[Listen]

It’s been a strange five months.

On New Year’s Eve, I sat down and recorded some thoughts in the moment about the year that was…and the year ahead. In that recording, I said, “I don’t know exactly what I’m going to do in 2021 with Not About Lumberjacks, but I do want to do more with it.”

I mentioned submitting my novel, A Magic Life, and expressing a bit of concern about what would come next if nothing happened while querying agents. While there’s still a possibility of an agent catching up on their inbox expressing interest in the book, I’m now done with commercial submissions. For short fiction, I have this site—and with more novels covering the story started in A Magic Life, I will likely release that here as well, making Not About Lumberjacks the exclusive home to all my fiction.

I sounded rather ambitious on that New Year’s Eve recording—going as far as saying I hoped to release eight stories in the current year, season, whatever it is we call my November to November cycle, here. With only two episodes released so far, I don’t think that’s gonna happen.

There is a new story ready to record, and I like it quite a bit. It’s a story—not surprisingly—touching at least thematically where I am right now when it comes to work and writing. It’s a story about death, acceptance, and finding the things that mean something to you, despite the struggles of the drudgery of days. There’s a musical aspect to it that I need to figure out, but I’d love to have it ready by the end of the month.

After that, I am not without ideas. Now that I’m vaccinated, I resumed the annual writing retreat I do with a friend. In preparing for the long weekend earlier this month, I looked at a file of story ideas I keep. I have 73 ideas waiting.

Granted, some of them have a thematic overlap, while others may never see the page, but I am not going to run out of ideas any time soon. It’s more a matter of making time to record and putting episodes together. With Not About Lumberjacks now seeming to be my main focus, I hope to get regularly moving on sharing stories, here, again.

Most of this update are things I think most people who follow me and the show know about, but there’s something new knocking around my head. I’ve had a good handful of people suggest I start a Patreon account for Not About Lumberjacks over the years. I always rejected that idea because I never wanted money to be tied to the stories I write and share.

But on the writing retreat with my friend, and in talking with people in recent weeks, family, friends, and fans have made it clear they want to help out, financially. All said they don’t expect any pledge to be connected to story output—they just feel I should be paid for the time I put into the show.

Looking at it that way, it’s something I’m open to. I have wanted to share more behind-the-scenes glimpses at my process and things I’m up to. So videos, blogs, updates like this one and the New Years Eve chat, and whatever else comes to mind would be the reward for support.

The Patreon thing is still just a collection of thoughts right now, but I also know I’d want everything open to everyone making a pledge. Whether someone offered a dollar a month—or twenty—they’d all have access to everything.

If you’re like me, when supporting someone online, it’s a thing done because you appreciate their work and efforts. Exclusive perks are nice, but I know some people (myself included) only have so much in their budgets.

So that’s what’s been up with me. I’m interested in hearing what you think, so leave a comment or email me at NALStories (at) gmail (dot) com if you’d like. That’s NALStories—all one word—at gmail.com.

Until next time: by mighty, and keep your axes sharp…

[Listen]

Hey, it’s Christopher and it is 6:54 p.m. on New Year’s Eve 2020.

I’m trying something totally new here: just sitting down in front of the mic and talking about the year that was. Normally, I usually have some notes about what I want to talk about, and, obviously, if I’m doing a story, I have the entire story printed out. But tonight I just kind of wanted to babble.

I wanted to kinda challenge myself to see how quickly I could turn an episode around…I came up with this idea probably about ten minutes ago. I grabbed an image for this entry, I got some water together, and now I’m sitting down and talking.

I think we can all agree that it was a crappy year. For me, it started with a hope that the novel I’m shopping around, which is called A Magic Life, would get representation and hopefully even sell. And I had reason to have those high hopes. When I started submitting the novel, agents were requesting full and partial manuscripts—and some of those agents were the agents that you send things to with the hope that, “Okay, they represent a lot of really great people—and maybe they won’t even pay attention to me, but they seem open right now.” So, when you’re hearing back from agents who represents some huge writers, you naturally feel good about the year.

Even after losing a job in early January of 2020, I had high hopes even there. I was working a contract gig, and the group that I was working with wanted me back. They thought they’d be able to bring me on board [in] March or April and then, of course, COVID hit. And with that, hiring freezes happened, agents kinda didn’t know what to make of things, and…it’s only been in the last week or so that I’ve seen some agents coming out and saying, “Yeah, like everybody, I did my best just to get through the year. And I’m sorry that I’ve not really taken on new writers.”

So, what started off a great and hopeful year with A Magic Life ended up kinda sucky. I mean, it really was just like that—I was getting good responses for my query, and then silence. And I don’t blame those agents. I think many of us, especially early on, we had no idea what this year was going to become. Some people thought, “Oh, you know it’s just gonna be a month or so.” And then others—probably more realistic—and said. “Eh, it’s probably going to be a year or two.” And as time went on in 2020 I started seeing savings dwindling because the job that wanted to hire me wasn’t hiring anybody. Suddenly things were being pushed back, and they were saying, “Maybe September? Uh…we have no idea.”

I did get lucky when things were about to begin totally running out, and in July. I did find another contract. It’s at the same company and well…I almost lost that contract in November; then again in December. And, fortunately, they’ve looked at what we’re doing and decided, “Well, we’ll keep him around at least until March—maybe longer—it just depends how everything goes in 2021.” And I guess that’s what made me want to sit down and talk about not about Not About Lumberjacks on the last day of the year.

No matter how bad things get, fiction is always there for me. Whether it’s novels, short stories, or coming up with adventures for Dungeons and Dragons for my wife, it’s a thing that I’ve always depended on. And with A Magic Life not really doing much, once the pandemic hit, the only thing I really had control over was Not About Lumberjacks. And in what was such a bad year for so many people became a better year for this show.

Maybe because of the pandemic, I saw the show grow a little bit—and again, it’s something I’ve talked about: I really don’t get lots of listens for the show. But I’ve at least seen maybe that forty listens that I get in the first week climb up to fifty and sixty even when releasing something like this. The Behind the Cut episodes usually get fewer listens than the actual stories—and now Behind the Cut is doing as well as stories used to do.

It’s still not enough that most people would continue with a show like this—especially when I consider all the hours that I put into it. But aside from time spent with my wife, time out hiking—Not About Lumberjacks is one thing that I could rely upon. And that makes me wanna do a bit more in 2021.

I’m still not sure, entirely, what I’m going to do. But I’ve had friends and even some listeners whom I don’t really know in real life say, “You know, have you ever considered setting up a Patreon? What about a YouTube channel?”

I do have a YouTube channel—I just don’t do a lot with it.

My wife had a good year as an artist, doing some artwork for an animal sanctuary she loves. Not directly affiliated with them, but a side thing that donates money to a sanctuary—and they embrace that. So, in the process of her year, she set up the ability to print t-shirts. And then one day she said, “You know, I can print a couple Not About Lumberjacks t-shirts.”

So she did, and we posted a couple of photos of those, and I was amazed how many people were like, “Print these! I want one!”

So, I don’t know exactly what I’m going to do in 2021 with Not About Lumberjacks, but I do want to do more with it. Something as simple as the bloopers that I put at the end of this year’s Christmas episode was a huge hit. I don’t know if I did a Patreon that would be like one of those little perks. I don’t know if I would do a monthly or even quarterly state-of-the-show video. I don’t know if I’d just sometimes out on a hike just whip out the phone and just throw down some thoughts. Or even more things just like this where I have nothing written—not even bullet points—where I just sit down in front of the mic and babble.

I’d definitely be lying if I said, “Twenty-twenty didn’t hurt me.” Seeing that cycle of savings from my day job and then losing a job and seeing those savings go away, whether it’s due to a layoff or some kind of health emergency—it’s gotten old.

It’s funny when people talk about the movie Up. That beginning where everybody’s like, “Man, that’s just so beautiful, but so tragic.” I mean that’s almost my wife in me, except we’re both still here. Fortunately.

Every time the jar fills up it goes away. If we wanted to have children, a health condition I have ensures that we couldn’t. So many scenes in that beginning hit home. But another aspect of that movie that hits home even—even though I’m not really fond of Up, is the thought that just sometimes everyday life has its own magic.

While I was unemployed, my wife and I found all these new hiking trails. We came up with some cool ideas this year. And even though the whole thing with submitting A Magic Life actually hurt—and why wouldn’t it? It seemed like this was gonna be the year, and now, it seems like I’ve gone through every option and I’m coming to an end.

If nothing happens with that book, there are two more after it. And I’m not the kind of person who just bails on a project and goes to the next thing that might make some money or might not. This is the story I’m invested in, so I’m going to write those other two novels no matter what. Maybe they get released here—maybe they just end up in a drawer. I don’t know. But every single time I said, “I don’t know,” about 2020 and even the future, the two things that I’m sure about are that my wife and I will always make it somehow. I mean, it’s just what we do. We’ve been doing that for twenty-nine years, and we always keep going. And as we’ve talked about 2021, both of us have some good plans.

As for me, one of those things is the other thing I can rely upon: this show. As I mentioned in the most recent Behind the Cut, I plan to release eight episodes this year—and by “this year,” I mean, the November-beginning of a new year for Not About Lumberjacks, to November of 2021. But that still means six new episodes before Thanksgiving next year.

Earlier today. When I was knocking around on Twitter, I saw somebody who posted the very last Calvin and Hobbes comic strip. It’s that one where Calvin and Hobbes—Hobbes is carrying a toboggan and Calvin is charging through snow. And he says, “Wow, it really snowed last night. Isn’t it wonderful?”

And then Hobbes, looking up in wonder, says, “Everything familiar has disappeared. The world looks brand new.”

Calvin stretches his arms out and says, “A new year. A fresh clean start.”

Hobbes almost throws out jazz hands as he says, “It’s like having a big white sheet of paper to draw on.”

Calvin, with his hands on his hips, says, “A day full of possibilities.”

They climb aboard the toboggan and Calvin looks back and says, “It’s a magical world, Hobbes old buddy.”

Off they go down the hill.

“Let’s go exploring.”

And I guess that’s what I wanna do in 2021—I want to go exploring. I wanna get out on more hiking trails—I wanna do more things that I don’t do. I want to spend even more time with my wife. And I wanna make next year’s writing better than even this year’s writing, which, even in one of the crappiest years ever, was better than the year before.

So, thanks to everybody who listens. I know I don’t have a big show, and it may never be a big show. Or maybe it’s the thing where instead of querying agents, that someday an agent comes across and says, “What’s up with the show—You have a ton of stories? And then you mentioned that you have novels and other things?!”

So who knows what the potential of the show is. But that doesn’t necessarily matter to me as much as every year piling up more stories, putting in the effort to record ’em, and then seeing if anybody cares enough to listen. And enough people do—so, again, “Thanks!”

Here’s to 2021.

Let’s go exploring…

[Listen]

[Intro music plays]

Woman’s Voice:

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

[Music fades out]

Christopher Gronlund:

Behind the Cut is an inside look at episodes of Not About Lumberjacks and contains spoilers. If you’ve not listened to the latest episode and that’s a concern, go listen and check this out when you’re done.

And now: onward!

* * *

In the second year of Not About Lumberjacks, I had an idea: take all those bits of stories I had tucked away—the kinds of tales that don’t merit a full episode—and release a handful of micro-fiction for the holidays.

I called that first episode “Stocking Stuffers,” because it was seven short stories instead of the usual bigger one. Anchoring that first effort was a story that begins: “It wasn’t Christmas Eve until Dad and Grandpa got into a fistfight.”

It was very loosely based on a true story about one of the few Christmases I spent with my dad after my parents divorced and went their separate ways.

The second episode of Not About Lumberjacks, “Pride of the Red Card,” was another blurring of the lines of truth and fiction where my father was concerned…that time, a tale centered around soccer.

The latest batch of Christmas stories is anchored by another narrative about my dad…this time, about one of the only Christmases I spent visiting him in Kansas after he and my stepmother moved from Chicago to the Sunflower State.

Of course, every one of these stories based on truth is full of lies. In the latest tale, I didn’t cut my finger on the trip back to Chicagoland. In “Pride of the Red Card,” there was no alcohol given to me as a reward for taking out a player on the soccer pitch. And the morning in that first Christmas story saw no family reconciliation…it was just awkward as hell…as it always was around my dad’s family. (And my grandmother was even still alive.)

* * *

The majority of stories on Not About Lumberjacks are completely made up…that is, they are not based on any actual realities. But fiction has a way of being quite true, even when it’s entirely fabricated.

If you listen to enough stories from the show, themes become apparent. As ridiculous as “Alone in HQ” is, the topic of overworked office drones living for a job they cling to comes up in my writing more than a couple times. Many people, like me, struggle with the job that pays the bills and the things they yearn to do full time. It’s a theme I deliberately throttle back, lest it becomes the driving storyline of every tale on the site.

So, what about the stories I’ve based on reality? A story like Bobo—the most factual Not About Lumberjacks story—could almost be considered an essay.

But I still see something like that as fiction. Here’s why…

* * *

When James Frey made news by admitting that much of his book A Million Little Pieces was fabricated, so many essay collections released in its wake contained disclaimers that things may not be as true as authors remembered. In other words, writers have a way of embellishing things. (If you can imagine?!)

Beyond that, people rarely talk like they do in stories. When talking with my wife of almost 29 years, conversations often begin with previous knowledge that, if I dropped it into a story, would be bad writing. A reader would have no context of what we were talking about much of the time, so you try providing that known information without sounding stilted. But no matter how hard you try, you usually do…at least a little bit. Add to that not remembering conversations from the past verbatim, and fiction always seems to seep in.

Let’s return to the story Bobo. The collection of facts it presents wouldn’t be as interesting without some flair in its telling. Everything in that story happened to me, except having a cheeseburger thrown at me while pumping gasoline by the same people who really did throw an apple at me while telling me to fuck off for being a clown.

But I still speculated that the poor kid I traumatized that day on her birthday would need therapy, and in the most recent tale about my father, the actual splinter removal mentioned wasn’t quite as terrible as I sell it. I mean, it sucked and there was blood, but there wasn’t as much blood as I made it sound.

I’ve always maintained those who say truth is stranger than fiction aren’t reading the right fiction. But even where I understand the point of the statement—with no ill intent on a writer’s behalf—even truth is usually exaggerated in its telling.

* * *

I used to be against letting any actual event I experienced find its way into the stories I write. While I still lean mostly toward pulling from my imagination with most tales, once I realized even the most ridiculous things I’ve written contain truths, I gave up pretending reality didn’t shape the fiction I write.

That’s not to say every character is a reflection of me in some way—a lot of people always think that. I can write a completely terrible character who has nothing at all in common with me, but I’d not include someone like that in a story if there wasn’t some truth important to me I’d hope a listener or reader would take away by the end.

When writers are advised to write what they know, it’s not about creating autobiographical works, but rather, presenting emotional truths based on experiences the writer knows well…in the hope of connecting with readers.

And by doing so, whether a story’s set in a past the writer never lived through or deep in the future on imagined planets, the truth shines through…even in the midst of the greatest lies ever told.

* * *

Hey, this is where I’d normally have the outro music fade in and wrap things up, but it’s the last episode of 2020…and I’d like to talk about plans for 2021.

I average six episodes of Not About Lumberjacks a year, but I’m shooting for eight in the November 2020 to 2021 season. That could, of course, change based on what happens with other writing, but in this crappy year that’s almost behind us, this show has been a bright spot for me and people who let me know they appreciate the effort I put into it.

Twenty-twenty-one will be a bit of a challenge because that six-episodes-a-year average is bolstered by a first season where I actually released thirteen episodes. Most years, five episodes has been the norm…and I think one year saw only four.

So why am I shooting for eight?

Because, when I look back at all I create in a year—even in the years I finish a new novel—few things mean as much to me as the stories on Not About Lumberjacks.

I’d love to say I can put out a story a month, and I definitely have enough ideas for that, but with a fulltime job that’s likely to end in March when my contract is over, other life things—and other writing—eight episodes might even be pushing it.

Still, it’s my goal for this year of the show. I hope you’ve already enjoyed “Geocached,” and this year’s Christmas episode—I’ll do all I can to keep you in stories in the year ahead…  

* * *

[Quirky music fades in…]

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.

In January, I kick off a new year with a story about Death! Don’t worry…it’s mostly light-hearted…

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 the now-annual Christmas episode, which is always made up of several bits of micro-fiction…and then anchored by a story set during the season.

Before that, though, a couple things. First: the usual content advisory. The stories from this episode deal with a variety of topics, including the loss of a parent, alcohol consumption, vandalism, divorce, and minor gore. But hey, it’s nothing like a couple Christmases ago when the main story featured child torture, so that’s an improvement, right?! (We all felt almost guilty laughing at that one if you remember. Almost! [I mean, that kid was pretty shitty…]) Oh yeah, also—as always—there’s a bit of swearing.

The second thing before we get to the episode is I’d like to tell you about a book series by my friend, Jennifer Moss.

If you’re looking for a fun and exciting binge, this is it—a series of mysteries with a metaphysical twist. The first is TOWN RED, in which Detective Ryan Doherty has to save his career by solving a double homicide of husband and wife entrepreneurs. During the investigation, he meets the mysterious Catharine Lulling—a psychic empath who knows just a little too much about the murders. As Ryan is drawn into Catharine’s unconventional world, he has to figure out if she’s for real…or the real killer.

Check out TOWN RED by Jennifer Moss – Rated 5 stars on Amazon.com.

I’ll also be sure to include a link in the show notes.

All right—let’s get to work…

* * *

TRACKS

Two girls walk balanced on the rails of the tracks leading into town, holding hands in the middle for balance. Afternoon clouds pile up where land meets sky, things so thick and puffy, the two friends would not be surprised to see them leave behind mountains as they float by.

In town, there is an ice cream shop and a library; a hobby store where an even more ideal hometown made of plaster and paint snakes around the shop in HO scale. The tavern across the street from the lumberyard would look more at home in the English countryside than tucked away on the prairie. On a corner in what used to be a bank is an actual haberdashery that makes most of its money selling scouting uniforms.

In the community park, there are boys. The days of playing tag, climbing up slides the wrong way, and spinning on merry-go-rounds are behind them. They have reached an age where glances in the hallway become talking in the grass after school or wandering off to the creek cutting through town—not to look for frogs or crawdads like when they were younger, but to have a moment alone to navigate the labyrinth of young love.

A first kiss is had, and a heart is broken.

Two girls walk balanced on the rails of the tracks leading out of town, holding hands in the middle for balance. One girl talks in circles about the kiss by the creek; the other squeezes her best friend’s hand a bit tighter, knowing the long life she imagined together is over before ever beginning…

* * *

HOMECOMING

Callan pours a splash of Laphroaig scotch into an almost clean glass.

“Want some?” he says to his father, Sean.

“Nah. The scent is plenty. Your mother hated it…said is smelled like iodine and asphalt.”

“She wasn’t entirely wrong.” Callan raises the glass to his lips and takes a whiff. “Happy birthday, Dad.”

“Cheers, son.”

For a moment, the only sound in Callan’s childhood home is the sound of scotch sliding down his throat.

“So, what have you been up to?”

Callan rocks the glass of Laphroaig on the dusty table-top and says, “Just working. Pays for this.”

“Good point.”

“Also saving up for an RV like you suggested during our last visit. See if I can make it on my own next year, traveling around and writing. Worst case, I park it here for free while trying to figure things out.”

“That’s great! I’m happy for you, Cal.”

“Mom wouldn’t have been too thrilled about it.”

“True. But then—you never know…she just wanted you to be secure. You’ve always had a good head about things and planned better than any of us.”

“Thanks. I wish she were here.”

“I do, too. But some people settle after the end. I’m glad they let me back once a year.” Sean laughs and adds, “I’ll never get over how it looked like you were about to shit yourself when you saw me the first year after I died!”

Callan smiles and polishes off the scotch in the glass. “I thought someone slipped me something at the airport before I picked up the rental.”

He pours another dram, and the two chat about the last year of Callan’s life. Long into the night, Callan says, “Well, it’s getting close to midnight. I should get an Uber and get out of here.” He looks at the almost half-finished bottle of scotch. “I’m gonna leave this here. Let some teenagers acquire a taste for the good stuff…”

The image of his father on the other side of the table shimmers as Callan’s eyes fill with tears.

“You don’t have to cry, son. We’ll see each other again soon enough.”

“I know. But I miss being able to just pick up the phone and call. Or surprise you by taking a few days off work and stopping by. Every year I worry it’s the last year I see you.”

“I’ll always get to come back on my birthday. And the house isn’t going anywhere anytime soon. It might keep sliding out of shape, but it’s ours and going nowhere. You can still move in. Fix it and make it yours.”

“Maybe someday. Right now, though…just a lot of other plans. And this place is full of too many memories.”

Callan taps on his phone to request a ride. He stands up and looks at his father.

“I wish I could give you a hug.”

“So do I,” Sean says. “But we’re lucky to have this.”

“Yeah, we are.”

Callan looks around the old dining room, thinking about all the dinners shared with his mother and father at the table. “I think I know the answer,” he says, “But why’d you do it?”

“I hurt, son. I’m sorry. I just didn’t know how to be without her…”

“That’s what I figured. Just wanted to know for sure.” He looks at his phone: 11:59.

“I’ll see you next year, Dad.”

Right before fading away, Sean smiles and says, “I’ll be waiting…”

* * *

THE LAST WISH

I wished for all the money in the world, and the genie granted it to me as promised. Then, when nobody in the world had money but me, and I went out to buy something and people figured out what happened and came for me, I wished that things returned to the way they were before I had all the money in the world. I was determined to make the one wish I had left matter and stick.

First: you’re probably wondering about the genie. All I’ll say is it’s amazing the things one can find in out-of-the-way antique shops. I’m cleaning up an old lamp I bought and WHOOOSH, there’s a friggin’ genie in my living room.

Of course, it offered me the standard three wishes, and I went with one of the most common choices.

I’d always heard genies take wishes literally and do all they can to mess with the people they are in service to, but I was given exactly what I asked for. So, a word of advice: if you ever end up in my situation, just ask for a specific amount of money—not all of it. Still…the more I thought about it, the more I wondered if all those stories about genies screwing people over were true. With no way to undo what would be done with my third wish, I went to the genie and said, “Ya know what…I feel like no matter what I do, it’s gonna end up a double-edged sword. So, I wish you’d just do whatever the hell you want.”

It was a bold move on my part. For all I knew, the genie would become all powerful and enslave us all. So, I was pleasantly surprised when he fixed everything wrong in the world and asked if he could crash on my couch while figuring out what to do with his new life…

* * *

MONKEY-WRENCHING SUBURBIA

The day Jude finished reading The Monkey Wrench Gang, he attacked a Caterpillar Motor Grader in the woods behind our houses.

Our bellies were full of stolen wine, when—back in the day—our little town saw its first pangs of growth…and affluence seeped in at the sides. There were always open garages and refrigerators full of beer, white wine, and champagne waiting to be consumed by teenagers daring enough to take the risk.

We walked along the make-shift dirt road cutting through the small forest we claimed as our own, a scar of construction carrying with it the promise of new homes and more garages.

When we reached the machines, Jude pulled out a rolled-up towel from a small backpack he carried everywhere. Inside the towel: two adjustable wrenches. I refused to take part because I knew progress would win in the end. So, I drank wine and watched from a distance as Jude went to work.

I watched hydraulic fluid arc in a perfect stream in the moonlight, like a sacrificed creature bleeding out. I watched the front tires fold over as the massive machine gave itself to the earth. I watched Jude dance around like a mad ape, all but beating his chest while smacking the ground with his wrench. When I told him we should go, he knocked out a side window, letting the glass rain down upon him like diamonds. We went back to his house and listened to Black Flag.

It’s funny how a handful of years as best friends with someone when you’re young can create a bond of brotherhood lasting for life. When I found out Jude was dead, it hit me like we’d never parted ways. I still don’t know if the overdose was accidental or deliberate, and I suppose it doesn’t matter. Those times are gone, and so is he.

Sometimes, after visiting my mother on weekends, my wife and I drive through that old development that used to be our kingdom. And I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t live in that fucking neighborhood, if we could afford it, claiming the house on the very spot where all of Jude’s aggression was wasted.

* * *

CHRISTMAS IN KANSAS

My father thought the bridge over the Mississippi River between Illinois and Iowa was some kind of badlands where speed limits were null and void. I tried telling him our home state had jurisdiction over one half of the bridge and Iowa the other, but he claimed it was like International waters, where laws didn’t exist. Rather than explaining that one to him, I let him carry the fantasy in his heart.

The speedometer in the boxy ‘64 Ford van went to one hundred, and Dad had it pegged. He said we were going faster than that, though—my father was a mechanic and claimed to have modified the van for better speed. I believed him because the engine beneath the cover between our seats growled; I waited for it to throw pistons that would bounce around the inside of the van, killing us both.

Despite my fear, though, it was exhilarating—watching the pavement racing below our view through a windshield so large, I imagined we were a 747 coming in for a landing. Dad took his hands off the steering wheel and closed his eyes. Sensing I was about to protest, he said, “Just checking the alignment, bud.” Before putting his hands back on the wheel, he took a long draw from the Lucky Strike in his right hand and picked up the beer resting between his legs in his left. He took a swig and put it back, not caring if the condensation on the can made it look like he pissed himself when we pulled over for gas or to use a rest stop.

* * *

When I was five years old, my mother divorced my father. When I was eight, my dad moved to Kansas with my stepmom. Road trips from Illinois to Kansas became a summer thing each year after that. This particular trip was my first time going to the Sunflower State for Christmas.

Normally, I didn’t mind Kansas, but I wasn’t sold on spending the holiday there. While I loved seeing my stepbrother, I was even less a fan of my stepmother than I was my stepfather—and Christmas meant my summer-time friends, there, would be tied up with their families. Winter back home meant sledding, skating, and cross-country skiing; Kansas meant only the possibility of something icy falling from the sky and nothing fun to do even if it actually happened.

* * *

Driving across Iowa, my father and I settled into that part of the trip where silence covered us like the snow over the desolate fields outside the window. In the summer, tall rows of corn blocked views of the horizon; now, though, I had unlimited views across what I deemed the most depressing place on Earth.

I tried reading…even considered starting a conversation, but Dad was listening to his Skynyrd 8-track, and “Simple Man” was about to move on to “Freebird.” I ended up breathing on my window and quickly drawing things before they disappeared. When I was done, I looked at my fingers.

I don’t have too many memories of my mother and father together, but the night I got the scar on my left index finger will be with me to the end.

* * *

I had a splinter I couldn’t remove, but I’d had them before and knew they had a way of working themselves out. By morning, it would be ready to pull—if it hadn’t forced itself free in the night, lost forever in my Yogi Bear or Snoopy sheets. But my father saw me squeezing my finger and asked what I was doing.

“I have a splinter,” I said.

Next thing I knew, I was with him at his workbench in the basement.

To this day, roughly forty-five years later, I still get creeped out by basements. Part of it goes back to my older sister convincing me that monsters lived in our sump pump; that a whole host of undead beasties were waiting to kill me in the boiler room, from behind the furnace, or crawling out of the crawlspace above my father’s workbench. But I think the first time I ever equated basements with terror was thanks to my Dear Old Dad…

My father fancied himself a surgeon of sorts. He was terrified of doctors, opting to treat himself for every ailment, and even family if it was a non-emergency. The bright light above the workbench was like being on stage illuminated by a spotlight—at least I couldn’t see the rest of the basement in its glare, although hearing the creaking, hissing, and gurgling didn’t calm me any.

This is what I remember:

I remember my father passing a needle through the flame of his Zippo lighter…

I remember wincing and crying out as he dug for the splinter…

When that didn’t work, I remember him pulling out a pocketknife and passing the tip of its longest blade through flame…

I remember the pain, and I remember the blood…

(So much blood, or at least that’s how it seemed in the blaring white light from above…)

And I remember never ever wanting to go into the basement again—how even if it meant dying, I’d hide every ailment from my father for the rest of my life…

* * *

The Kansas visit that year was not as bad as I expected, but it still paled in comparison to Christmas back home. My father took a bit of time off work, which meant cold-weather fishing and visiting restaurants he liked during days we didn’t venture out into nature.

There was last-minute shopping and, for the first time in my life, putting up a fake Christmas tree. It was a foreign concept to me, putting faux branches that looked like they were made of green toilet bowl scrubbers onto a pole. But when it was done, it wasn’t as bad as I imagined. It was actually kinda cool.

On Christmas Eve day, we went to visit my step grandparents, where my stepbrother and my half-sister were given piles of gifts, while I got a toy Conoco fuel truck. My step grandmother worked at Conoco, and the truck was a freebie. She was never very fond of me and my sister because we weren’t blood-related in any way, and that Christmas was a reminder that I was not particularly welcomed into my stepmother’s extended family for my simple crime of merely existing.

That night, we got to open one small gift. My stepbrother and I opened identically shaped packages from his uncle who worked in Saudi Arabia. Swiss Army knives—not the one seemingly as wide as a Kit-Kat bar, but one still big enough that we had tweezers, a toothpick, scissors, a bottle opener, a magnifying glass, and even a corkscrew we’d never use.

After that, we left out beer and pretzels for Santa Claus. (My father said Santa liked that combination much better than milk and cookies.) Then it was off to bed.

I woke up a couple hours later when I heard something through the decorative air grate in the back room where I stayed when I visited. There were no ducts attached to a few of the older air registers in the house—they were open to the basement, a leftover from days before central air, when boiler heat rose up from below the house to the first floor. I crouched down near the baseboard and listened. I heard faint music, and I smelled smoke.

* * *

The basement of my father’s home in Kansas was not as terrifying as the one in the house where I was raised, but it was not without its horrors. Opening the creaking door was like cracking open an ancient crypt—it came not only with a smell of spiders, but also mummies, zombies, and anything else decaying and evil…at least in my imagination. My stepbrother once locked me in one of the side rooms in that basement for what seemed like hours, but was really only a handful of minutes. Aside from grabbing my big toe and rolling me around on the floor when watching TV, it was the only cruel thing he ever did to me.

The underlying scent of mildew greeted me when I opened the door, but it mingled with the odor of Lucky Strikes, peppermint, and some strange smell I couldn’t put my finger on.

“Dad?” I said.

“Yeah, bud.”

Even though it was my father’s voice, I still expected to see some hollow-eyed creature wrapped in bandages when I got to the bottom of the stairs and turned his way.

The basement was darker than usual, with only a single light above his workbench illuminating things. I’d later find out that he felt that light was a bubble where he could focus, but as a kid, it seemed strange to be in such a creepy space at all—let alone without turning on every single light. My Dad’s shadow on the far wall looked like that of a hunch-backed warlock at a table in his study. It straightened up when I approached.

As I walked toward the circle of light, I wondered why my dad was wearing cut-off shorts in winter. He quickly covered his leg with his hand.

“Whatcha doing?” I said.

“I’m kind of busy right now, bud.”

“Doing what?”

“Just please, go back to bed.”

That’s when I noticed the mason jar full of rubbing alcohol with something red in it.

The mass was about the size of a large marble, and it wasn’t all red; in fact, it was mostly white and yellow, like body fat. Fleshy protrusions sticking to the side swayed back and forth in the liquid, like some kind of sea creature. I swore that whatever was in the jar even had a vein in it!

I looked around the rest of his workbench, at the bottle of peppermint schnapps beside an empty half pint of Wild Turkey. The tape player near his wall of tools softly played Harry Chapin’s “If My Mary Were Here.” I knew that song meant he missed my mom. (Until his final days, he never fully got over my mother going her own way when I was five.)

“Are you okay?” I said.

He pulled his hand from his thigh. There was a three-inch gash that was partially stitched shut with dark, strong thread. That’s when I noticed the X-Acto knife on the workbench with a darkened blade from being held in a flame before Dad went in.

“It’s just a little cyst. Been driving me nuts for weeks. Merry Christmas to me, huh?”

He picked up the bottle of peppermint schnapps and, instead of taking a sip, handed it to me.

“Want some?”

I really didn’t, but I took the bottle anyway. I felt the burn of the sip the entire time I watched my dad finish sewing his leg shut in the glare of the bright light above his workbench in another creepy basement.

When he was finished, he took a sip of schnapps and turned off the tape player.

“Want to go upstairs and see what Santa Claus got you, bud?”

Of course, I did…

* * *

In the colorful glow of the Christmas tree lights, he pointed out all my gifts and told me what was inside each one. I was already a pro at acting surprised on Christmas mornings if I knew what something was because my sister had a knack for carefully unwrapping presents before the holiday and telling me what they were.

“You do know there’s no such thing as Santa Claus, right?”

“Of course,” I said.

“I figured. It’s just…with you not always around, I sometimes lose track of where you are in life.”

I knew any further discussion would result in him crying, so I got up, gave Dad a hug, and returned to bed.

* * *

There is a place in Iowa where you can see forever, land so flat you can understand why some in that part of the country believe the earth isn’t round. We raced back toward Chicago in Dad’s souped-up van, the snow shooting at us like we were traveling through hyperspace. During the crescendo of “Freebird” I pulled my new Swiss Army knife from my pocket. I opened the longest blade and sliced myself across the splinter scar on my left index finger, wondering what it took to cut into one’s own leg to remove a growth. Before my dad could notice, I grabbed a handful of McDonalds napkins from the bag on the floor and held them as tightly as I could to stop the bleeding.

Most people one day recognize just how flawed their parents are—how flawed we all are. I always had my suspicions where my father was concerned, but all his flaws became apparent that Christmas break. Still, in a strange way, knowing how broken he was made even the tiniest gesture of love and understanding from him bigger than intended…and he was always a very caring person.

I didn’t let go of those napkins until we pulled into my driveway back home, where Dad squeezed me so hard in a hug that I felt like I would burst. He looked confused when I handed him the wad of bloody napkins, but he asked no questions. For that one week Christmas break in Kansas, he was just happy to know where I was in my life, and the things said to each other in silence on that trip back home is a gift I carry with me to this day…

* * *

[Quirky music plays…]

Christopher Gronlund:

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks.

Theme music, as always, is by Ergo Phizmiz. Story music this time is by Johannes Bornlöf, licensed from Epidemic Sound.

Sound effects are always made in-house or from freesound.org…although I tend to not do much in the way of effects with some Christmas episodes, so it’s possible none were used this year. Visit nolumberjacks.com for information about the show, the voice talent, and the music.

In a couple weeks, we finally put this miserable year behind us. So, what does the first Not About Lumberjacks story of 2021 hold? How’s a story about Death sound?! (I promise that it’s mostly light-hearted.)

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