[Listen]

[Intro music plays]

Woman’s Voice:

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

[Music fades out]

Christopher Gronlund:

My good friend, Curtis Hart, requested this episode of Behind the Cut. He noticed there are times I tease an episode and then…well…I release it much later than planned.

Perhaps the best example of this is “Alone in HQ,” a post-apocalyptic office story I mentioned at the end of episodes for well over a year.

Curtis wanted to know what’s behind those lags in planning to release a story…to actually sharing the story with you all.

The simple version is I do this for free, in addition to working a full-time job. On top of that, while I’m not the most social person, I do spend time with friends and family—most notably, trying to visit my mom every week and then spending every other Saturday playing Dungeons and Dragons, which, right now during the current pandemic, I’m seeing everybody online. But when we when I get together with friends in person, that’s an evening dedicated to hanging out. And when it comes to Dungeons and Dragons weekends, it’s safe to say two Saturdays a month are consumed by that…and I can get a lot of writing, recording, and editing done on a Saturday.

I also produce another podcast called Men in Gorilla Suits. It’s a thing I do with a friend—and while its production is very streamlined and nowhere near as involved as Not About Lumberjacks, every other week, it still requires hours I could dedicate to this show.

And, of course, I do write other things.

* * *

To that point, let’s talk about novels. I’m currently shopping a novel around to agents and writing another. Because it’s a story requiring great amounts of research, time is also spent reading books pertaining to the story—and finding videos, photographs, and other material. And it’s a literary story, which requires more focus from me than putting a short story together in chunks.

I’m also a technical writer by trade, and that means I often focus on work a bit more around the software releases I support. Technical writing pays the bills, so it takes priority. And when my day job is more demanding, I’m not as able to focus on short stories AND novels.

Sometimes I spend more time on Not About Lumberjacks; other times, I dedicate all my fiction-writing time to novels. Especially during those times—with novels—it means I’m less likely to put out a new episode of Not About Lumberjacks.

* * *

Granted, there have been times I’ve put in overtime at work, time toward a novel, and still released episodes of Not About Lumberjacks. Here’s my not-so-secret: I started the show with a backlog of stories mostly (or completely) ready to record.

“Pepper” is the 31^st story I’ve released for the show. If you factor in the Christmas episodes, with their multiple shorter works, 41 original stories exist on the site.

Of those, roughly half were already written. Meaning, if I needed to get an episode out during a busy point in my life, I could grab an old story and be well ahead in the most-lengthy part of most productions: the writing!

I’m now at a point that I have no old stories to record. Everything is new, so…I no longer have the luxury of planning an episode, realizing life is getting in the way, and falling back on an existing tale.

With very few exceptions, writing is the longest part of the process, and sometimes I’m not able to focus on new Not About Lumberjacks stories because I’m busy with work or other writing at the time.

* * *

When I factor in the time writing new stories, figuring out the production, recording, editing, creating and finding sounds and music, and then putting it all together, some episodes of the show have likely taken 40-60 hours to produce from that initial idea to something you can listen to for free. On average, I’d guess most take 20-30 hours.

I don’t view the creative things I do like a corporate return on investment. I have fun creating episodes, so…I make them. But when you factor in 40-60 hours spent on a thing that usually gets 40 listens in its initial weeks of release and then creeps up to maybe 75-100 listens—with rare stories listened to by 200 people—it’s not like there are throngs of people banging on my door, demanding episodes.

And while I care about every listener, Not About Lumberjacks comes with a certain reality for me: as much as I’d love it to be my day job (in addition to writing novels), it’s unlikely to ever happen. And that’s not me being gloomy—it’s just a fact: most people who set out to write fiction full time never will. You can wish to be a bestselling novelist all you want—even doing all you can to make it happen—but it’s like being a professional athlete: even some of the best in their fields never realize that dream.

And so…some days when I’ve been working long hours on a release at work, the last thing I want to do is eat dinner with my wife and then sit down to write stories and work on recording them until it’s time to go to bed…only to get up early and write at my day job the following morning.

More times than not, I just want to hang out with my wife. Sometimes I want to meet up with friends on a Wednesday or Thursday night. And other times, I just want to do nothing at all.

Sometimes, you want to have a little break.

* * *

All this is a way of saying that sometimes, stories just require more time.

I try keeping episodes of Not About Lumberjacks around thirty minutes or less. With the story “Alone in HQ,” there was so much more I wanted to do. Because it was framed as both an homage and a parody of Ayn Rand’s ANTHEM, I originally brought in a female character to match the protagonist of that story meeting a woman. But once I did that…I needed to build the relationship up more to pull off the planned ending.

And that added too much to the story, and took away much of what seemed to make the story charming.

In the end, I removed that story line entirely. But I struggled with the decision because there did seem to be something more with bringing in another character. I loved some of the scenes I wrote with the two characters, and what more I was able to say about corporate life with her presence.

But it would have meant the story bloating into novella range, much like the story it was framed around.

* * *

Sometimes it’s the writing that takes a long time. But other times, like “The Other Side,” it’s coordinating with other people and creating more involved effects that adds to how long it takes to create an episode. Mostly, though, it’s just a matter of wrapping up more pressing projects that get in the way of scheduling and releasing episodes.

I’d love Not About Lumberjacks to come out at least every other month. I’d love for the show to be my full-time job.

But that’s not my reality…

Effort doesn’t equal success. If it did, Not About Lumberjacks and everything else I do would be paying the bills.

Right now, the best I can hope for—and you as well—is that stories will come out when I’m able to make something new and set it loose upon the small following the show has.

And if that’s as good as it ever gets, that’s plenty-enough for me. I hope its good enough for you, too…or that at least you understand why it sometimes takes a while to get an episode out.

* * *

[Theme 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.

I’m not sure what story’s coming up next, but it’s likely going to be about a virus and dreams…Unless, of course, as I’ve discussed here, that story takes more time than expected and I work on something else in the meantime…

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 strange father and son tale I’ve talked about for some time. A big thank you to Rick and Mandie Coste for helping my wife and me out on this one! And an extra thank you to Rick for putting this whole episode together.

And…the now-usual disclaimer: This story contains swearing and discussions about family death. You’ve been warned.

All right—let’s get to work…

Pepper…

* * *

Joey Palermo swore he heard his father call his name, but when he turned around, all he saw was the Boston terrier. It sat on the sidewalk, looking up at him as though he were some kind of god. Its tongue curled in and out of its mouth as it gasped for breath; its bulging eyeballs looked ready to fall from its tiny head like sticky marbles.

“You’re a funny looking thing.”

“Must be genetic,” the Boston terrier said in Joey’s dead father’s voice.

Joey looked at the coffee cup in his hand, wondering if somebody slipped something into the drink at Starbucks. Never one to use drugs, he couldn’t blame it on a flashback. He looked around to see if anyone was recording him–it seemed like something a YouTube prankster might do for views. But it was just him and the dog.

“You’re not losing your mind, Joe. It’s me, Dad. I’m back. You’d be amazed at all I went through to find you.”

Joey crouched down to the dog’s level. He read the tag on the Boston terrier’s red collar.

“Pepper?”

“A little girl named me. You know how it is. Remember when you were little and wanted to name the cat Flipper?”

Joey Palermo went through a phase as a kid when he was so enamored with reruns of the TV show, Flipper, that when his mother got a new cat, he begged her to name it after his favorite dolphin. No prankster would know that.

“Follow me.”

Joey led Pepper to the stairway leading up to his apartment. After making sure no neighbors were around, he said, “Can you climb stairs?”

“Yeah, but if you were about to offer carrying me up, go for it. It’s a wonderful way to get around.”

* * *

Inside his apartment, Joey set his father terrier down on the floor before plopping onto the couch. Pepper struggled to leap up beside his son. His stubby front legs searched for a grip on the cushion, while his back legs kicked against the side of the couch. Joey leaned forward and hoisted the dog up the rest of the way.

Pepper looked up at his son. “Thanks.”

Joey shook his head. “This can’t be real.”

“What can’t?”

“This! You! Coming back.”

“It’s real, Joe.”

“All right, so let me guess, then: you’re here to make amends for being a shitty father so you can move on or come back as a human again or something?”

“Nah, it’s not like that. You get a choice to stay or come back. You can come back as a human, an animal…whatever you want. It’s not like serial killers come back as bugs as punishment. What the fuck could a bug learn, ya know? ‘Oh, hey, I’m a mayfly for a day and I finally figured it all out! Just like that–enlightenment!’ Good people, bad people…all offered the same deal. Part of the deal is, if you come back as a human, your memory is wiped. But come back as an animal, and you get to remember your previous life. You get to see the people you left behind if you can find them again–that’s why there are so many strays.”

“If that’s how it worked, the world would be full of talking dogs and cats. Animals don’t talk.”

“True. Most don’t, anyway. I never saw the power or powers that be, but he, she, it–whatever it is or they are–has a sense of humor. Every once in a while, they send someone requesting going back as an animal the ability to talk, just to mess with people I guess.”

“That’s shitty.”

“I guess gods sometimes get as bored with their existence as the rest of us.”

“All right–if you had your choice, why did you come back as a Boston terrier? Why not something majestic, like a German shepherd or an English mastiff?”

“‘Cause Boston terriers are funny. You can’t be sad when you’re around a Boston terrier. I figured you’d be surprised if I ever found you–maybe even mad. Who could get mad at a face like this? Besides, it fits my accent, don’t you think?”

Joey slid his phone from his pocket and started dialing.

“What are you doing?”

“Calling in sick to work. If there is something in my coffee, and this is all the result, it will wear off at some point. But if it’s real–and I’m starting to think it is–then we have a lot of talking to do.”

* * *

In the hour and a half that followed, it became clear to Joey there was nothing in his coffee. According to the Boston terrier at his side, it was his father getting another chance at life. The tiny dog told him only stories his father would know. Pepper told him how he strayed from family to family in an effort to find his son…how happy he was to discover Joey hadn’t moved since his father’s human form died.

“I’m a creature of habit,” Joey said. “I drive into ‘Frisco for work, and come back to this side of the bay the rest of the time.”

The two were talking about one of the few Christmases Joey’s father was home when Pepper said, “Hold that thought–I gotta pee.”

Joey carried him downstairs and set him in the grass. His father rooted around like a tiny pig.

“You should smell this. It’s a whole other world.”

“Dad, shh!”

Pepper sniffed around until finding a spot near a holly bush, where he lifted his leg. Figuring that was it, Joey started toward the stairs. It wasn’t until hearing a neighbor say, “Well, aren’t you a little cutie?” that he turned back and realized his father had more business to attend to. He was squatted in the grass, dropping a load from his backside. Pepper looked up at the neighbor across the way Joey only chatted with in passing. Joey knew her name was Andrea and that she cut and styled hair.

She looked at Joey and said, “It doesn’t bother me, especially with a little dog like this, but property management will come unhinged if they see you out with an unleashed dog.”

Joey didn’t know if Andrea was saying, “Leash your dog, asshole,” in the nicest way possible, or genuinely warning him. It hadn’t dawned on him until then that Pepper was likely there to stay. His life would no longer be his own–he had a new live-in roommate who would require his assistance for so many basic things, all without contributing to bills or much else around the apartment.

“I just found him this morning. He’s a stray.”

Pepper finished making a pile on the ground. He turned back and sniffed the heap before leaning forward and quickly raking his back legs through the grass, kicking up tiny bits of clippings and leaves.

“I hate asking this,” Joey said. “But can you watch him for just a moment? I thought he just needed to pee. I need to get a bag to clean that up.”

Andrea bent down to pet Joey’s father. “Sure.”

In his kitchen, Joey rummaged for something to clean up his father’s mess in the grass downstairs. He wished he used and saved plastic bags from the grocery store. His only option was a Ziploc sandwich baggie from the pantry. He was happy his father came back as a Boston terrier and not as a Great Dane.

Back downstairs, he turned the baggie inside out and picked up the Pepper pile. The warmth of his father’s feces repulsed Joey as he turned the bag back out. He zipped the top shut, imagining molecules of waste covering his hands, seeping into his pores. Seeing the shit so clearly through the plastic, he understood why most dog waste bags were colored. He wondered what he looked like to Andrea, standing with the pile on display, but she was too busy petting Pepper to notice. Or maybe she was trying to make the whole scene a little less awkward.

“It’s so weird,” she said. “The way he looks up at you…it’s like he’s about to say something.”

“You have no idea…”

Back upstairs, as Joey opened his balcony door to set the baggie outside, Pepper said, “This is great–you cleaning up after me! My revenge for all the diapers you filled.”

“I thought you just needed to pee?” Joey said, while closing the door.

“So did I, but these things happen.”

After washing his hands in the kitchen sink, he plopped back down on the couch. His father looked up at him from the floor.

“One of the first things I’m buying at the pet store later today is a set of little doggie stairs so you can get up and down.” With each new thought, Joey realized just how much he didn’t know about tending to a dog’s well-being…and just how much his life was about to change. “I don’t even know what you eat.”

“Dog food. I’m a dog. But I love table scraps.”

“Doesn’t dog food taste like…dog food?”

“Yeah, but it’s not so bad when you’re a dog. My tastes and sense of smell are so different, now. Enough about all that, though…who’s the girl?”

“What girl?”

“The one downstairs. The one who watched me when you came up for my poop baggie. She was something.”

“She’s just a neighbor.”

“What’s her name?”

“Andrea.”

“Knowing her name’s a good start.”

“For what?”

“Getting to know her better.”

“I’m not interested in that.”

“If there’s something you never told me, Joe…I don’t care if you’re a man’s man. I just want you to be happy.”

“I just don’t want a relationship.”

“Get in the way of work?”

“Part of it. It’s just not something I want right now.”

“Gotcha.”

Pepper hunched over and licked his crotch.

“Jesus, Dad–that’s nasty!”

“Gotta clean up, ya know? And trust me, if you could lick your nuts, you would. All day long. It’s a dream come true.”

* * *

It didn’t take long for Joey and Pepper to fall into a routine like roommates; that is, if one roommate were almost wholly dependent on the other for survival. In many other ways, Pepper was better than Joey’s house mates in and after college: quieter, with much more in common than where they went to school. Joey grew used to Pepper teasing him each time their paths crossed Andrea’s. Pepper enjoyed lazy days alone in the apartment, napping, eating, and even crapping on a pee pad in the bathroom.

At least twice a week, he said, “Watching you clean up after me will never get old.”

Their lives settled into a rhythm…until an otherwise typical Wednesday night when Joey’s phone lit up and chimed with a reminder.

“Oh, shit!”

“What?”

“I totally forgot. Mom’s coming over on Sunday for lunch and the 49ers game.”

“What’s so bad about that?”

Joey looked at his father and raised his eyebrows.

“What? I can be quiet and behave.”

“Yeah, but it’s weird. The thought of you and her in the same room again.”

“I suppose.” Pepper got the faraway look that made Joey turn to see what he spotted. It turned out to be an old memory. “How was your mom, ya know…after I died? Was she sad?”

“Of course. She didn’t hate you–she just wished you were home more. She…mourned like I guess people mourn after someone they loved, but rarely saw, mourned. For the record, I was sad, too. But it was weird at the same time. It was like losing an uncle you rarely saw than a dad, ya know?”

“Yeah.” Pepper put his paw on Joey’s leg. “I want you to know something. For all the years I was on the road, I stayed loyal to your mother. I may not have been the best father or husband, but everything I did, I believed I was doing for you two.”

Joey scratched his father’s head.

“I know, Dad.”

* * *

Pepper followed Joey around more than usual as he prepared the apartment for his mother’s visit. It wasn’t that his mother was a clean freak, but he knew she worried about him–even though there was no reason for concern. He carried no debt, saved for the future, and had as bulletproof a job as one can have in technology.

As Joey put the final touches on a football lunch spread in the kitchen, Pepper said, “I’m surprised she didn’t drive down for the game.”

“She used to,” Joey said. “At least until the fight that got her banned from Memorial Coliseum. You know how she is.”

Pepper nodded. “The nicest woman on the planet, until somebody comes between her and her beloved 49ers.”

“Yep. A stadium mostly full of Rams fans is not a good place for her to be.”

When Joey was done in the kitchen, he wandered to the bathroom. He turned to his father and said, “Do you mind?”

“What…? Oh! I thought you were cleaning. Ya know, it would be a shame to mess up such a clean toilet before I get a chance to drink out of it.”

“Tell me you don’t drink out of the bowl, Dad.”

“I’m joking. The urge is there, though…it’s just a thing with dogs. Probably a good thing I’m so small and can’t reach.”

“I’ll be out in a minute,” Joey said.

His father looked up at him. “But you get to watch me shit all the time.” When Joey stared, Pepper’s whole head cracked into that goofy grin with the curled tongue he’d grown to appreciate. “I’m fucking with you, Son. I want none of that.”

* * *

When Joey’s mom knocked on the apartment door, he turned to his father on the floor and said, “Remember…behave.”

“Mom! So good to see you.”

His mother stepped in and kissed him on the cheek.

“It’s been too long. You work almost as much as your father did.”

She removed her San Francisco 49ers jacket, revealing an old Joe Montana jersey beneath. Joey hated the jersey–it was a reminder he was named after her all-time favorite football player. She handed the jacket to her son and looked down at Pepper.

“Aww! And who do we have, here?”

“That’s Pepper.”

No sooner than he turned to put his mother’s jacket up, he heard her say, “Well, he sure is a frisky little fella.”

Joey closed the closet door and looked down at his father locked onto his mother’s foot.

“Pepper! No!”

His father’s front legs had a grip on his mother’s foot, while his back legs kicked and slid across the entry way tile searching for leverage as he humped away!

Joey kicked him off his mother and said, “I’m so sorry, Mom. I plan to call the vet tomorrow to set up an appointment to have him neutered.”

Pepper’s bulging eyes looked ready to pop, wondering if it was a threat or reality.

Joey’s mom bent down and scratched the nape of Pepper’s neck. “This is why I preferred cats. Remember when you wanted to name Boris Flipper?”

Joey nodded and invited his mother to sit down. “Yes. It seems I’m destined to never live that down…”

* * *

After lunch, Joey’s mom turned on the 49ers/Rams game. His earliest memories were of his mother screaming at the TV. Over the years, nothing had changed.

“OH, COME ON! THEY PAY YOU TO CATCH THE GODDAMNED BALL, PETTIS! DEEBO’S GONNA HAVE YOUR JOB IF YOU KEEP THAT UP!”

And then, like the most caring mother to ever grace the planet, she turned to her son and, in the softest of voices, said, “How have things been? I worry about you.”

“There’s nothing to worry about, Mom.”

“You work so much. I worry you’ll…” She trailed off.

“I’m not Dad, Mom. My heart is fine. I work out. When I’m home, I relax more than most people I know. Even when I’m working, it doesn’t stress me out–you know how I’m wired. Except when we hang out on game days, I eat healthy. I–“

“WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU KEEPING HIM IN THE GAME, SHANAHAN?! YOU CAN’T CATCH FOOTBALLS WHEN YOUR HEAD’S UP YOUR ASS…!

(sweetly)

…You were saying?”

“I’m fine and happy. I almost have enough saved for a small house. Outright. And as far as Dad, the heart attack wasn’t even what killed him.”

“You’re right. But don’t you think all that stress from always working–how poorly he ate for decades on the road–contributed to his cancer?”

Joey nodded. “But like I said, I don’t stress about much at all. Maybe you didn’t hear me because of the game, but I eat well. I get a discount on my health insurance at work because I’m so healthy. I’m fine.”

“Okay, Honey. I’m sorry. I just–OH, FOR CHRIST’S SAKE, GET HIM THE FUCK OFF THE FIELD!!!

(sweetly)

… I just want you to be happy.”

“I’m happy, Mom.”

“That’s good. … I’ve always wondered if your father was happy.”

“I’m sure he was.”

“It seemed like he was running from things. From us. It made me feel like I wasn’t a good wife–like I’d done something wrong and drove him away.”

“You didn’t drive him away. He loved us.”

“You’re probably right. I’m sorry, Joe. I don’t mean to be a Debbie Downer.” She looked at Pepper. “Shit, I even made the dog sad…”

* * *

When the game was over and Joey’s mom had left, Pepper looked up at Joey.

“Did you see my little red rocket?”

“I’m not talking to you.”

“Oh, come on. It was funny.”

“You assaulted Mom’s foot!”

“Wouldn’t be the first time. Just call me Tarantino…”

Joey locked the front door and plopped down on the couch. Pepper climbed up the doggie steps and sat beside his son.

“I’m sorry, Joe. I thought it was funny. I thought you would, too.”

Joey cracked a grin.

“I suppose it was a little funny. It was just…weird. This whole thing is. Sometimes it all seems so normal, and that makes it even weirder, ya know?”

“Yeah. It was so hard not to say something when she was right here. I know I got off on the wrong foot–literally–but even seeing your mom yelling at the TV…I miss all that. I wanted to tell her how sorry I was. How sorry I am.”

            (beat)

“She’s right though. Your mom.”

“Huh?”

“You work too much, Son.”

Joey sighed and said, “You’re one to talk.”

“I know, I know. But that was my big regret in the end, that I wasn’t there for your mom. That I didn’t see you grow up. I convinced myself I was providing for you guys out on the road and that it was enough. It wasn’t. Missing out like that…most people I talked to when I died and was waiting to come back…that was their biggest regret in life, too. Probably why so many don’t choose to come back when the offer is extended to them: they’re ashamed.”

“Well, fortunately, I don’t have a wife and kid.”

“True. But you have a world to explore outside of a cubicle.”

“I work in an open office.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Those things are hell.”

“Yeah…”

“But what about Andrea? Don’t you have at least the slightest urge to get to know her a little better?”

“It’s too much of a hassle.”

“That sounds like the kind of thing someone with a bunch of relationship problems behind him would say.”

“No problems. I just…”

“You just have so much work to do?”

“Yeah.”

“Hear me out on this. What happens when your job goes away? It’s not like it used to be where you worked someplace until retirement. Giving up your life for a place that’s going to eventually show you the door is a dead way of life.”

“I’m aware of these things, Dad. Like I told Mom, I’m nearing a point where I can buy a house outright. I will likely be able to retire early if I want. I’m doing fine.”

“All right, lemme put it another way. Did ya ever make a mistake at work?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“And did you ever see someone else about to make the same mistake, so you stepped in to tell them the lesson you already learned?”

Joey thought about all the people he’d helped at work over the years–how he always took the time to assist anyone willing to ask for a hand.

“I see what you’re getting at. But what nobody seems to get is I actually like my job.”

“I’m happy for you. But don’t you love other things, too? You used to always talk about big adventures.”

“Yeah. But I was a kid, then. Kids are told to think big…and then told by the same people to have more realistic dreams and get a good job. That’s what I did.”

“What are you afraid of?”

“What?”

“What are you afraid of? You act like the only safe places are work and home.”

“I don’t know. I guess…I was pretty much a latchkey kid. I didn’t have a ton of friends because I was scared I’d fall out of trees or drown or something doing all they things they did. If I’m being honest, I guess the world kind of scares me when I don’t know how something works.”

“Andrea’s not scared.

(beat)

If you only had one trip to take in your life, where would you go?”

“Iceland.”

“Really? Same here! I’ve heard it’s beautiful. You should go, then.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

            (in unison)

“Because of work…”

            (beat)

“There’s nothing wrong with being scared, Son. But don’t make the mistake of not seeing someplace special with someone you love.”

* * *

As weeks turned to months, the living arrangement between Joey and Pepper settled into a routine both enjoyed. There were after dinner talks in which all of Pepper’s sins as a father were forgiven. Stories shared and weekend outings. The loneliness at the end of each day keeping Joey at work sometimes late into the evening became a thing of the past; most days he left work on time, even though he still worked from his phone while watching TV with his father.

It became so familiar that it seemed like the way it always was…until one afternoon when Joey came home and said, “So Dad…uhm…”

“What’s up, Joe?”

“What do you think about spending a week in a nice kennel? Like one of those doggie day spa kind of places?”

“Why would I do that?”

“Work needs me to go on-site in Dallas for a week next month.”

“Gotcha. Why do I need to go anywhere? Just leave food and water out. I’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, but that’s a week of pee and poo. This place will reek by the time I get home.”

“Fair point. But I don’t want to go to a kennel. I’ve done time in a few along the way in finding you. They’re loud and uncomfortable. But…I have another idea.”

“What’s that?”

“Have Andrea watch me. Even if she just comes over a couple times a day around her work schedule to let me out and feed me.”

“I’d feel weird asking her.”

“Why? She thinks I’m adorable. Have you ever noticed how she conveniently has to run an errand or something when you take me downstairs?”

“That’s just likely odds. You shit a lot, Dad. So of course there are times we cross paths as much as we go down there.”

“Nah. Sometimes it’s by design. The way she comes over and chats and lingers. I don’t know what she sees in you–maybe it’s just me and my charming ways. But I guarantee this: if you go across the way and ask her to watch me, I’ll bet you a hundred dollars she will.”

“And where are you going to get one-hundred dollars if you lose?”

“I’ll borrow it from my beloved son…”

* * *

Pepper was right—Andrea was happy to watch him while Joey was away. She sat on the couch next to Joey’s father when he returned home from his week in Dallas.

“Oh, hi,” he said. “So…how’d everything go this week?”

“Great. He’s the easiest dog to care for. I hope you don’t mind, but I brought him over to my place the last two nights. I just felt bad leaving him alone.”

“No, that’s okay. Did he behave?”

“Yes. We did yoga together. He’s like a little shadow, following me around everywhere. I had to close the door when I took a shower before work. I know it’s no big deal, but sometimes you look into his eyes and it’s like he understands everything like we do. Anytime you have a work trip, I’d be happy to watch him.”

“I appreciate that.” “I know you refused to take any money when I asked you to watch Pepper, but I really feel like I should pay you for all you’ve done this week.”

Andrea smiled and said, “How about this. You treat me to coffee or a beer sometime soon? Maybe even dinner…?”

It was not the answer Joey expected. He surprised himself by saying, “Sure, that sounds great,” without giving it a second thought.

When Andrea finally left, Pepper said, “See? Told ya she wants to get to know you better…”

* * *

With each successive work trip, Joey and Andrea spent more time together. Soon, she was a regular around the apartment, even when Joey wasn’t away. When their relationship became more than ordinary friendship and Andrea suggested they spend the night together, Joey said, “Can we go to your place?”

“Why?”

Joey cocked his head toward his father.

“We can close the door, Joey.”

“I know. But still…it’s just…weird thinking about him on the other side of the door.”

In time, there were long weekend trips to Big Sur, Yosemite, and Tahoe, places where they could all be free from cramped spaces and enjoy time away from the rush of busy lives. During a trip to the Redwoods, Joey stopped Pepper from humping a cabin neighbor’s pug, half out of embarrassment–half wanting to ensure the strangest sibling he could imagine would never be loosed upon the world. And work became a thing Joey now did to save and pay the bills; it was no longer a sick refuge from all in life that scared him.

* * *

While Joey did all he could to get his 40 hours in each week and put work behind him, there were still occasional week-long trips to other cities required by the job.

Joey’s heart raced when, after landing following a week of work in Chicago, he saw the text message from Andrea when he got off the plane: “We need to talk.”

Despite a life of recent bliss, he reverted to the terrified fragment inside himself he still could not fully expunge. He texted back: “Are you breaking up with me?”

His phone vibrated. “NOPE! We’re stuck with each other. Maybe even more after today.”

In the Uber on the way home, Joey was so nervous that he spent the time doing breathing exercises Andrea had taught him. When he entered his apartment, Andrea and Pepper were on the couch with the television turned off. The world seemed to fall away beneath his feet when Pepper looked at him and said, “Hey, there’s Daddy’s little boy! Why didn’t you tell me Andrea could talk?!”

As Pepper and Andrea laughed, Joey said, “How much do you know?”

“Quite a bit. Scared the hell out of me when he started talking. I thought someone slipped something into my coffee, but the more we talked, the more I knew it was real. Leo broke the ice the night you left for the trip. We figured we’d wait until you were done in Chicago before saying anything.”

It was strange, almost jarring, to hear somebody use Joey’s father’s name. His mother always referred to him as, “your father,” and what family Joey had was small and old and on the other side of the country.

“Why did you tell her, Dad?”

“Because it’s clear you two are serious about each other. It’s not a secret we could keep forever…”

* * *

Leo “Pepper” Palermo was right: without the secret revealed, seeing where Joey’s life with Andrea could go would always have a little drooling black and white bump in the way to bigger things. Their wedding was small–just the bride and groom, Joey’s mother, Andrea’s brother, and Pepper. The day of the service, Pepper said, “Can we tell your mom about me?”

“No,” Joey said.

“Not today–this day belongs to you two. I mean sometime soon.”

“It wouldn’t be fair to her, Dad. She’s moved on…”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

* * *

As the years moved on, Andrea opened her own salon. Joey began consulting on contracts, leaving him more time to spend with the two people he loved most. A small place to call their own was purchased outright, and plans were in place that work would soon become a thing done because they wanted to–not because they had to.

It was a perfect life until the day Pepper wandered into Joey’s office and said, “Hey, Joe. We need to talk…”

Joey saved the file he was working on and said, “What’s up, Dad?”

“I’ve been a bit quiet about it, hoping it would go away, but…I’ve not been feeling so hot, lately. I know this feeling—I think I need to see a vet…”

The vet confirmed Pepper’s worries: cancer. When Joey got the call confirming their fears, he remembered the first time his father had the disease. How he stayed on the road as much as he could, claiming he had to keep providing for his family in between chemotherapy and radiation treatments, despite Joey and his mother doing well on their own. How it seemed like he worked even more, all in an effort to hide his pain from family. When he could work no more, he came home and slept–until the day came when he couldn’t even manage that. He was already mostly a memory in the lives of his wife and son, just a guy from Boston who had a knack for sales–moving up from selling encyclopedias door to door and later, car crushers–who ended up in San Francisco selling software. It wasn’t that Joey didn’t miss his father when he died, but aside from seeing him wiped out from a disease, it was already like he was never there.

But this time it was different; this time, good memories had been made. This time it hurt.

* * *

When the medicine no longer took the edge off Pepper’s discomfort, Joey asked his father, “What’s it like?”

“What’s what like?”

“Dying.”

Pepper looked up, pondering the question a moment. Then he looked at his son and said, “It’s like vomiting. You hold on, refusing to empty your stomach. You bargain and fight against it. Maybe you get comfortable for a moment and think it’s all okay, but that feeling comes back. It’s terrible, but you don’t want to let go. But then that point comes where you do finally let loose, and it feels good when you’re done–so good that you promise yourself the next time you’re sick that you won’t fight. I don’t want to fight this, Joe.”

* * *

On the morning of Leo Palermo’s second death, before the vet arrived at the house, Pepper said, “You know the saddest thing about all this?”

“What?” Joey said.

“That we don’t offer this same dignity to humans. I would have taken this option first time around, before it got so bad and we all suffered.”

“It’s an option, now. At least here in California.”

“That’s good. Needs to be everywhere.”

“It’s still hard, though,” Andrea said.

Pepper looked up at her with his wide eyes. “It is. I’ve loved the hell out of this. Getting to know you. Hell, getting to know my son. It’s weird how normal this crazy-weird life feels. Like this is the way it was always supposed to be.”

Andrea smiled. “Yeah. You may not have been the best father the first time around, but you’re the dad I never had.”

“Same here,” Joey said. “I love you.”

“I love you, too, Son…”

* * *

It was better than Joey imagined: a black beach winding along the crags like a pathway to a magical realm. On closer inspection, small volcanic stones instead of sand. Columns of basalt rose up against the peaked cliff behind, like massive steps meant for an ancient god to ascend to the top of a rocky pyramid. Was that grass or moss growing on the stone walls disappearing high above into layers of mist? A line of white-capped waves formed between the black beach and gray waters of the north Atlantic, dividing earth from ocean in a monochromatic splendor. Stone spires rose up from the water like the hard bones of a dragon that had crashed down from the heavens eons ago. With open water in front of Joey and Andrea, and rock behind, the wind undulated like some unseen force of nature breathing in and out. They waited for a rush of wind to return to the ocean; when it did, they stepped calf-deep into the frigid water and scattered Pepper’s ashes.

The mortal remains of Leo Palermo looked more like kitty litter than the fine dust Joey expected from a cremated Boston terrier. Part of him seemed to dissolve into the water, while larger pieces tumbled along black pebbles before finally being sucked deeper into the ocean. When the wind raced back toward the cliffs, it whisked away tears shed by Joey for his father’s second death. In time, there was nothing else to see; no more tears to be shed. Joey took Andrea by the hand and walked back to collect their socks and shoes.

Andrea was quick to dry her legs and feet with a small towel. When her shoes were back on, and her pant legs rolled down, she hugged herself in attempt to get warm.

“I’m sorry I made you stand out there as long as we did,” Joey said. He stood up and held her, hoping all his warmth would transfer to her. He wanted to feel the biting cold for days, to remember how strange and wonderful the last several years had been. How amazing it was to finally get to know and love his father–and be loved back in return.

“You gonna be okay?” Andrea said.

“Someday. It was a lot harder this time.” He stared at the water, wondering how far Pepper’s ashes would travel. He imagined them circling the globe, but always coming back to this point. “It’s funny how we both always wanted to see this place. I had no idea.”

“That’s because he didn’t.”

Joey gave Andrea the same cocked-headed look his father gave them at times when the dog ruled the man inside.

“He knew you wanted to see it in person, but were always too busy. He told me when he died, he wanted to be scattered here–not because it meant anything to him, but because it seemed to mean so much to you. I guess you mentioned it at some point, and he told you he wanted to see it, too. But he couldn’t care less about this place, other than he knew you’d need a push to finally visit. He said a body is a body, and that you could always visit his human remains in Colma, or come here and think about how strange and beautiful life can sometimes be. He knew you’d only make this trip if you thought it meant something to him.”

Joey shook his head in disbelief, half grinning, but also fighting back more tears.

“And it did mean something to him, I suppose. At least in the sense that he wanted you to finally take this trip.”

“He told you all that, huh?”

“Yep.”

“I love that you two were so close.”

This time, it was Andrea’s turn for tears.

“So am I…”

When Andrea had nothing more to give, she dried her face with a clean, dry corner of the towel. Joey opened their day pack and stuffed it inside. He came out with his father’s dog collar and closed the pack. He watched the name tag flip about in the breeze, a ridiculous name for a father, but a great name for a Boston terrier. He kissed the tag and said, “He was a good dog. A good dad.”

Andrea took Joey’s hand, letting the collar rest across their fingers like a shared bracelet.

“He was, indeed,” Andrea said, before the two turned away and walked off along the Pepper-black sand.

* * *

Hey, this is Rick Coste…I did the voice of Pepper, and my wife, Mandie Coste, played Joey’s mom. I also put this episode together from Chris’s story and narration. His wife, Cynthia Griffith, played the part of Andrea.

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks.

Theme music, as always, by Ergo Phizmiz. Story music this time by Chad Crouch, also known as Poddington Bear.

Sound effects are always made in-house or from my own private library. Visit nolumberjacks.com for information about the show, the voice talent, and the music.

I’m not sure what Chris has planned next. It might be a story about four people who get a strange sickness while in line at the pharmacy, or it might be a tale about a novelist who moves into her mother’s unfinished house as she struggles with a follow-up to a bestseller. There’s a story in the works about a rag-tag group of warehouse workers, and another about Death making an embarrassing mistake. There’s always something up Chris’s sleeve.

So, no idea which it will be, or when it will be released—Chris is also working on a novel, and he just started a new job. (Congratulations, Chris!) For what he has in store for us? I guess we’ll wait and see…

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

[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!