap from the dispenser was poured onto the floor and down the sink: a slick tripping hazard and instant bubbles for the poor person left to clean up the mess. He pressed a hard, pointy fingernail against the mirror until it shattered into a spider web pattern of glass. After admiring his work, he wandered the aisles of the convenience store.

“That’s one hell of a sunburn,” the cashier said.

Satan smiled. “Yeah, I fell asleep in a tanning bed.”

He continued moving up and down the aisles, until stopping at the candy.

“Excuse me, kind sir. Would you happen to have any Chick-O-Sticks or Circus Peanuts I might be overlooking?”

“What’s that?” the cashier said.

“What’s that?! Only some of the finest confectionaries this side of the Mississippi! I’ll take that as a no. Do you have any Black licorice or candy corn?”

“No, we only have those around Halloween.”

“What do you recommend, then?”

The cashier pointed to the Pizza-By-the-Slice display, where three pizzas warming for who-knows-how-long sat on a tiered rack inside a glass case.

“A slice of pepperoni, then. Please.”

The cashier grabbed a slice for Satan.

“Do these comes with it?”

“Napkins? Yeah, of course.”

Satan removed the top from the dispenser and took the whole stack.

“I’m a really messy eater.”

The cashier looked like he was going to protest, but instead, shook his head and took the pizza slice to the register.

“Anything else?” he said.

Satan pulled out the hundred dollar bill.

“Yeah. I’ll give you this if you kick the next guy to come through that door square in the nuts.”

The cashier shook his head and said, “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

* * *

Florence pulled Martha’s car into the driveway. Before she could put it in park, Martha leaped out.

“Slow down!” Florence said. “We don’t know if you have a concussion.”

Agnes ran to her side, just in case. Martha opened the front door and was horrified to see the cage gone and Satan nowhere to be seen.

She called out. “Karen? Violet?”

“In here,” Karen said from the kitchen.

Florence entered the house and followed.

* * *

“Are you two okay?” Martha said.

Karen rested a mop against the counter and said, “We’re fine. He got out, came through the kitchen, and left.”

“I feared that. I’ll tell you more later, but I got knocked out for a moment. That’s when the cage must have come down.” She looked at the floor and added, “What’s up with the mop?”

“He wanted a piece of cake, and I damn sure wasn’t going to give him what he wanted. So, I knocked it on the floor and smashed it.”

Karen raised her right foot, showing off a darkened canvas slip-on shoe.

“Did he say where he was going?”

“No.”

“All right, we need to think,” Martha said. “If we were Satan and free to roam, where would we go?”

“The casino or a bar,” Florence said.

“Good options.”

Karen looked up in thought. “Maybe start a fight in a church?”

“Yeah, maybe? How about Florence, Agnes, and I go to the casino, while you two check the bars.”

“Those are good places,” Violet said, “but not where I think he went. He really seemed to want a piece of your Devil’s food cake. He seemed so sad when Karen stomped on it. I think that’s where he went: in search of a bakery. In search of cake.”

* * *

Satan sat alone on the Crazy Cakes patio, eating a red velvet cupcake and drinking a plain black coffee. He watched a white Toyota Camry and gray Buick Encore pull into the parking lot. The five members of the Quincy Quilting Circle exited the vehicles and sat down with him.

“That’s quite a look,” Martha said. “Red suit, slicked-back hair with a ridiculous widow’s peak. Why not go for a 20-year old blonde guy in business attire?”

“It’s expected of me,” Satan said while chewing a bite of his cupcake.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Florence said. “That’s nasty!”

The Dark Lord brought a hand to his mouth and said, “Sorry.”

“How’d you get here?” Martha said.

“Borrowed a truck for a little while. And then walked around until I found this place.”

“By ‘borrowed,’ do you mean stole?”

“I choose to not let semantics get in the way of a good time.”

“So, you’re having fun?”

“Not really. I forgot how boring this place is. It’s my Hell. And you’d think a place called Krazy Cakes would have Devil’s food cake, but no. Don’t get me wrong, this is a delicious cupcake, but almost every step outside of your home has been a disappointment.”

A group of three women came out and sat near them on the patio. Martha leaned in toward Satan and spoke more quietly.

“I’m not sure talking about all this in the open is the best idea. Will you at least come back to my place so we can discuss things in private?”

“Nuh-uh. You want me to come back so you can capture me again.”

“No, seriously—that was an in-the-moment thing. We got lucky. If I started chanting right now, what would you do?”

“Stop you to break the invocation.”

“Right. I was only able to pull that off because you probably weren’t expecting to be summoned to a living room in Quincy, Illinois. One moment in Hell, and then here.”

“Yeah, you’re right. I was checking in on a guy I’ve been forcing to watch that TV show, Small Wonder, on repeat—24/7—coming up on 35 years straight and FOOM! Next thing you know, I’m here. It was a surprise. Yeah.”

“So, you’ll come with us, then?”

“I don’t know…”

“I have Devil’s food cake at home.”

“Nuh-uh, you did. Until Karen, here, wrecked it.”

“I really do,” Martha said. “When I host gatherings at my house, I always send food home with everyone. If guests don’t take it all, I drop things off at church. But sometimes I set aside a bit for myself. I have a tiny Devil’s food cake waiting for me. If you agree to come with us, it’s all yours.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

Satan looked at the last bit of cupcake on the table in front of him.

“All right, but give me just a sec.”

He got up and wandered to the other group on the patio.

“Hey, you’re Susan, right? Susan Ollinger?”

The woman furled her brow and said, “Yes…?”

“Are you here, today, to confess to Debbie how you’ve been sleeping with her husband for over a year when she’s away on business?”

“What?! Who are you?”

“Eh, just somebody you’ll get to know better in about seven years. Have a lovely afternoon, ladies.”

He wandered back to the quilting circle and said, “What? I’m Satan. You think I’m gonna let an opportunity like that slide by?”

* * *

Satan stood at the open kitchen door, waiting. When Martha produced the personal-sized Devil’s food cake and cut it into quarters, he stepped inside and reverted to his true form.

“That’s unsettling,” Florence said as Martha handed him the cake and a fork.

He took a bite and closed his eyes.

“Oh, Martha! That’s heavenly…”

“Thank you,” Martha said. “Now, we have a solution to our problem.”

Satan started to speak, but looked at Florence. He held up a finger and finished chewing. After swallowing, he said, “Really now?”

“Yes. It’s simple. You give Agnes her soul back, and she releases you. We open the portal, and you go home.”

He paused before taking another bite of cake.

“You don’t think I’ve thought about suggesting that? It’s the obvious solution, except for one thing.”

“What?”

“Once I make a deal, it has to go to completion. I can’t just give back someone’s soul.”

“You’re saying she has to die before you can do this?”

“Yeah!”

“All right, then” Martha said.

She grabbed the knife and swung it at Agnes’s throat. The newest member of the Quincy Quilting Circle brought her hands to her neck, pressing against the cut to no avail.

“I’m so sorry,” Martha said as blood spurted from Agnes’s neck and pooled on the floor.

“What the hell did you just do?!” Florence said.

Violet and Karen looked on in horror. Satan continued eating his cake as if nothing were happening.

“Help me get her to the floor,” Martha said. Florence helped her best friend.

Martha held Agnes’s bloody right hand.

“It’ll all be okay. Trust me…”

Satan finished the first half of the small cake as Agnes bled out. At the moment it happened, he set the plate down and closed his eyes. As he slowly inhaled, Agnes’s soul left her body and was consumed by his breath. He smiled and opened his eyes.

“Her soul is now mine—the deal is complete.”

“Okay,” Martha said. “Now give it back to her and we can send you back.”

“Maybe I don’t want to go back. Maybe I like it here more.”

“Do you?”

“No. Hell no, this place is insufferable. I just wanted to see your faces when I said I might stay.”

He bent down and ran a finger over Agnes’s knife wound, sealing it.

“I’m leaving the scar,” he said. “As a reminder that you should not meddle with things you don’t understand.”

Satan then kissed Agnes on the forehead. She startled awake and immediately clutched her throat.

“You’re okay,” Martha said. “There was no other way. Let’s call everything even and put today behind us. Your soul belongs to you, and only you, again. You’re free from the deal.”

Agnes’s eyes filled with tears.

“Really?” she said.

Satan nodded. He summoned the contract before him, and it burst into flames.

“Yes, really. All right, I’ve fulfilled my end of the deal; it’s now time for you all to fulfill yours.”

He carried the plate with the other half of cake into the living room.

* * *

Satan stood in the center of the Summoning Quilt and said, “All right, my turn.”

“Do you need our help breaking the bond?” Martha said to Agnes.

She nodded and said, “Yes. We all need to join hands again.”

“Oh, I have one more thing to say before I go,” Satan said.

Martha said, “What?”

“When you have your next scan, Agnes, act surprised, okay?”

“What do you mean?” she said.

“I like you ol’ birds—you’re a lotta fun. I’m not saying you won’t get creamed by a bus or something, but you’re not gonna die from cancer. I promise that. See? I’m not all bad—just respond to my surroundings…”

“Really?!”

“Yes,” he said. “You’re gonna be okay. And I’m sorry, I lied. One more quick thing: for Florence.”

“What’s that?”

He took a bite of the cake and began chewing; winked and said, “Hey, Florence, look at me! I’m talking with my mouth full!”

Florence shook her head, and Agnes asked them to all join hands around the quilt. When they did, the pattern again shifted to red and black static.

Agnes shouted. “Oh, mighty Satan, Prince of Lies and Deceiver of All, I call upon you to leave this earthly realm! We open this portal so you may end your visitation and return to your unholy realm!”

The pattern morphed into a black void. Satan floated down, until he was little more than a pinprick of flame and then gone. The portal sealed with a roar!

Florence sniffed the air and said, “Is that brimstone?”

Martha smiled. “No. I think he left us with a fart. Classy.”

When they were done laughing, Agnes looked at the quilt on the floor.

“You should be the one to keep this safe,” she said to Martha. “I don’t know how you do what you did, but you’re clearly more suited to be the keeper of such a thing.”

“Agreed.”

Agnes continued. “And I understand if you kick me out of the circle. I really made a mess of the day.”

Florence said, “I still don’t know if I believe half of what I’ve seen, but I’m glad you’re well. I’m good with you staying in the circle if the others are?”

Karen and Violet nodded their heads, and the four looked to Martha.

“Of course you’re welcome,” she said. “But you’ll understand if it’s a really long time before we let you choose a design again…”

* * *

[Quirky music fades in…]

Christopher Gronlund:

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks.

Theme music, as always, is provided by Ergo Phizmiz. Story music this time is by Ludwig Moulin, 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 absolutely free, you can support the show at patreon.com/cgronlund.

Not About Lumberjacks is made without the use of any generative A.I. The stories, here, come straight from my mind—not from a machine.

In May, several towns in northern Illinois undergo a sudden (and very strange) transformation.

[Quirky music fades out…]

[The sound of an axe chopping.]

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

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!