[Listen Here]

[Music Fades in]

Female Narrator:

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

Christopher Gronlund:

I’d be lying if I said there never comes a point each year when I feel like I’ve forced myself into having to write two episodes of Not About Lumberjacks: the November anniversary episode (that is always the most not about lumberjacks tale of the year) and now — the annual Christmas episode. But when it’s over, I’m always proud of the efforts.

I started the Christmas stories on a whim…just throwing out seven very short stories in 2017. Most of ‘em aren’t even holiday related in any way – I mean, hell, there’s only one in the bunch.

Last year, it was two out of three stories that could be deemed holiday-worthy in any way.

This year, the three tales are all based around Christmas.

More than that, this is the first time I’ve not narrated any of the stories. Last year, my wife narrated the first story, and Patrick Walsh of the Screamqueenz podcast narrated another. I narrated the final story.

This year, I was lucky to get three great narrators: Dr. Michelle Booze, Art Kedzierski, and Jennifer Moss.

It was only after listening to the entire episode that I realized it’s one of my all-time favorite episodes of the show. I knew the stories were solid, but it was only after hearing them narrated by others that I realized how strong the episode really is.

I liked the three stories, but I have a confession: every story you hear on the show is a rough draft with a polish. I’m not sure I’ve ever done rewrites on a short story. (What you hear is largely a first draft…or, at most, my wife might catch something and say, “Ya know, this part doesn’t make sense to me,” and I fix things.) The stories knock around my head for a little while, and then sometimes they explode onto the page with little effort, but most times it takes a bit of shaping. Once all the pieces are down, though, the story is all there, and it gets cleaned up a bit…and then I call things done.

Working this way, piecing things together mostly on lunch breaks at work…it can sometimes be hard to know if a story is working or not. Often, it’s only when listening to a narrated episode that I can tell the efforts were worth it.

This year’s Christmas episode was definitely worth it. I was lucky enough to be present as a couple people listened, and my only regret is not putting a little more space between the first and second episode to account for people tearing up at the end of “My Grandmother Wrestled Bears.”

* * *

I’m not sure what 2020 holds for Not About Lumberjacks. I’m wrapping up a story for later this month, and I have a rather long mystery I’ve toyed with releasing. (If I do, it would be the longest episode to date…perhaps twice as long as whatever the current longest episode is.) And I have bits and pieces of other stories in various states or work.

But as I’ve mentioned during the endings of recent episodes, I need to turn my focus back on a novel—the second in a series. (The first is currently being submitted to agents, and I’ve been surprised by some of the interest people have had.)

So Not About Lumberjacks may go on hiatus for a handful of months while working through all that’s going on with books. Of course, it’s entirely possible nothing happens with the novel currently being submitted. If that’s the case, Not About Lumberjacks will likely become the writing focus in my life. (I mean, hell, at that point, you might even get a second feed for serialized novels if that’s your thing.)

It would be very easy for me to view 2020 as a do or die year for my writing. Common sense says if the first book in a series doesn’t sell, you drop the rest of it and you work on something else that might. But the story I’m working on is something I must see through, no matter what…even if it’s only read by a handful of people. And after so many close calls over the decades, you reach a point where you think, “I’ve grown so tired of the chase…”

But I don’t view 2020 as the year writing things happen or I give up not only the chase but writing itself. Because I enjoy writing and…here, I have a place for the stories I write. Going back to common sense, I mean hell, common sense also says Not About Lumberjacks is a futile endeavor. Most people stop a thing that takes the effort this show takes without any compensation. I can’t even say I do it for a large following because it seems there are maybe 50 die-hard listeners…and maybe 100 – 150 over time. (Only a few episodes on the site have over 200 listens.)

It would be easiest for me to just write stories and share them with a handful of friends and family. No effort into narrating and sound design. None of that.

There are moments in every episode’s production when I think, “God, I hate this part of the process…it’s such a slog. Why do I do this to myself?”

But then I hear something I’ve written come to life in a manner it would never sound like in my mind. And I hear from a small group of people about how much they loved it.

I work with narrators who put their own cadence and inflection into these concrete stories I’ve written, shaping them into remarkable constructs I could never imagine them becoming.

This year’s Christmas episode was one of those kinds of shows.

And that’s quite a gift for a writer knocking out stories on his lunch break at work…

And so, here’s to a good year…

* * *

[Outro music fades in…]

Christopher Gronlund:

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, episodes, and voice talent.

At the end of the month it’s a strange father and son tale featuring a handful of narrators.

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

[Listen]

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 annual batch of shorter-than-usual short stories in honor of Christmas and other holidays occurring this time of year. Be sure to listen to the end for more information about the wonderful narrators for this episode: Dr. Michelle Booze (yes, for real: she is a doctor, and her name is Dr. Booze!), Art Kedzierski, and Jennifer Moss.

For those wanting a content advisory: These stories contain occasional swearing, discussions about family loss, and…well, maybe even human sacrifice. Okay, so there’s no maybe about that…but it’s at least a humorous human sacrifice, I guess? Maybe? Up to you.

All right—let’s get to work…

My Grandmother Wrestled Bears…

[Piano music plays…]

I told my grandmother I’d get my shit together before she died, but I didn’t. I’ve promised a lot of people things over the years I’ve never done. It’s what I’m known for.

Because my parents only knew each other for a night, and because my mother took off shortly after I was born, I was raised out of time by my grandmother. Every bit of advice she gave me seemed forty years too late, like it was still The Great Depression and not the early 90s. So, on my eighteenth birthday, I did what my parents did before me: I ran away from home and straight into trouble.

Sometimes it was men, and other times it was drugs. Sometimes it was hitchhiking across the country or meeting someone who let me crash on their floor until they could tolerate me no more. And always, there was alcohol.

As much as I ran, though, I always came home for Christmas. It was my grandmother’s favorite time of the year, and the only time her old-fashioned way of looking at the world seemed okay to me. I still don’t know how someone so tiny always found the biggest tree and hoisted it up on her own. And nothing beat reading a book in front of the fire on Christmas morning while my grandmother read on the couch.

This Christmas, I stand in the house where I was raised, wondering where to begin. My grandmother was a quiet woman, but I’m still amazed by how silent this place is without her. Instead of filing cabinets, she kept everything she deemed important in an old cedar chest. So I start there.

I find the title to the house, medical records, and birth certificates before losing myself to photos. It’s frightening how much I look like my mother and how much she looked like my grandmother. I dig through loose moments frozen in time until finding an old diary at the bottom.

It seems like something my mother might have kept when younger, so I’m surprised to discover it belonged to my grandmother. Even more surprising is flipping through and discovering my grandmother was once as wild as the two women who followed her. Bookmarking the racier entries are photos: my grandmother drinking beer on a beach while surrounded by men; my grandmother sitting on a motorcycle and smoking a cigar; my grandmother wrestling a bear in some north woods bar! (And even more: she appears to be winning.)

I look at the empty spot where the Christmas tree usually stands. I fight back tears until I think about my grandmother wrestling a bear; then, I can’t stop laughing. There is so much to get in order, but it can wait. I start a fire, tending to kindling and logs until its roar properly echoes up the chimney. And on my stomach before its glow, I open my grandmother’s final gift and begin reading…

* * *

The Beast in the Back

[Three Tones Sound]

BigBoxMart

[A film projector starts; old instructional music plays]

Narrator:

Congratulations, BigBoxMart manager! You have worked hard, putting the company mission first. Your efforts have paid off! Welcome to the Benevolent Order of the Circle of Thirteen.

What is the Benevolent Circle of Thirteen I hear you say? Well, I’m glad you asked…

Have you ever wondered what makes BigBoxMart so successful? It’s not just happy employees and the greatest managers in the business that make our 13,666 stores the best in the business. We owe all our successes to the Ancient One, Himself: The Beast in the Back.

The Beast in the what, I hear you ask.

The Beast in the Back.

Let me explain…

By now, the tale of Sam Walters is the stuff of legend. Buying a general store in Hometown, Arkansas and expanding to other states in just six short years, the face of BigBoxMart is the face of the American Dream. But there’s more to Sam’s story than meets the eye…

There was so much more than common sundries tucked away in that dusty store Sam purchased in 1962. Now that you are an official member of the Benevolent Order of the Circle of Thirteen, you can know the truth. While assessing that old building, Sam Walters discovered a trap door. The cellar below contained an ancient tome instructing him how to assemble the Circle and summon Pah-a’-Finzhu, the Dark Demon of Commerce better known as the Beast in the Back.

As a new initiate, you get to choose this year’s sacrifice. It’s quite the responsibility, but don’t fret! Here’s Store number 1313’s manager, Susan Grimm, with what to look for in a candidate.

Susan:

“Oh, it is such a blessed fortune that has smiled upon you today, and I am honored to help you with what to look for in this year’s candidate. Seek a man whose loneliness is apparent during what he believes is a normal job interview, a person so desperate to talk with someone that they linger when the interview is over. The kind of man who reveals they have no one at home—not even a pet.

“But you also want someone who is rebounding from a good-enough job that when they stop showing up for their shift and coworkers ask where they are, you can say, ‘This was a stepping stone back to their career for them,’ and it’s believable. Remember: while most companies look for enthusiastic go-getters, timid and weak is ideal for this position. It’s not too hard to find a man who’s been destroyed by a job in a cubicle—someone so down about life that it’s almost charitable to put them out of their misery. We’re not cruel, after all…we’re just trying to hit our numbers like everyone else out there.

“Should you still feel bad, though, remember all you’re doing for the local economy. It’s a dog-eat-dog world, and we all have bills to pay and food to put on the table. Sacrificing one person a year means the 333 people employed in each BigBoxMart can make ends meet. And think of all the gifts purchased here. Some might say we’re the beast, but I like to think we’re in the business of happiness—especially this time of the year. Think of all those happy children on Christmas morning opening gifts made by thousands of workers in manufacturing. Truckers and delivery drivers earning their pay. Our troops coming home to make new holiday memories. When you look at it like that, one human sacrifice hardly seems bad, right?”

Narrator:

No, it sure doesn’t, Susan. It sure doesn’t.

So, there you have it, newest initiate: a quick history about The Beast in the Back.

Now that you know what to look for, get out there and make this holiday season the best one yet!

* * *

Lost and Found

[Piano music plays]

I grew up in a house so large that most of the rooms would have gathered dust were it not for maids. Our family’s start was humble, but along the way—at just the right time—my father’s efforts at work blossomed beyond the American Dream. He believed our fortune made amends for all the years we went without, and he punctuated that notion with a twelve-thousand square foot labyrinth of a house at the end of a gated street. Even as a teenager, it all seemed rather excessive.

The parties my parents held in that house were lavish affairs that put the me-generation of the 80s on loud display. New money acted as though the houses in our neighborhood were always there, instead of fabricated mansions rising up in a town previously known for its pastures and a quiet highway cutting through it all, leading to even more desolate places. I’m not kidding when I say the entirety of our first house could fit in the great room where, in the evenings, my father sat before a colossal stone fireplace like a king before his court.

But sooner or later, even kings die…

With my brother and I grown and long-gone from my father’s palace, it left my mother with too much house to handle. (Even with the four of us and hired help, it was always too much house to handle.) Our father died in December, which meant my brother and I—workaholics following family habits—finally used year-end paid time off from work to return home and help our mother sort things out. Most of the house, down to the furniture, was to be sold as though it were an estate handed down for generations. We were there to help Mom sort through personal items that actually mattered to us.

It was not the way any of us intended to spend Christmas. My brother and I planned to fly into Texas on the weekend, exchange gifts, and get back to work before losing any time. Instead, we spent a week roaming rooms I’d almost forgotten existed, assessing what would stay and what we’d take away.

While sorting through one of four guest rooms in a wing of the house I’d not seen in years—a room I never once saw used by visitors—my brother found a wrapped Christmas gift in a drawer in the closet dressing room. The label read To: Patrick. From: Dad. There was no mistaking what was hidden within: a cassette tape. We looked at each other and laughed, knowing how it got there and why it had stayed hidden for so long…

Patrick and I were never bad kids, but where Christmas was involved, we were at least mischievous. When my father found out the two of us dug through our parents’ closet where he hid gifts, he started hiding them in the attic. When he caught us up there, he threatened to cancel Christmas that year. Of course, he didn’t, but it scared us enough to stop searching for what would await us beneath the tree on Christmas morning.

It didn’t prevent my father from hiding things, though; in fact, knowing we were prone to snooping, he took even greater lengths to ensure if we tried searching for gifts, we wouldn’t find them. After that, it was not uncommon for him to forget where he hid some of the smaller presents. Sometimes he’d later remember, and a week into the new year one of us would finally get the overlooked gift. He was kind of like an absent-minded squirrel, but instead of forgetting where he hid nuts, he’d forget where he stashed gifts. We always joked that one day we’d find things years later. Apparently, we were prophets.

Patrick unwrapped the gift. From the paper, he pulled out the cassette, revealing a cover featuring three red spheres floating against a red background.

“Rush’s Hold Your Fire,” he said. “I ended up buying it with the Christmas money that year because Dad forgot about it…except, clearly, he didn’t. He just didn’t remember where he hid it.”

In another guest room, we found a gift from my father to me: a perfect four-inch cube of a box wrapped in paper featuring little scarf-wearing penguins. I looked at Dad’s wrapping job on the gift—all the skewed pieces of tape and mismatched folds. It looked more like something wrapped by a kid, rather than a grown man with a wife and two children…a man who took our family from nothing to millions. Inside every gift was a display of new wealth, but also the reminder that for much of his life, giving gifts was not within his means. He never got the hang of how to wrap them neatly. He could have easily paid someone to shop and wrap presents for us, but it meant so much to him to stop his hurried pace of life and put time into doing it himself.

I ran my thumb across a crinkled piece of tape he’d obviously struggled with before being pulled apart and affixed to the wrapping paper. I had no idea how long the gift sat hidden. He never got the hang of wrapping presents in all his years, so there was no difference in the quality from when he was at the height of his career to the time when his mind was so far gone that he looked at us all like shadows. I could at least tell by the handwriting on the label that it was from before he got sick.

Patrick said, “Open it,” but my eyes had already filled with tears.

“I can’t.”

I set the gift down and ran like a kid to the other side of the house, to my old bedroom. I wanted to get far away from the memory of my father, but the house had become a 12,000 square foot prison of the past from which there was no escape.

[Christmas music plays]

Before we had money, we spent Christmas Eves at my grandparents’ house. Dad always seemed shamed when the family exchanged gifts, even though no one minded that we came with next to nothing every year. We left loaded up on gifts at the end of the night, including several wrapped presents my grandparents always gave us to open on Christmas morning at home. I always wanted to spend the night at my grandparents’ house—not head back to our tiny apartment in that beat-up Ford Pinto. When we were done opening the gifts my grandparents sent home with us, my father would survey the room, clap his hands together, and say, “All right, let’s go eat some breakfast!” It was a habit he continued until he forgot everything.

[Christmas music stops]

[Knocking sounds]

My brother knocked on the door frame and said, “You okay?”

I wiped my eyes with the corner of the comforter of my old bed. “Yeah. It was that damn wrapping job that got me. Just how he never got things to line up no matter how hard he tried. How we could hear him in the other room, swearing and fighting with tape.”

My brother and I spent the rest of that day searching the house for presents. If it was a room with a closet, cabinet, or drawer, old gifts were hidden somewhere within. By the end of the day, we discovered enough small boxes to celebrate on Christmas morning, but we decided it would be best to leave the holiday on hold that year. I loaded up one of Dad’s dozen cars—the Escalade—and drove home to Chicago.

[Wind sounds]

A year later, I drove the Escalade back to Texas, to Mom’s much more sensible house. I pulled all the gifts from the Cadillac, and my mother, my brother, and I unwrapped the past on Christmas morning. My brother’s earlier tastes in music and play were soon on the ground before him—progressive rock gave way to stranger bands and so much ska; toy trucks and rudimentary robots stepped aside for Dungeons and Dragons modules and computer games.

When I was done, my pile of gifts had become a timeline of what I once deemed important as well: seemingly every Barbie doll and accessory, intricate coloring books with marker sets containing more colors than I knew existed, a butterfly Duncan yo-yo that was all the rage one year, and a charm bracelet with more charms than my wrist could hold.

For my mother, there was jewelry. Her haul looked like a tiny pirate treasure spilled from a small chest and onto the coffee table. Later, my brother and I speculated how much lost money my father had misplaced for years in those gifts to her.

The final gift was the one I couldn’t bring myself to open the year before. I looked down at the penguins and twisted tape and thought about my father.

“I don’t want to open this one. Maybe one day I’ll change my mind, but as long as this one stays wrapped, it’s full of potential. In a way, like he’s still around.”

None of us said a word for a full minute.

[Uplifting music plays]

Patrick broke the silence when he surveyed the room, clapped his hands together, and said, “All right, let’s go eat some breakfast.”

And that’s exactly what we did, while still talking about memories of times long past, brought on by the gifts my father lost along the way.

* * *

A big thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks. And an even bigger thank you to this year’s Christmas episode narrators: Dr. Michelle Booze, Art Kedzierski, and Jennifer Moss.

A little bit about them all…

Dr. Michelle Booze (and yes, that’s her real name, and she has the PhD to prove it) is an avid Audio Drama fan. You can catch her Twitter reviews by following her @DrMLBooze. You can also check out her Audio Fiction merchandise at https://www.teepublic.com/user/houseonalakecreations. And that’s like, “Hey, I have a house that’s on a lake and I create things, so…HouseOnALakeCreations.” And if you’re sitting there going, “I kind of recognize her voice,” you may have heard her on several audio fiction podcasts you love, such as Aethuran, Slumberland, and Magic King Dom.

Art Kedzierski is a cool guy, and I’m not just saying that because I guess I’ve known him for over thirty years. But Art has a BFA in Theatre Performance & Management from UT-Arlington, he interned at Theatre Three, and he served as Managing Director of Pegasus Theatre in Dallas. He’s acted in a lot of things. Here’s just a bit of a list:

Rover Dramawerks’ Chemical Imbalance as Xavier Utterson; ITC’s How to Succeed in Business as Toynbee (and my wife and I saw him in that one, and it was an absolute friggin’ blast); Uptown Players’ Take Me Out as Mason Marzac and The Producers as Mr. Marks (and ten other roles); and he was in the Lyric Stage production of 1776 as Andrew McNair; Pegasus Theatre’s XSR:Die! as Douglas Malory and Full Moon Murders! as John Creighton. He was also in Garland Summer Musical’s The Producers as Leo Bloom. Besides acting and directing, he is also the developer and operator of DFWAuditions.com.

Jennifer Moss is a published author, web developer, and photographer. She was born and raised in Evanston, Illinois and is a graduate of Northwestern University.  (And just so you know: I was born a little bit south of Evanston, in Edgewater Hospital on the north side of Chicago. But I get along with Jennifer for a lot of other reasons than just that.) Jennifer’s works include a series of mysteries with a metaphysical twist. Those books: Town Red, Way to Go, Taking the Rap, and Friend of the Family. Her non-fiction titles include The Baby Names Workbook and Yosemite Home Companion. More information can be found on her website, JenniferMoss.com.

Theme music, as always, by Ergo Phizmiz. Story music this time is by Infinity Ripple, Cody High, Johannes Bornloff, and Heath Cantu, all licensed through Epidemic Sound. And the background soundtrack for “The Beast if the Back?” That’s a Public Domain piece from an old Coronet instructional film.

Sound effects, as always, are made in-house or found at freesound.org. Visit nolumberjacks.com for information about the show, the voice talent, and music.

In one month, it’s back to the very strange father/son story I’ve mentioned in the past and then…well…we’ll see. I have a long mystery I can go with and other stories in the works, but I also need to get back to a novel. So I guess if you want more right away, share this with some friends — because word-of-mouth matters more than reviews and other things. And there definitely will be a lot more stories in 2020, but I really do need to get back to that novel.

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

[Listen]

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, lingering coughs be damned, it’s the annual November story a couple weeks later than planned because my wife and I were sick over the Thanksgiving break in the U.S. But…we’re well, again…at least well enough to record this story that IS fiction, even though it sounds real. It’s unlike anything I’ve done for the show, and I hope you enjoy this tale about an entrepreneurial podcast gone rather wrong.

Check out the show notes for the episode’s content advisory.

All right—let’s get to work…

The Lumberjack of Williamsburg

[INSPIRING MUSIC PLAYS.]

HOST: Hi! I’m Brooke Ainsleigh, host of the Creative Ascent Podcast, where I talk with cutting-edge, innovative creatives about their treks to success so you can walk a shorter trail to all your creative dreams. This week, my guest is L. J. Burke, a creative innovator known to many as the Lumberjack of Williamsburg.

Before we get started, apologies about my voice—I’ve been a bit under the weather, lately.

L.J.: I understand, Brooke. It hit me, too. I’ll do my best to not to cough or snarf through this.

[LAUGHTER]

L.J.: I know, I know…

B.A.: All right, let’s get the obvious questions out of the way: Why “The Lumberjack of Williamsburg?” And does the “L. J.” in your name stand for lumberjack?”

L.J.: I get those questions a lot, Brooke, and I wish it stood for something cooler, but it’s my given name: Larry Jayne—and that’s y-n-e. As far as the lumberjack moniker…it was given to me by another podcaster: The Three-Step-Dick himself, Richard Costas. Everyone in Williamsburg was into that ironic hipster look at the time. You know the one with skinny jeans, PBR t-shirts, trucker caps, and mutton chops.

I wanted to stand out from the crowd, so I trimmed my beard and started wearing flannels and hiking boots. It became my calling card, and when I was on The Three-Step-Dick podcast, refining my roadmap to success down to just three things, Cotas titled the episode “The Lumberjack of Williamsburg.” And that name stuck with me.

B.A.: Cool. You’ve become known for your bespoke outdoor gear: waxed canvas bags, restored axes, painted canoe paddles, and more. Were you into the outdoors when you were younger?

L.J.: Not really. I grew up in Brooklyn Heights and moved to The Burg right after its big boom. My dad managed hedge funds and my mom’s a lawyer. After design school, I didn’t want to be just another guy making logos and managing ad campaigns for conglomerates.

When I saw Field Notes take off for Aaron Draplin, I knew there was a market for busy professionals wanting to feel that old-school, outdoor John Muir aesthetic.

I started with waxed-canvas messenger bags, and it took off from there. One of my customers bought a lake house up in Waccabuc, and he asked if I could create some things to make his getaway feel more authentic. And that’s how I got into painted canoe paddles, axes, and rustic signage. I love hand-lettering and weathering things to look like they’ve always existed.

B.A.: You mentioned design school. How did you get into design?

L.J.: Oddly enough, through the J. Peterman catalogue. My parents always got it, and I loved how it was full of paintings instead of photos—just how every item came with a story. It was so different from any other marketing I saw at the time. You’d look at a Sears catalogue as a kid, and there’s someone your age with a bowl-haircut and wet lips playing with a Tonka truck in an over-saturated, high-contrast photo that looked like it was photographed by circus clowns. And that was all accompanied by boring copy.

But the Peterman catalogue made you yearn for a different way of life. You wanted to travel the world in those clothes, carrying all the right accessories with you. It spurred imagination.

It’s the butt of so many jokes, now, but I can still pick up a Peterman catalogue and feel like a little kid imagining all the many ways to take on a big world out there.

B.A.: That’s beautiful. Your story, and that way of marketing. When you can shape the consumer and make them crave becoming something they never knew even they wanted to be, it’s a win. Like inspiring them to be better than they were before interacting with your brand. But anyway…

You just passed the two-hundred-fifty-thousand subscriber mark on YouTube. How did you leverage what you do with that?

L.J.: Well I’ve always loved photography and video. I was lucky that my parents recognized and supported the things that I loved. I used to make little photo comic books and then I started editing video stories. And not just funny things made with friends…because, if I’m being honest, I really didn’t really have a lot of friends. I kind of lived inside my head. And maybe because I was trying to appease adults, I knew I couldn’t just make a video about fighting a monster or something and be told I did something special.

Jump forward, and I saw a mini-documentary on YoutTube about Cut Brooklyn’s Joel Bukiewicz. There’s a guy who started out as a novelist, and he didn’t make it, so he began grinding steel to ease his nerves. He ended up making incredible knives, and his business took off with just a couple video features on YouTube…shot like they were made for TV and not just some little throw-away thing.

So I dragged out the cameras and made a four minute documentary about what I do and I uploaded it to YouTube. I contacted everyone I knew to share it, and it got passed down the line to the right people, who shared it on Twitter. It went from something like twenty-five views to a couple thousand overnight. And then by the end of the week, it was almost at ten-thousand views.

So I vowed to make a video a week, sometimes telling my story, and other times featuring a project I was making. Just sharing how I did what I do.

I know many people think you should hold all your cards close to your body, but I find that sharing how I do all I do shows people that what I make is not just something made on an assembly line. They know it’s me in my shop, making a thing by hand especially for them. I mean, sure, they can try making it themselves, but when they see all that goes into what I create, they’d rather just pay me money.

B.A.: Great point. How else do you promote your brand? Do you work with any influencers?

L.J.: Beyond YouTube, it’s mostly just word of mouth. I don’t really don’t do a lot with influencers. I don’t need to pay someone to hold my product on Instagram or make a video we all know that they’re making because they’ve been paid.

I go where the money is—my parents taught me that. Some of the people I sell product to can afford to pay even more than I charge…and I defintiely charge what I’m worth. My customers, I suppose, are my influencers.

B.A.: Have you thought about offering lower-priced items to attract customers on the way up?

L.J.: That’s a common move for many, but I think it cheapens the brand. I want people to aspire to my products—not work their way up. You can either afford what I offer or you can’t. And that’s part of its appeal.

But I’d be lying if I said it didn’t cross my mind early on. Things like beard oils, hand-carved pipes…things like that. It was more important to stay true to my vision, though.

B.A.: Okay, so you’re not into influencers, but if you could have any celebrity endorse your product, who would it be and why?

L.J.: Man, that’s a great question, I’ve never really thought of that. I sell to some celebrities, and they talk about what they do with their friends. But if I had to seek someone out, I suppose Nick Offerman. I usually don’t go humorous with what I do, but he has that right blend of rugged and serious, but he’s also seen as trustworthy and down to earth.

That fireside video with Lagavulin that he made is a good example. Ya know, it’s not necessarily funny…it’s just him sitting beside a fireplace and drinking product. It’s whimsical at best. So maybe something like that: just him taking a tree down with one of my axes…paddling his canoe with something I made maybe? Or just out hiking and taking out gear from a bag I created.

B.A.: Yeah, he’d be perfect for your brand!

All right, let’s take things back a bit. What’s the first thing you remember selling?

L.J.: Mystery boxes.

B.A.: What are those?

L.J.: It started with me just taking things like old toys, putting them in boxes, and selling them to my friends. You might get an old Star Wars figure or a redemption coupon for a toy truck or something that was too big for a box. I’d sell them in batches to kids in the neighborhood, and they went nuts for it.

I’d look at all the old things I wanted to get rid of, and then I’d figure out a price for it all, and then I quadrupled that. So, say everything was worth about twenty dollars. I’d shoot for eighty bucks…maybe an even hundred. And say it was ten things I was getting rid of—I’d be selling ten boxes at eight dollars apiece…or maybe even ten.

Kids in the neighborhood practically fought to be part of it. I mean, obviously, some things were worth far less than eight dollars, but as long as I made sure that there was one or two decent things in the bunch, it’s like it created a gambler’s reflex. And because I only sold ten boxes…eventually, I had crowds of kids wanting in. It got so big, that I started selling one-dollar lottery tickets to be one of the kids who had the right to buy an actual box. Before long, I started making more money just from selling those tickets.

B.A.: Did any other kids eventually catch on and then try doing the same thing?

L.J.: Oh, yeah.

B.A.: What did you do then?

L.J.: I got better boxes. Better things in those boxes, so my reputation was always the one people paid for. And then I charged more.

Then, one year, I made enough that I started selling to adults. I’d buy boxes from antique stores and other things and do the same thing, just on a bigger scale. I had an uncle who owned a book shop, and he let me set up my little shop there. That’s when I realized how much money adults had, and how much they wanted to A) Help an enterprising kid and B) feel the magic of buying something they couldn’t see. People will pay a lot for a surprise.

Going back to J. Peterman, I think that’s why it worked so much: you never saw the actual product until it arrived. You saw a painted representation, but it wasn’t until you opened that box that the last dopamine hit dropped and you felt like you were part of some elite club.

B.A.: Wow, this is golden.

Any plans to bring back the mystery boxes? Maybe a subscription service?

L.J.: That’s a really good idea, but I’d have to hassle with employees.

B.A.: Okay, let’s talk about that. You do all this yourself, correct?

L.J.: es.

B.A.: And that drives demand?

L.J.: Yeah, it does. I can only do so much, so there’s a waiting time. I turn a lot of requests away. If you’ve purchased product from me before, I’m more likely to take that commission than something new. That’s the thing: so many people spend time chasing influencers and investing time and money in getting more new customers, but you can make a decent living from existing clients without that big investment chasing down more people.

B.A.: So, no plans to expand into a bigger operation?

L.J.: No. I think that would ruin a good thing for everyone involved.

B.A.: How so?

L.J.: I could probably make more money mass producing my work, but at that point I’m like everyone else. If anyone can buy what I’m selling, then really—what’s its worth?

 I don’t say this to sound arrogant, but my customers see me as an artist, and they have a surplus of funds. So, that small base I allow to purchase my creations are part of an exclusive group. And I guess in that sense, it’s kind of like offering the right to only ten kids out of eventually hundreds who wanted to buy one of my old mystery boxes.

The thing with that was everybody knew the agreed-upon worth of what was inside the boxes. If I tried selling the right to purchase for fifty or one-hundred dollars, no one would have bought in because they knew that the whole haul was probably worth eighty or a hundred dollars. But now I can offer something I spent a week making and I end up making thousands in return.

B.A.: All right, let’s just go there. How much do you make in a year? That is, if you’re comfortable discussing numbers?

L.J.: Sure, I can do that. Uhm…I have a small shop space I own free and clear. And then I shoot for a quarter mil a year. I know I could make more, but I’m not my mother or father, who wanted as much as they could make.

And I’ll be honest…so I don’t sound too much like an asshole—

Sorry. Can I say that on this show?

B.A.: You just did.

[LAUGHTER from BOTH.]

But yeah, that’s fine. Occasional swearing is honesty, right?

L.J.: I fuckin’ think so.

[MORE LAUGHTER.]

But anyway, just to be out in the open about things: my parents made sure I’d never want for anything, other than what made me happy in life. They are both very Type As. I guess I have a little of that in my blood, but not like them. I just need enough.

And I seriously love what I make. I love hearing from my customers and…example: Last summer, someone I sell to was hiking in Colorado and a storm came up. Everything he needed to keep dry stayed dry. I got a postcard from him while he was still on vacation, sharing the story. I have a file cabinet over there full of letters and postcards and things like that.

It might sound funny, but if this place ever went up in flames, that particular cabinet is what I’d rush in to save.

B.A.: That’s so sweet. It really is about the relationships we build through commerce.

L.J.: Oh, it is.

B.A.: All right…What do you do when you’re not working?

L.J.: On some level, I suppose I’m always working—at least always thinking about new things and ways to make existing product better. But it’s not like some of my friends who tease me about being a hipster. People can make fun of what I do all day, but I’m not the one answering email from my boss at three in the morning when I wake up in the middle of the night and see my phone lit up from people working from their beds.

When I’m not working and I let my mind go, I enjoy reading.

B.A.: What do you read?

L.J.: Novels.

B.A.: Really?

L.J.: Yeah. I know as an entrepreneur, people expect me to read business books, but almost every one I’ve read is ten to twenty pages of actual decent information, expanded to hundreds of pages just so people feel like they got their money’s worth and accomplished something. There’s no challenge in those kinds of books. I can hone in on all I want to learn with a Google search and not waste a fifteen to one ratio of wading through a bunch bloat.

Fiction does something different to my brain. I not only get a better feel for how to tell better stories, but I learn what different people deal with when I read books written by people I might never meet. Business books seem to break everyone down to just a few things or types because easy sells. Most entrepreneurs I meet know nothing outside their little bubbles because they see everyone as an archetype, instead of an actual human being.

If you’re marketing anything and not reading fiction, you’re probably mediocre at best, and very limited in thought and understanding.

B.A.: I see…

What habits or mindsets make you successful?

L.J.: Well, reading novels. But part of what I love about novels is the time it takes to read one. I’m not sitting there listening to audiobooks at two-times speed just to get them in my head. And along those lines, I’m putting time and deeper, uninterrupted thought into what I create. I give ideas and processes time to incubate. And I don’t mean for a day or a week…some things I think about for years. Most of those may go nowhere if I measured it, but I find that in giving them so much time, other things bubble up along the way that I’d never have come up with otherwise.

I mean, I get where Seth Godin is getting at when he talks about always shipping things, but a machine gun approach is desperate, don’t you think? I mean, anyone can do it. Maybe you hit a thing or two once in a while, but I’d rather take time, dial in my sights, and not miss a shot.

B.A.: So you’re saying you never make mistakes?

L.J.: I didn’t say that. I said I never miss when it’s time to pull the trigger on an idea.

B.A.: You’ll have to forgive me if I don’t believe you.

L.J.: You’re excused. But it’s the truth. So many people just throw so much out there, hoping something sticks. I’m not the kind of guy who thinks about monetizing everything. I mean, shit, people can’t have a hobby anymore without everyone asking when they’re going to make money with it. I find that sad.

 A friend suggested I turn my love of reading into a side hustle. And man, I hate that term: I’d rather make my one thing matter so I don’t have to do other things on the side. I work, and then enjoy my time not working. But to this friend, I have this big YouTube following, so he’s like, “Dude, you need to figure out how to monetize reading!”

No, I don’t need to figure out how to monetize reading because enjoy reading and some of the other things you do simply for the sake of enjoyment. I don’t think people enjoy things anymore, because unless you’re hitting your numbers, even hobbies have become stressful things for people, now.

Again, I know that I’m speaking from a place of privilege in never wanting for anything growing up, but I do know what enough looks like. My dad stopped what he did because it made him sick. You can’t catch infinity, so find enough and enjoy what comes with it.

I can’t tell you the last time I stressed about something or didn’t have a good night’s sleep. That’s worth far more to me than some five-year plan that quadruples my income.

I mean, I appreciate what you do, but I bet you and your audience would be happier if you weren’t always chasing things.

[AWKWARD SILENCE]

B.A.: Well, this has taken a bit of a turn.

L.J.: I’m sorry.

B.A.: No, it’s okay…

[SILENCE]

L.J.: Okay…Can I ask you and your audience something?

B.A.: Sure.

L.J.: What does enough look like to you?

B.A.: I’m…not sure. I guess I never thought about it like that.

L.J.: Brooke, you have over 1.5 million followers on YouTube, and you post three times a week, getting almost a million views each video. Between your ad revenue, money as an influencer, and your products, I’m sure you make considerably more than I do.

B.A.: Yes. About three to four times more each year from the numbers you discussed.

L.J.: Well when does it even become enough, Brooke?

B.A.: Never, I suppose. If I slow down, it all goes away.

L.J.: Well, I think you have more than enough. You need to stop chasing so much. You’d be a lot happier.

[SILENCE]

L.J.: Are you okay?

B.A.: No, I’m really not. I have you on the show to have a nice conversation about what we do, and you pull some almost abusive mentor shit on me. Psychoanalyze me and tell me I’m not happy?

This show is a mutually beneficial thing for both sides, and I really do hope it helps listeners figure out something they’d rather do. So don’t you dare tell me what enough is, because between your parents, you grew up a billionaire who never wanted for anything. You can make nothing at all the rest of your life, and you’re good.

I don’t expect people to know my story, but let me put things in perspective, Larry. My dad was a heavy-equipment mechanic, and my mom worked at a convenience store until I made enough that she didn’t have to work. You grew up here, in the city. I grew up in Flat Lick, Kentucky…and no, that’s not a nickname—that’s the name of the actual town!

L.J.: I’m so—

B.A.: I’m not done!

I have four siblings, and there were times, at dinner, when we were lucky to have pork chops purchased the day of expiration. That, and boiled potatoes and a can of green beans was often it. Not even a big can of beans…just a regular—what…fourteen ounce can or whatever it is? So imagine this: you fucking love green beans, but there are five other people going at it. And if you wonder why I didn’t say six, and include my mom…that’s because I later found out she used to eat Saltine crackers and butter while cooking dinner for us so she could get some fat and carbs and leave something for her family.

You mentioned your dad retired from trading. How is he today?

L.J.: He’s fine.

B.A.: Yeah, well my dad’s been dead for years. Mesothelioma from brake pads and clutches and shit. So imagine how much all that fucks you up. I could be as rich as your family and still worry that one day I would wake up and it would all be gone, even though I know better. But that’s the wicked thing about growing up in poverty—you really can’t escape it, even when you’re rich. I have to try ten times harder than people who grew up with money, and I’m still worried it will all fall out from under me and I’ll end up back in The Gap with nothing again…like that’s my destiny.

L.J.: I…I’m sorry, Brooke. I had no idea.

B.A.: I didn’t expect you to, but don’t pull some abusive, self-help guru shit on me about what enough looks like. Okay? I think we’re done.

L.J.: I’m sorry—I really am. Uhm…Can I say one more thing?

B.A.: Sure, why not. This is a mess of an episode as it is.

L.J.: I have a confession.

B.A.: What’s that?

L.J.: I don’t make even a fraction of what I said I make. I wasn’t kidding about the postcard from Colorado or making things for a client with a lake house up in Waccabuc. But…that guy’s my dad’s best friend.

I kind of sucked at design, even though I did make it through school. Most of what I do isn’t very original, I guess—it’s stuff that I kinda copied from J. Peterman or stuff I learned how to do online. Ya know, I’d probably be happier if I took my friend’s advice and started doing book reviews. Uhm…so there’s that. Uhm…

One more question?

B.A.: Sure.

L.J.: Now that you have money, how often do you eat green beans?

B.A.: [LAUGHTER] I can’t stand them anymore. I made myself sick on them when I was on my own, and I can’t even look at them today.

[LAUGHTER]

L.J.: Nah, I get that…

B.A.: Well, I usually wrap up episodes asking guests what’s in store for their future. Uhm…Want to take a crack at that one before we cut this short?

L.J.: Yeah, sure ’cause that’s a…that’s a really good question and I with I had a good answer. You’ve given me a lot to think about today. I guess…I really don’t know what the future holds for me. I suppose in never having to worry about my future, I’ve never really given it much thought.

And maybe I should start…

[SILENCE]

[MUSIC FADES IN]

B.A.: Okay…

            [CHIRPY ANNOUNCER VOICE]

Thanks for listening to The Creative Ascent Podcast with me, Brooke Ainsleigh. You can learn more about L.J. Burke at nolumberjacks.com…I hear he has time in his busy schedule for commissions.

[L.J. LAUGHS]

L.J.: Yeah, I do…

B.A.: Next week, I’m talking with cellist, Madeleine Clarke about giving up a career with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra following the death of her husband, and how she found her true calling by making music of her own.

Until then, climb hard, and stay creative!

[Inspiring Music]

Christopher Gronlund:

A big thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks.

[Quirky Outro Music Plays]

All music by Ergo Phizmiz and April Moon, from Epidemic Sound. Visit nolumberjacks.com for information about the show, the voice talent, and music.

Because I was sick, you only have to wait a couple weeks for the annual Christmas show. This year, enjoy three stories: two that are kind of somber, and one that’s…well…it’s rather ridiculous.

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

[Listen]

[Intro Music Fades In…]

Christopher Gronlund’s Voice:

I want to make one thing perfectly clear…I’ve been sick.

My wife has also been sick.

The week before Thanksgiving in the U.S., I came down with something that’s still lingering this week.

My wife caught it a few days after me, although she seems to have been hit harder in the middle of it all and is rebounding quicker at the end.

So why am I telling you this?

Because, despite any lapses in the Not About Lumberjacks schedule, I’ve never missed a November anniversary episode.

If you’re not familiar with what I’m talking about, the November anniversary story is the most Not About Lumberjacks of all stories not about lumberjacks I tell all year.

This year’s tale is a bit different than anything I’ve ever done for the show, but currently, we can’t get through the recording session without coughing.

Trust me: After the response to the vile sounds of the last episode, Booger, you don’t want to hear my wife and me narrate a story together while sounding like cappuccino machines. We’re hoping to have it released next weekend…December 7^th or 8^th.

The good thing? That means you get two episodes in December, because the annual pile of Christmas stories is coming together rather well.

And while being sick for a couple weeks has affected the recording schedule, I have plans for stories through January…and maybe even February if people want a story longer than most I share, here.

After that…I have a handful of stories in various states of development, but I may take a break in February or March to devote my full writing attention to a novel.

Even though rolling into the last month of 2019 sick was not in the plans, I have a feeling 2020 will be a very good year for my stories.

Thank you for listening. I hope you’re staying mighty…and keeping your axes sharp…