[Listen]

[Intro music plays]

[Woman’s Voice]

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

[Music fades out]

Christopher Gronlund:

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

* * *

Clearly, I have a thing for time travel stories.

An earlier Not About Lumberjacks story, “Standstill” deals with stopping time to spend more time with a dying loved one. “Calling Out of Time” is about someone who finds a payphone that allows him to call the past and change his life in another timeline. And the latest story, “It’s Never Too Late,” is about someone who builds a time machine, travels back to 1983, and breaks down.

Why the obsession?

* * *

I could blame the movie Time Bandits, which I saw several times the weekend it came out. But really, what got me with Time Bandits was trying to figure out how one goes about writing a story and getting it on a big screen in a theater—not how to go about traveling through the ages. It was other movies that pulled me in.

When I used to visit my dad in Kansas each summer when I was younger, he had cable TV. I watched the movie Time After Time repeatedly, fascinated by H.G. Wells pursuing Jack the Ripper in modern times.

I can list a ton of other time travel movies I’ve loved over the years: Back to the Future, Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure, Twelve Monkeys, Primer, Donnie Darko, Groundhog Day, the first two Terminator movies, Safety Not Guaranteed, and yeah, even Hot Tub Time Machine!

But what is it about time travel movies that hooks us?

* * *

I think it’s two things:

• One: The intricacies of how time travel works in stories…and seeing if stories break their own rules. There’s often a cleverness involved in time travel tales many find appealing.
• And Two: This is the biggie—we tend to be obsessed with the possibilities offered to us by traveling into the past to “fix” things—or peeking into our futures.

I’ve talked about regret before, and how I’m not one to carry much in my life. Even the bad days and decisions got me to who I am today. But I know people who shoulder the past and would love nothing more than the chance to have a do-over and leave that weight behind.

And the future: who doesn’t want to see if we, as a species, get better…or worse? To see if who we are and what we struggle with today will not always be our story.

* * *

Initially, “It’s Never Too Late” was going to be a bit wacky. Sentimental, but also ridiculous. Albert was going to travel back to 1983, break down, and end up teaching high school or something that put him in touch with his teenage self. He’d help himself navigate his awkward years while also navigating his awkward adult life, where shyness was still an issue. Eventually, he’d reveal to teen Albert that he was him, and somehow, the two would find answers that would better their lives.

But that’s a bit overdone…

Then I thought, “He’s just a guy who gets stuck, lives a different life, and dies.” But the time travel geek in me could not let go of the chance for Albert to meet himself!

Of course, because it’s not a time travel story where a new timeline is created, that meant paradoxes prevented that from happening. Unless…he met himself after he lived long enough to fix the machine and bring his middle-aged self back. (And even then, I’m sure there’s someone out there who would say, “Actually…that couldn’t have happened because…” and give me a list of reasons. (The least of which, creating two Alberts at different ages.)

That’s the thing about time travel stories, though: most don’t make sense under scrutiny. But they still work, and we still love them. The movie Looper’s like, “Yeah, this is just cool, so that’s what we’re gonna do,” putting story before mechanics.

Time travel stories are simply a fun mechanism to write very human stories using a very ridiculous premise.

* * *

The human element in time travel stories is often going back to prevent a loved one from dying—or fixing a mistake in the past. Changing things so the “future” is better. It works because we all have loved ones we miss…and we all have things we’d likely do differently if given a second chance.

But I didn’t want Albert to get a second chance where he could change his past and affect his life back in the future. As appealing as it might sound, there’s something to the mistakes we’ve made along the way. We are who we are because of the paths we’ve been on—bad decisions included.

* * *

When I was younger, I had a very impressive proposition made to me by a great aunt: she was willing to move me to New York City, put me up in an apartment she owned a couple blocks from Central Park for free, and introduce me to people in publishing. (She owned an art gallery in the city and knew a lot of cool people.) If I wanted to go to school, it was on her. When I told her I got terrible grades and was on academic probation from a community college, she said, “Well, I’ve donated quite a bit to several smaller liberal colleges on the East Coast, and if you promise you’ll improve your grades, I’m sure they’ll make an exception.”

When I’ve told this story to a couple people, they said I was nuts for turning down the offer. Their reasoning, in essence: “Think about how much better your life would be!”

But…would it really?

* * *

I’d be lying if I said I never imagined “what might have been?” had I taken my great-aunt up on her generous offer, but when we think like that, we often think only of the good what-ifs. The realist in me also thinks, “Sure, maybe I would have been published by a prestigious house in my 20s, but I’d have probably also become a smug little shit, despite being a caring individual. Maybe I’d not worry about finances today, but I’d hate being one of those people who was given an opportunity by family and thought, ‘Well, if I could do it, so can those lowly poors!”

Given my nature, it’s more likely I’d have worked hard and had decent opportunities, but who can say I’d not have found someone, been in such a rush with a busy life pursuing my golden opportunities, and ended up divorced? Or…stressed to the point of worrying that my next book might be my last?

I know for certain: you would not be listening to this right now, and the stories I write would be nothing like those I share, here, for free. Many of the stories I write are rooted in working a day job while trying to find time for bigger things. They are based on things I know from the life I’ve lived. I think their appeal is they often touch on things we all think about.

I must believe, had a different past been handed to me, that my writing would be typical today. I would have likely focused on writing in college and—to be published at that time (at least through the people I’d likely have been introduced to)—meant writing certain kinds of books. I very well may have become that annoying young New Yorker who wrote about being a young, educated writer in New York City. Maybe I’d have moved on to writing the dreaded, “Oh, look…well off people in a wealthy suburb navigating a divorce and rediscovering who they are,” novel.

The counter argument of course is, “Maybe I’d have written incredible things—possibly full time.”

Living a life of “What Ifs” is not a life well-lived. Learning from mistakes we’d inevitably make, regardless of our experiences, and finding happiness is.

* * *

I know this for certain: I’ve been fortunate to have friends and family who believed in me all these years—and today I have a decent day job that allows me to write whatever I want, with no thought about whether it will be “financially or critically successful” or not.

I’m writing this essay on my lunch break the day after releasing “It’s Never Too Late.” Already, I can tell people in the U.S., Canada, Germany, Romania (Hi, Allexia…I presume), Sweden (Hi, Hamish or Miro, I presume), and France have already listened. More countries will follow in the coming days.

That will always blow my mind!

* * *

I’ve never held a hardback copy of something I’ve written in my hands, but I’ve been married for almost 32 years, have friends I know are my friends because of who I am and not what I might be able to offer them…and—even though editing drives me batty—I  have this nifty little podcast I love. My life isn’t the one I imagined when I was younger, but few lives are. I’m happy and do things I love doing.

A time machine would only ruin a guaranteed good thing…

* * *

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

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

In May, it’s a story about a mudlark who finds something very strange during low tide…

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

[Listen]

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

Christopher Gronlund:

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

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

This time, I’m back after the annual break following back-to-back episodes in November and December with a story about a guy whose time machine breaks down in the past on its test run.

But first, the usual content advisory…

“It’s Never Too Late” deals with regret, death (including a decayed body), personal loss, and the sound of someone vomiting. Also, if you’re driving, be aware there’s a scene with the main character following someone on foot that contains skidding tire sounds. I don’t want you to be driving and freaking out, thinking something’s coming at you! It’s just that moment in the story.

And when it comes to swearing, this one’s pretty tame, with a couple PG-rated words you’ve probably heard on TV this week.

All right, let’s get to work!

* * *

IT’S NEVER TOO LATE

October 13, 1983

3:47 p.m.

Albert Gladstone stood hidden in cattails at the edge of a field, watching his younger self spinning in the cool, unwavering breeze on his fourteenth birthday. For 41 years, it remained one of his fondest memories, the first day that year it truly felt like fall in his hometown south of Milwaukee. It was deep enough into October that the rest of the month would bring crisp mornings and cool afternoons. Warm days would not return until April.

He watched his younger self stop and raise his arms high above his head in a stretch as he filled his lungs with air. Eyes closed, head leaned back, savoring the experience and thinking, “I will never forget this moment.” In the decades that followed, he never did. It was a feeling he chased when life grew challenging, a thing eluding him no matter how hard he tried to recreate it. He wondered if, in hindsight, he had built up the moment into something far more than it ever was. But as young Albert exhaled and opened his eyes, his smile was proof that time—and all that came with it—had not distorted his memory.

When his younger self left the field, adult Albert walked to the middle and took his place. To his south was the neighborhood where he grew up. To each side, farmland rolling to the horizons. North of him, wetlands full of cattail mazes, marshes, and ponds. When he spread his arms wide and spun, it felt every bit as wonderful as he remembered—a decades-long craving finally satisfied. When he was done, the world and its ways seemed just as clear to him as it did on his birthday as a teenager. The life that followed may not have gone the way he imagined when he was younger, but that fourteen-year-old had no idea what he would do as an adult.

* * *

October 13, 2024

3:13 p.m.

It looked more like a bathysphere than a time machine, a thing constructed to scour the depths of oceans as an all-seeing, cyclopean eye. Instead, the steel sphere sat in Albert Gladwell’s basement, a ten-year project finally at an end. On the console next to his washer and dryer, diagnostics indicator lights came back all green. He imagined this moment since childhood, when the movie Time Bandits led to a fixation with how one would go about traveling to the past or future. Finally, it was time.

A small pile of checklists ensured every calculation would bring Albert to his chosen spot in his past. Every risk was assessed and mitigated to the best of his knowledge and imagination. It was a bold and risky endeavor, with the best outcome working exactly as planned—and the worst being the last thing he would ever do.

He opened the round door on the metal orb and climbed inside. After taking one last look at his basement through the porthole, he sealed himself inside the cramped, dim space. It was fitting the time machine looked like an old diving bell—the hum from outside the steel womb sounded like a world under water. Albert listened to his breath; and heartbeat. At 3:20 p.m., the countdown began. He joined in 10 seconds before 3:30.

He was about to see if he got it right…or very, very wrong.

* * *

October 13, 1983

3:58 p.m.

Albert wiped away the tears making the cold wind against his face feel like ice. Everything he was told could never work did, and the reward for his efforts was reliving a moment meaning more to him than he could ever explain. He was fascinated with the strange way we’re wired, how huge memories can slide away, while something seemingly mundane as appreciating an autumn breeze remained etched at the front of one’s brain until the end.

Albert knew staying too long in the field would ruin the moment. Perhaps part of why it stayed with him over the years was—even as a teenager—he knew when to step away. To steal more time would blunt the edge of such a sharp memory. He wandered into the cattails and stomped down a little space of his own in the reeds.

When he was younger, he and his friends cut their way through the cattails in the wetlands beyond the fields behind his house. In time, the trails became a maze with secret clearings hidden along the way for those in the know. There, he and friends spent hours on their backs looking skyward, inches above the wet ground below, talking about their lives and dreams. He missed a time when he could talk about something as outlandish as making a time machine and be taken seriously.

He reached into the mat of cattails below and came up with a small handful of wild mint. He popped a leaf in his mouth and closed his eyes, savoring the moment. When he was done, he watched the hands on his vintage watch creep toward the 4:30 mark, when the machine in his basement 41 years in the future would call him home.

At 4:30, nothing happened. Albert waited several more minutes, pondering what might have caused a drift on his wristwatch and the timer running the machine. There was nothing to account for not being recalled, except something going wrong with the controls in his basement. He wondered if the machine broke, or even exploded. He’d run countless simulations and considered all that could go wrong in the decade leading up to the day, but as the sky began to darken, Albert’s stomach churned as he came to the sobering conclusion that he’d just become a man lost in time.

* * *

Albert’s first goal was finding food and shelter. His contingency plan accounted for the vintage clothing he wore, currency and a wallet from the time, the Timex watch his uncle gave him on his twelfth birthday, and a fake driver’s license, just in case. Reserving a room for the night was no longer had by a quick search on his phone, which—like all other personal items from 2024, except himself—was left in the now-future before the jump. He walked north for several hours before stopping in a McDonalds for a quick bite to eat, and then found a motel on the south side of Milwaukee where his counterfeit license was convincing enough to get a room.

* * *

Albert startled awake in the early morning, barely making it to the bathroom to heave his dinner. Gut health, and so many other seemingly insignificant things ignored in sci-fi movies for the sake of time, weighed on his mind before the jump. He knew he’d suffer a bit on longer leaps, but he wasn’t expecting his first jaunt to test that concern. With each unforeseen rush to the bathroom, Albert sipped water from his cupped hands over the sink, staving off dehydration until exhaustion finally pulled him into a restful slumber.

* * *

October 14, 1983

10:57 a.m.

Albert was never prone to fits of nostalgia, another Gen-Xer sharing memes on social media about how the 80s were far more brown than neon. But as he entered Kmart, he could almost see the commercial play out on old studio videotape, part of a compilation of retro commercials on YouTube.

“We’ve got it, and we’ve got it good…”

Amazing how a jingle can bore its way into one’s brain and live there like a cicada underground, only to emerge years later.

During Albert’s restless night, his mind turned from “What went wrong?” to “What will I do?” Perhaps the machine would be discovered during a wellness check after he stopped showing up to work or not paying his mortgage. Maybe somebody at the university where he taught would be called in—a colleague who insisted time travel was impossible—and they’d figure out how to bring him back, apologizing upon his arrival for never giving his ideas credence. But if the machine exploded during the jump or the problem couldn’t be found and fixed, he needed to accept the only way he’d see 2024 again is if he lived a long life and got there like everyone else.

Albert’s immediate needs were in his control: buying a couple more changes of clothes and a suitcase, grooming necessities, and a notebook with pencils and pens. On his way out, he spotted a tape recorder. He grabbed that and a pack of cassettes.

At the register, when the cashier rang up the clothes and suitcase, she said, “Going on a trip?”

Albert nodded. “You could say that, yes.”

* * *

October 14, 1983

12:17 p.m.

In the motel room, Albert inserted a tape into the cassette recorder and pressed the Play and Record buttons together. He gave it a moment and then said, “My name is Albert Gladstone, and I’m about to say the most ridiculous sounding thing I’ve ever said with a straight face: I am a time traveler. I left the year 2024 on a test trip to October 13, 1983, to relive a fond childhood memory as a test run for the machine I built. I don’t know why, exactly, I’m compelled to make this recording—maybe because if something happens to me, someone will find it, sooner or later. They’ll probably think I’m delusional, but in time, I’d hope some of the things I plan to talk about will occur and they will realize this is, in fact, real.”

Albert chronicled how he came to end up stranded out of his time, and then said, “My plans right now are simple: I need to find a job willing to pay cash, which means I’ll likely end up in the back of a restaurant or working on the docks. I need to find a cheap apartment that won’t do a deep background check. I brought enough money with me that I can pay for several months up front, and that should be enough to get me into a place. Then I guess it’s just saving as much as I can and investing in things that will turn into more sooner than waiting for Microsoft or Apple to pay out. Maybe a big Super Bowl bet or two along the way. If I’m going to be stuck, I don’t want to bring attention to myself, but I definitely I want enough that if I’m here for good, I won’t have to worry about work and money. I’m not getting any younger.

“Little realizations have been coming to me this morning: what if I get really sick and end up in a hospital? What if a cop questions me for some reason? So many things that could end up bad if my existence is scrutinized. I’ve thought about so many things regarding this trip over the years, but I never considered how lonely it would be if I got stuck and had to live out the rest of my life through these days again.

“Right now, I just need to make it to 1985…”

* * *

In two months’ time, Albert found an apartment and settled into a job as a line cook in a diner that paid under the table. At first, making it through the morning and lunch rush left him feeling broken, but he was pleased by how quickly his body adjusted and carried him through shifts. It was a far cry from teaching physics at The University of Wisconsin in Madison, but he came to appreciate that when work was done, time was his.

* * *

December 16, 1983

3:42 p.m.

On the Friday before schools went on Christmas break, Albert waited along the route his younger self took while walking home from school. It was time to test a hypothesis. He walked toward fourteen-year-old Albert wandering along the sidewalk. As he got closer, his younger self turned off the usual route and into a neighborhood he sometimes cut through for a change of scenery. Albert jogged to the corner and called to his younger self, who had now put on Walkman headphones.

“Albert! Albert Gladstone!”

He chased after fourteen-year-old Albert, so fixated on seeing if time would allow the paradox of meeting himself that he didn’t see the VW Rabbit run a stop sign and hit him. From the pavement, older Albert watched his younger self walk away—probably while listening to Rush’s Signals album—oblivious to what had just occurred behind him.

The kid in the Rabbit at least did a good job standing on the brakes before hitting Albert, leaving him a bit scraped up, but not damaged. The front of the car looked worse. The kid opened the door and leaped from the driver’s seat.

“I’m sorry!”

“It’s okay,” Albert said while getting up. “I think I’m fine.”

“Are you gonna get me in trouble with my dad?”

“No, why?”

He pointed to a dent on the passenger side of the vehicle.

“My dad will lose it if he finds out I had another accident.”

Albert slowly moved his limbs and took a deep breath, checking to see if anything was broken. He seemed fine.

He looked at the kid and said, “How ‘bout I give you an early Christmas present and we keep this our little secret?”

* * *

Other attempts to meet his younger self were met with similar results—something always thwarting the actual moment of connection. He had no memories featuring a man in his mid-50s telling his younger self he was him from the future, and it seemed the timeline ensured that would not change.

Attempts to call were met with broken pay phones or his old phone line ringing with no answer. Knocking on the door of the house where he grew up was met with no answer—either no one home or, on occasions he knew people would be there, a broken doorbell or enough noise inside that his knocking was not heard. Tapping on his bedroom window was met by a slumbering teenager lost in deep dreams or wearing headphones, while lost in music. One night, while attempting to get into the basement through a window, a passing cop car stopped between his yard and the neighbors. Albert hid in the window well, nervous he’d be spotted by the officer or his younger self thinking someone was breaking in. When the patrol cruiser moved on, so did Albert. He accepted that while a paradox apparently couldn’t occur, he could still end up arrested without being able to prove who he was.

* * *

December 25, 1983

Albert inserted a cassette tape into the recorder and waited a moment.

“Merry Christmas to me, I suppose—even though it’s a weird one. In other ways, there’s a lot to be happy for, the least of which is a day off from the diner. I’ve settled into my new place and new routine. I even bought a sailboat, so I have something better to do on my days off when it warms up than to dwell on things. I’ve accepted this is my life now. It’s a weird position to be in, knowing all the things yet to happen and wondering how I will relate to them a second time around. This is a kind of do-over, I guess, and I’m not ruling out living an entirely different kind of life than what I’ve lived to this point. It’s just a matter of figuring out what that looks like.

“I’ve also been testing a hypothesis some have proposed when it comes to time travel: that a traveler can affect things, but not do something that would create a paradox. I never met my boss at Liam’s Place, so to him and me, it’s a new relationship. But if I try preventing major events I remember happening, my attempts are thwarted by the timeline. I don’t remember being a teenager who had a strange guy come up to him one day and say, ‘Hey, I’m you from the future,’ so that can’t happen. But if I wanted to meet someone and start a family, I could.

“It’s a weird place to be: 55-years-old and knowing so much of what will happen in the world. Wondering if the machine’s been discovered in 2024 and I’ll end up being pulled back. Or, because who the hell can really say how any of this works, if that’s even a possibility? Are things still happening in my basement in the future, or is that part of my timeline on hold until I’m dead or live long enough to catch back up? I could easily drive myself sick thinking about all the possibilities. So, for now, I’ll just keep working and sticking to the plan.”

* * *

March 26, 1985

10:18 a.m.

Albert watched the comings and goings around his uncle’s house for several weeks. One morning, he even saw the man he most looked up to when he was younger, when he opened his front door and grabbed the mail from the small box beside the entry. Gone was the fit adventurer Albert knew as a child, the man who had seen the world and promised he’d one day take him along on his travels. In his place was a large man with a limp, someone only recognizable because Albert knew who he was. All his life, Albert heard how much he looked like his uncle when he was younger. Family photos confirmed what he was told. There was still a resemblance between the two as adults.

He wanted to rush up to Uncle Stanley and tell him who he was and what he had done—show him that while he had never traveled like him, he was now on an adventure few could even imagine. One day, after seeing no activity around the house for a few days, he summoned the courage to go up and ring the doorbell.

There was no answer.

He rang the bell again and knocked. Maybe Uncle Stanley was out, even though his car was in the driveway? He walked to the side of the house and peeked in through a window.

Albert’s uncle sat slumped in a chair in front of the TV. Albert knocked on the glass, but his uncle didn’t move. He watched his uncle’s chest, waiting for it to rise and fall if he was napping. It didn’t. He walked into his uncle’s overgrown backyard and broke a window pane in the back door. The odor from inside rushed through the small opening, causing Albert to step back and turn away. He pulled the front of his shirt up over the bottom of his face, making sure his nose was covered—even though it had little effect in taming the smell of decay.

Albert reached inside to unlock the door. The kitchen was full of empty take-out boxes and fast-food bags. Dirty dishes towered in the sink so high that Albert trod softly across the floor out of fear of them toppling. From the living room, he heard the New $25,000 Pyramid on the television.

Albert stood before his uncle as Markie Post and a woman played the game show on TV. After a big fight between Albert’s uncle and his father, he never saw him again. He received the odd letter or card, usually with the promise that after graduation, he’d take Albert along on a grand trip. But it never happened.

The tears Albert shed were for the loss of a favorite relative, but they were also cathartic tears for himself, a release of bottled-up emotions from the last 17 months, waiting for the bittersweet day he dreaded as much as anticipated.

* * *

March 26, 1985

9:45 p.m.

Albert arrived at the marina in his uncle’s car late enough that few people were around, but not so late to arouse suspicion. He pulled the rolled-up rug from the trunk of his uncle’s car and strapped it to a dolly. This was the part of his plan that could all come apart. All he needed to do was make it to his sailboat.

When he reached the dock where his boat was moored, he heard someone say, “Need any help?”

Albert turned his head, half-expecting to see a cop. How would he explain his uncle wrapped in a rug was not the way it looked? How would he explain being there at all? He was relieved to see someone who’d just come in from the lake.

“Thanks,” Albert said, “but I’ve got it. Had a couple drinks with a friend this evening, and he had this fabric set aside for me. Been planning to begin reupholstering the cushions in the cabin this weekend—get ready for spring. It was just easier to drop this off while in the city than hauling it back to the suburbs and then back on Saturday.”

“Gotcha. Probably about time for me to do that, too. Have a good evening.”

“You, too.”

Albert’s heart finally stopped racing when the guy got in his car and drove off.

* * *

When Albert’s uncle wasn’t traveling, he was on Lake Michigan in his sailboat. When Albert was ten years old, he and his uncle sailed from Milwaukee to Muskegon, Michigan, where they had dinner in a restaurant overlooking the lake, and then spent the night on the boat. The following morning, they sailed home. The trip came with a promise that one day, Uncle Stanley would take Albert on some trips as he got older—the grandest of them all, Antarctica when he graduated high school. His uncle had set foot on six of the seven continents and said there’d be no better way than to see the last than with his nephew. After returning to the car to retrieve a roll of chicken wire and chains, Albert powered up the boat’s engine and headed out from the dock before going to sail.

He told himself repeatedly that his uncle would not mind what he was about to do, that he’d understand and be happy to give him the freedom to exist without worry. Uncle Stanley always said that when his time came, he’d rather be scattered in a lake or ocean than buried in a cemetery with hundreds or thousands of bodies.

When Albert reached deep water with no one else in sight, he spread out the chicken wire and chains he grabbed from the car. He placed the rolled-up rug containing his uncle’s body on the wire and struggled to wrap chains around him. When that was finished, he wrapped the chicken wire around the chains and rug like a cage, securing it through links with electrical wiring.

Albert retreated to the cabin and came out with a portable stereo. He pressed play and listened to Bob Dylan sing his uncle’s favorite song, “When the Ship Comes In.” He let the tape play to the end, and sat in silence for several more minutes after “Restless Farewell” finished.

The warm day had given way to a chilly night. How easy it would be to wrap a blanket around himself and fall asleep while listening to the wind and waves. Albert considered flipping the tape over and playing the entire album through to the end. He was stalling. Ten minutes later, he stood up.

“I feel like I need to say something big and important right now, but I’ll keep it simple.

“I love you, Uncle Stanley. I promise I’ll do right by your name. Thank you for being the one person in my life who always listened to and believed in me.”

After struggling to get his uncle overboard, Albert stared at the dark water, imagining his uncle sinking to the bottom of the lake. Eventually, he stretched, turned the boat back toward Milwaukee, and set off to begin a new life.

* * *

March 27 – 29, 1985

The next morning, Albert returned to his uncle’s house and cleaned. It was just the chair where his uncle died, the rug beneath it, and the floor, but the best means of cleaning and disposing of such a mess were no longer a Google search away. He washed and scrubbed until he knew anything he smelled was just in his mind. When Albert dumped the worst of the items, he eased his nerves by reminding himself forensics were still limited compared to 2024.

Unless his uncle had accumulated a pile of debt or had a criminal record and been fingerprinted, assuming his identity was the safest option Albert had. On paper, his uncle existed—from his birth certificate to recent checks. Still, what if he was called to jury duty? Would his uncle’s driver’s license and a physical likeness be enough to pass? What if he bumped into someone his uncle knew in a store? How would he pass off knowing nothing about the stranger, but feigning his way through a conversation? The more scenarios Albert considered, he realized the best decision would be to leave the area.

* * *

Albert was gathering fallen tree branches and pulling old vines from bushes when he heard someone say, “Stan?”

He turned to see a man standing on the other side of the chain-link fence dividing his uncle’s yard from next door.

“Hey, how ya going?” Albert said.

“Good. Haven’t seen you in forever. You’re looking great! Lost a lot of weight.”

“Thanks,” he said. He knew nothing about the man before him—not even a name. Were he and his uncle close, or were over-the-fence pleasantries the extent of their relationship? Had he seen Uncle Stanley in recent weeks, the large person only peeking out to grab the mail? How could he explain a hundred some-odd pounds weight loss to someone who’d seen him recently?

“I got tired of moping around and feeling sorry for myself,” Albert said. “Finally got a VCR player and bought one of those Jazzercize videos. Felt kinda funny doing that, but I’ve been losing weight and feeling great. Cleaning myself up a bit and trying to get back to normal.”

“How’s the leg?”

“Good…good. How have you been?”

“Busy. Happy it’s been a bit warmer this week.”

“Yeah. I’m getting a jump on spring cleaning.”

“I should do that myself,” the neighbor said. “But it’ll probably end up snowing next week, for all we know.”

“True. Probably should have waited another few weeks, but I’ve been feeling so much better.”

“That’s excellent. Well, I’ll let you get back to it. It was really great seeing you, Stan!”

“You, too.”

* * *

March 30, 1985

10:37 a.m.

When he wasn’t cleaning up the yard, Albert turned his attention to the inside of his uncle’s house. He gathered all the documents he could find. Uncle Stanley’s checkbook was a map of what bills would need to be paid. None of his IDs were in jeopardy of expiring, and his bank account had funds to pay all bills that would come due in the coming months. While dusting a bookcase, Albert found several travel journals.

Collected within, stories about all the countries his uncle had visited, places he told Albert he’d one day take him. Hiking the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu; wild nights in Madrid and Paris. He found the odd photo tucked away in the pages: his uncle in the Australian Outback or standing on Table Mountain, overlooking Cape Town in South Africa. Reading through the last entries, Albert discovered his uncle shattered his leg while rock climbing in the Italian Dolomites. After that, the journal became a bitter diary, the story of a man who returned home to heal but didn’t. When things got worse, he did the one thing he promised himself he’d never do: buy a house and settle.

As Albert picked up the first journal with the intent to start from the beginning, there was a knock at the door.  He ignored it, choosing to open the journal instead. The knocking turned to pounding. He heard his father’s voice.

“Stanley, I know you’re in there!”

If Albert was going to assume his uncle’s identity, there was no better test than facing his brother.

He opened the door.

“What do you want, Ben?”

Albert’s father opened his mouth, but no words came out. He scrutinized the man before him.

“What’s wrong?” Albert said.

“I want you to leave Albert alone.”

“What do you mean—we’ve been through this. I’ve been leaving him alone.”

“You’ve still been writing to him and telling him you’ll take him all around the world. Talking to him and filling his head with shit, even after I told you to stop calling. I heard him tell a friend he still calls you from pay phones. He needs to be thinking about school and college—not following in your footsteps.”

“Why? What’s wrong with taking some time after graduation and traveling? Or hell, even following in my footsteps?”

“It’s not responsible. You may be having fun now, but you can’t keep going on like this. What if you injure yourself? If something happens to me, I have insurance. When I’m old, I’ll have my pension. You’re one accident away from tragedy. I don’t want Albert to reach a point in his life, when he’s older, that he has nothing. I want you to leave him alone.”

Albert looked past his father and took a deep breath.

“Are you okay?” his father said.

He nodded. “Yeah, I promise I’ll leave Al alone, but before I do, you’re gonna shut up and listen to what I have to say. You’re setting him up for a life he’ll grow to resent. What becomes of him if he does what you demand? He goes to school and more school and then gets a job and a house? Maybe gets married and then—because all he does is work—his wife leaves him? Maybe he finds a pet project others think is a ridiculous waste of time…builds something in his garage or basement. If he did even that much, he’d have more than you—just sitting on your ass, watching TV, and waiting to retire so what, you can watch even more TV?

“Think about this, Ben. Maybe Al will try to find me after he graduates high school, but I’ll be gone. He’ll wonder if I died or if I blew him off to explore the world. The poor kid will hope I died, because the alternative is me never thinking about him or fulfilling my promise to take him on a couple big trips before he figures out what he wants to do with his life. Not you—not me: him!

“He’ll grow to hate you, Ben. He’ll always wonder about me, but I know this as much as I know anything: he’ll shut his door to you. One day he’ll marry, and you won’t be invited into his new life. Another day, you’ll be planning for your retirement and find out that lingering cough isn’t harmless, and your final thoughts will be that you worked too much. Albert will show up to your funeral out of courtesy to Veronica, and later find out she went elsewhere to find affection because she sure as hell wasn’t getting it from you! And because he came from such a serious, stilted family, his life will be every bit as unhappy as yours.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” his father said. “Are you drunk?”

“Shut up and listen to me for once!”

His father held his hands out in front of him and took a step back from the angry man before him. Albert continued.

“But if I had to bet, when Al’s wife divorces him because he was never around or wanting to do anything—when his life crashes down around him—he’ll take a trip that makes any I took pale in comparison. And in the last decades of his life, he’ll get a do-over. It’ll feel too late, but also be appreciated in ways he’d never have known had he taken off as an 18-year-old and done what he wanted, instead of what you demanded.

“So, yes, Ben: I’ll leave Albert alone. I’ll go away. He’ll never know what happened to me, but he’ll come to grips with it—ultimately believing me dead instead of abandoning him. That’s on you. One day, though, he’ll find out what really happened—and he’ll hate you even more if that’s possible. Now, get the hell off my porch before I drop your ass and drag you to the street…”

* * *

March 30, 1985

3:42 p.m.

Albert turned on the tape recorder, waited a moment, and began speaking.

“I saw my father today. Not from a distance, I spoke to him as my uncle. I’ve spent the rest of the day thinking about it. I have to believe—just like when I came here to see my uncle—that my father would have seen Uncle Stanley dead in his chair. I spent years wondering what happened to him. Google said he died today, so I thought I had time. I almost hit my father when it dawned on me that he likely found my uncle dead, reported it, and just never told me. It would have been one less problem to him. At least I know I can pass for my uncle.

“I’ve started reading through Uncle Stanley’s travel journals. I always wondered how he was able to keep going all those years. I never knew he wrote for magazines. When he wasn’t selling travel articles, he worked odd jobs. Even when he came back to the states, he often traveled around here. But he wasn’t always on the go. He settled in places—at times, for years. A bit of stability in the unstable world my father believed he lived.

“I’ve been thinking about what to do next. It’s clear I can’t stay here. There will be a time I bump into somebody who knows my uncle, and I won’t be able to pass for him under scrutiny. What’s to stick around for, anyway? What do I do, spend my days watching parts of my life play out from a distance? Stick around and watch myself graduate high school and college and become boring like my father? Watch myself meet Patricia for the first time, knowing it ends with me working too much and her finally having enough and leaving?

“Reliving my past would be the saddest thing I could ever do. Even if I could meet and warn myself, I’m human and would make different mistakes. Or do things that aren’t even mistakes, but deemed such in hindsight. The past is a sad place to dwell. Fixing things only works in movies. I could spend the rest of my life tinkering with past regrets, but to what end? ‘Oh, this all worked out, after all!’ when I know that’s not real? It happened—it was all real, and it’s best left behind. What wouldn’t be real is changing it to suit my desires based on what I know now. I’d always know, in the back of my mind, that this is not what really happened. Besides, were I able to change things, Patricia seemed happy the last time I looked up what she was up to, and it’s not my place to take that from her when I was the one who let it all slip through my fingers.

“I’m coming to accept that. My life hasn’t stopped, it’s just changed…like it would no matter what time I’m in. I’ve thought about building a new machine to go back, but the tech isn’t here, yet. But even if it were, what matters is now. The future will one day be full of busy people obsessed with ‘mindful living’—being present, even though many of us couldn’t focus long enough to read a 500-word article or listening to a podcast. It’s really weird talking about the future in past tense.

“But there is something to living right now, beyond the slower pace of things many of us will one day miss. I’ve lived through all this once before, and I don’t need to live the life I lived again…even if I could. And what happens if I could return home? I created something that would change everything, and probably not for the better. Hell, for all I know, others have done the same thing I did and kept quiet about it after coming to the same conclusion: it can be done, but should it? Were the machine discovered, it would likely be taken from me and used by the military or some asshole billionaire claiming he made it and then he’d make even more. I don’t regret what I’ve done, even though it’s now become apparent it was both my greatest and worst idea. I did something I wanted to do—a thing no one believed was possible—and that’s enough. At least for me.

“I was always a time traveler, someone waking up with a new day before him, and a past I lived through and remembered. I didn’t have to go to the past to fix mistakes—I just didn’t have to repeat them once I knew better. And if I didn’t, it’s not likely anything I went back to fix would stick anyway. So, I guess that’s where I am: right here, here right now, with time moving on and a world of opportunities before me if I stop getting in my own damn way…”

* * *

July 22, 1985 – January 4, 1986

Albert took off from Chicago and landed in Miami, before continuing on to Lima, Peru. As the ground fell away beneath the 727, he thought about how quickly he’d built up a new life and then stripped it all down to fit into a tiny storage unit in Milwaukee. The power from the three engines at the back of the jet was still more impressive to him than the machine he’d built in his basement in the future. No matter how many times he flew, it never got old.

Growing up, Albert imaged Lake Michigan to be much like an ocean, but seeing the Pacific coming ashore on the edge of Lima, knowing how far away those waters got their start, humbled him in the same way looking up at the night sky did. That he could put his feet into something so massive, imagining others thousands of miles away doing the same—and creatures living miles deep below the surface—gave him a similar sense of connection as welcoming the wind in his favorite field back home.

Albert spent five days on the Inca Trail, hiking the undulating vein through jungles and stony mountains devoured by clouds. Morning rains broke as he arrived at Machu Picchu, the mist retreating in time to reveal the lost city below. Weeks later, the other-worldly terrain of the Atacama Desert was a surreal experience after time spent in green places. For the next five months, Albert visited cities in Chile and Argentina, while also trekking through the countryside on his slow voyage south. Each stop seemed more amazing than those before, with the pinnacle being Torres del Paine National Park, in Patagonia, where granite peaks climbed high and caught the sun like flames.

* * *

January 6, 1986

Albert left Ushuaia, Argentina on a boat bound for Antarctica on the morning of January 4. The following morning, he was awakened by the sound of a book slamming to the floor and his backpack sliding around his tiny cabin. Sprays of water slapped the porthole window, letting in the muted light of a gray day. He was warned the Drake Passage could be rough, but he’d not appreciated what that meant until passengers were confined to their quarters as the ship rose and fell, making its way through 50 knot winds driving 30-foot swells. Moments of exhilaration turned to fear each time the ship leaned beyond the point Albert deemed safe in his mind. He lay on his bed, waiting to be sick, but it never came. The worst Lake Michigan could throw at a ship paled in comparison to the seas outside, but it prepared Albert for a day in bed, where he finally read the paperback copy of Stephen King’s Skeleton Crew he’d picked up in Chicago at the start of his trip.

The next morning, as the ship sailed into calm seas, passengers were summoned to the deck. Gray skies were mirrored by still water—the only way one could tell where one ended and the other began was by the steady march of colossal icebergs on the surface and Albatrosses following in the ship’s wake in the sky. Two hours later, Albert got his first view of land.

The ship sailed along the coast, where penguin colonies waddled along trails on the icy, alien terrain. Seals lounged on ice floes riding the gentle current along the coastline. While Albert marveled at distant mountains and blue glaciers, what struck him the most was the lighting. It was like looking through a fog, even though views were clear to all horizons. Light seemed devoured and scattered at the same time, bathing the otherworldly place in a magical glow more perceived than seen.

After breakfast, passengers were told to gear up. Albert caught the first raft to the mainland, the massive scope of the place growing as they neared. A guide steadied the inflatable vessel against the shore, and Albert set foot on the only continent his uncle never visited.

He reached down, patted the icy ground, and said, ““We made it, Uncle Stanley.”

* * *

1986 – 2024

The rest of Albert’s life was not unlike his uncle’s: traveling when the mood struck him and settling in places for years when he needed a rest. That combination of adventure and getting to know a place well enough that it felt like home satisfied him. He thought, “Sometimes you want to face the fury of nature by sailing around Cape Horn, but other days you want to sit beside a fire on a snowy evening with a good book.” It was a good way to live.

In time, chronicling his adventures on cassettes moved to a Hi-8 video camera. Eventually, analog gave way to digital. The only time Albert returned home to Wisconsin was to place more memories of his life in a storage unit in Milwaukee.

This is how it went for decades…

* * *

October 13, 2024

3:08 p.m.

It had been thirteen years since Albert returned to Wisconsin. He wasn’t sure he would make it back to the day he dreamed about seeing since his botched leap back in time. He walked into the backyard of the house he left in his machine and reached beneath a bush near a small bistro set in his garden. He came out with a fake stone. Albert opened the tiny door in its bottom and grabbed the key to his back door. He looked at the Timex wristwatch his uncle gave him when he turned twelve.

Inside, in the basement, his adult younger self would be running final diagnostics on the machine, preparing to jump back 41 years. He entered the house and listened at the basement door, to the hum of the machine and himself moving in the utility room on the other side of his rec room. He quietly opened the door, made his way halfway down the stairs, and sat down. He heard the metal door to the machine open and close at 3:18.

Albert made his way down and tip-toed into the utility room. It was still a strange sight: cabinets full of blinking lights along the wall next to the washer and dryer. The metal sphere nestled in a large coil at the back of the room beside the sump pump. He moved to the main computer station shortly before the countdown at 3:20.

Once the countdown began, it was a race against time, double-checking lists to see if something was missed. Scanning the myriad indicators for amber or red lights, instead of green. Nothing seemed off. Triple-checking his procedures revealed what his initial check 41 years prior showed: he’d done everything right! So, what the hell was wrong?

As the 10-second countdown began, Albert heard rattling. A moment after the jump, metal clanged against cement. The limiter panel lit up red, and Albert saw its connection separated from the machine. Unregulated power began a feedback loop that would not end well. Time seemed to slow, like that moment one narrowly avoids a car accident and wonders how they ended up safe on the other side. With seconds to spare, he locked the connector back to the machine, hoping it was enough. The machine returned to its steady hum.

Albert sat down on the stool before the machine’s main system and considered what likely happened when he made the jump. He concluded the loose cable caused a limiter malfunction, and the machine exploded. The damage would have been catastrophic by his estimation, taking out Madison and hundreds of thousands of lives.

“My god, what did I do? What the hell did I do?”

It was only when the machine began running diagnostic checks at 4:15 that he stopped dwelling on the damage and grief caused by his hand had he not lived long enough to stop it.

* * *

October 13, 2024

4:30 p.m.

From the stool, Albert listened to the machine function as designed, hopefully calling himself back. When his 55-year-old self didn’t emerge right away, he stood up, preparing to open the door to the sphere. When he heard laughing from inside, he sat back down.

The door to the time machine opened, and middle-aged Albert climbed out. He panicked when he saw the old man sitting on the stool in front of the controls.

“What’s going on? Who the hell are you?”

Old Albert smiled. “I think you know. Happy birthday, by the way.”

His younger self scrutinized the man before him.

“If you had to guess, who do you think I am?”

“Me?”

Old Albert nodded.

“Well, happy birthday to you, then, too.”

* * *

October 13, 2024

4:36 p.m.

At the kitchen table, 55-year-old Albert said, “Can you tell me what the hell’s going on? Everything!”

His older self grinned. “That would take a very long time.”

“Well, then, tell me something? How…just, how?”

“The machine broke, and I was stuck.”

Old Albert told his younger self about the limiter malfunction and the damage likely done by the failure. When he was done, he said, “We can’t use the machine again.”

When the weight of the catastrophe lifted from younger Albert’s shoulders, he said, “But we know what happened. I can ensure it doesn’t next time.”

“We can’t be sure of that. What if something else goes wrong and it ends in a similar result? Imagine the trip you just took, but instead of being recalled, you were forced to live out the rest of your life wondering if something terrible happened. Hoping you’d survive long enough to see what went wrong and stop the devastation you may caused. I know you better than anyone—you’d not be able to live with yourself knowing hundreds of thousands of people died, just so you could keep satisfying your curiosity. We did it. We’ve both traveled back. Isn’t that enough?”

Middle-aged Albert looked down at the kitchen table, considering the question. He raised his head and nodded.

“Yeah, I suppose it is. Not completely, but I understand your point.”

He surveyed the lines on the face of his older self, a map of all the places he’d been and things he’d seen.

“It’s funny saying ‘your point,’ when you’re me. But we’re not the same person, are we?”

Older Albert shook his head. “No. We’re very different people today.”

“So, what becomes of me now that everything I’ve worked for is done?”

“Whatever you want—well, except using the machine again. It seems daunting, I know, wondering what to do with the rest of the time you have. But imagine wondering, ‘what now?’ in a motel room back in 1984. It’s not something I’d normally say, but if I could do it, so can you.”

“Will you help me?”

“Yes, I will. But not right now. I have a couple things I need to do. Early next week, though, I’ll answer all your questions.”

Older Albert stood up.

“Can I at least give you a ride somewhere?” Younger Albert said.

“Thank you, but I’m good. I have a bus to catch.”

Middle aged Albert walked his older self to the door and extended his hand. Older Albert gave his younger self a hug.

“That felt good,” he said. “We should have been kinder to ourselves all these years—not so hard. I’m glad I finally learned that. I hope you can, too.”

* * *

October 15, 2024

7:00 a.m.

A light rain stopped as Albert made it to the marina. He shuffled to a boat slip, where his charter prepared a 40-foot Beneteau sailboat for a morning on the lake.

“Albert?” he said.

“Yes.”

“Please, come aboard.” He extended an arm and helped old Albert onto the boat.

“I have coffee and pastries if you’d like?”

“Coffee, please. It always tastes better on the water.”

The charter poured a cup of coffee from a carafe and said, “How do you like it?”

“Black is fine.”

He handed Albert the warm mug and said, “Have you sailed much?”

“I used to. Had a 30-foot Chris-Craft Capri from the 70s. Tried sailing every weekend. When I retired, I traveled, but here and there, I still got out on the water. It’s been a while, though.”

“Well, sit tight and we’ll be off soon.”

* * *

Most people Albert knew preferred warm days on the water, but it was his favorite kind of morning: mid 50s and breezy. Enough wind to really move, but not so much that there was any concern. The charter made his way to the coordinates Albert gave him and heaved to, bringing the boat to a stop.

Albert smiled. “I sailed out and interred my uncle’s remains on this spot in 1985. I wanted to see it one last time.”

“I can go down to the cabin and give you a moment, if you’d like?” the charter said.

“No, I’m fine. He was a neat guy. I looked up to him so much that I all but became him when I got older.”

“I have an uncle like that,” the charter said.

 “Do you mind if I play a song?”

“Sure, go ahead.”

Albert pulled his phone from his pocket and played his uncle’s favorite song, Bob Dylan’s “When the Ship Comes In.”

When it ended, he looked at the water and whispered, “Thank you, Uncle Stanley. For everything.”

* * *

October 15, 2024

5:52 p.m.

Albert walked to the middle of the field and took a deep breath. He loved the way this time of year smelled, the crisp breezes from the north mingling with remnants of harvests decaying in distant fields. Trees putting on a colorful display before sleeping until spring.

Albert stretched his arms wide and began to spin. He couldn’t put into words why whirling in the field on his fourteenth birthday had such a profound effect on him. It was likely others had simple moments that lingered in their minds for all their days, but this experience was his alone. The best he could conclude: it was the day he felt a greater connection to things bigger than him—old enough to have a deeper understanding of where he stood in the world as the future began rushing toward him. So many possibilities and experiences to be had, depending which path he decided to follow or make.

He spun and laughed, pausing only to fill his lungs with deep breaths of cool air. For every breath he took, in all the places he had seen, none felt as good as home. When the sun sunk toward the horizon through broken clouds, he walked into the cattails and stomped down a little bed in the reeds. Rain from the previous day settled beneath the green shoots supporting his back, holding him just above the wet earth below. He reached down and grabbed a small handful of mint, popping a leaf into his mouth.

A wanderlust passed to him by his uncle was satisfied on every continent, but no matter how far Albert roamed, an internal compass always pulled him to the fields behind the house where he grew up. Had he traveled the universe, he was sure a part of him would still always know its way home.

Above Albert, the sky darkened, and stars filled the firmament beyond the broken clouds. How enormous it all was, and how tiny—even insignificant—it was to be. And yet, imagination was endless if allowed to run free. Albert was positive humans were not alone in the universe, but it was likely what he’d done in his basement was an accomplishment unique to him. Even if it wasn’t, at that moment, he was the only one on his back in the field he loved, looking beyond the clouds while eating wild mint and savoring the breeze.

There was no better moment to close his eyes, doze off, and take his final rest.

* * *

October 18, 2024

10:57 a.m.

Middle-aged Albert was in the basement, drawing up plans to disassemble the time machine, when the doorbell rang. He trotted upstairs and opened the door. Before him, a FedEx driver held out a clipboard. Albert took the pen and signed his name. With a bend of the legs, the delivery driver handed Albert a box that was heavier than he expected.

“Have a great day.”

“Thank you,” Albert said. “You, too.”

He shut the door with his butt and placed the box on the coffee table in the front room. He retreated to the kitchen and returned with a paring knife. Several swipes along the packing tape sealing the box shut, and he was inside.

Inside, a pile of cassette tapes, videotapes, DVDs, and micro-SD cards were packed around an old tape player and Hi-8 video camera. A hand-written note and an envelope were placed on top. The note read:

Albert,

Inside the envelope is a copy of my will. It says it’s from Uncle Stanley, but it’s really from me. It will all make sense when you listen to the first few cassettes.

I hope everything in this box inspires you to live the life you always wanted. I’ve ensured you will never want for anything but that which you want to do. Time is truly yours, until it ends. I have to believe you’ll be as long-lived as me—at least close. Don’t go gettin’ yourself killed! Hell, in time, maybe technology improves and you live even longer.

It might feel like you’re on the back side of life, but I assure you: your best days are yet to come. I won’t tell you to ignore the past, because it got you to where you are today, but don’t dwell there. What’s done is done. And I won’t tell you to never think about the future because we all need a destination or two. Just never get so fixated on tomorrow that you miss today.

All that’s guaranteed is right now.

Make the most of it!

The Other You

Albert pulled the cassette player from the box and opened the tape labeled Start Here – #1. He pressed Play.

Seconds later, he heard himself say, “My name is Albert Gladstone, and I’m about to say the most ridiculous sounding thing I’ve ever said with a straight face: I am a time traveler…”

[Quirky music fades in…]

Christopher Gronlund:

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks.

Theme music, as always, is by Ergo Phizmiz. Story music was by Roots and Recognition, licensed through Epidemic Sound.

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

In May, it’s a story about a mudlark who finds something very strange during low tide…

[Quirky music fades out…]

[The sound of an axe chopping.]

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

[Listen]

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

Christopher Gronlund:

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

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

This time, it’s the annual Christmas episode! It comes in at three tales this year:

• “The World Beneath Her Brush” is about a globemaker—and I really like it!
• “The King of French Fries” is not only a story from the point of view of a parking lot-dwelling grackle, but it’s also accompanied by an original song. (Fortunately, not sung by me! Trust me: no one needs to hear me sing!)
• And the anchor to this year’s Christmas episode is called “Suburban Home.” It’s about aging punk rockers battling their homeowners’ association over Christmas decorations.

But first, the usual content advisory…

“The World Beneath Her Brush” and “The King of French Fries” barely merit content advisories. At most, they are about personal struggle in the hope of having a better life.

“Suburban Home” deals with pettiness, arguing, the effects of family expectations, and a slight bit of depression and anxiety mentioned in passing. Oh, and some swearing!

Finally, don’t forget that I’m doing a Not About Lumberjacks t-shirt giveaway in honor of last month’s 50^th full story episode.

Remember: all you have to do is email NALStories@gmail.com and tell me a favorite episode or something about the show for one entry.

Let me know you shared it online or told someone about it, and you get a second entry. (And I’m not gonna verify it…I trust you.)

And Patreon supporters get an instant third entry.

This also applies internationally.

Check the episode show notes for more info.

All right, let’s get to work!

The World Beneath Her Brush

The world turns before her, and in one confident move, the equator is established. Continents are smoothed beneath her fingers, coastlines colored by hand. She dreams in pi, has touched every corner of the globe. Like a goddess perched on the edge of an empyrean throne, she sets to work on her latest creation.

* * *

When she was young, she spent Sunday afternoons visiting her grandparents and staring at maps. Her grandfather’s atlas kept her lost in distant lands for hours, while adults talked about old times at the dining room table. In elementary school, a group of girls played “spin the globe,” a game in which someone whirled the planet while another closed her eyes and stopped it with her finger. Where it landed was the place—it was said—one would find their true love. W  hen a turn was forced upon her, she reached out and felt the world come to a halt beneath the pressure of her index finger. She pulled it back and read, “Calama” in Chile.

* * *

Free time was spent not with peers, but in her father’s woodshop—at first, helping him measure boards and then later, learning to build furniture. He said she had the hands and patience of a surgeon.

“Is that what you want me to do?” she said. “Become a doctor?”

He smiled and shook his head. “I just want you to be happy.”

* * *

After high school, she pursued an art degree, until competition inside the program destroyed that dream. After moving back home, she pulled her grandfather’s old Atlas from a bookcase in the living room. When she felt lost, she found herself again in maps. She flipped through the pages, amazed by how much a world can change in just a fraction of a lifetime: political borders, names of places, even geography. And then she saw it, on a two-page spread of Chile turned on its side. Circled in red pen when she was younger: “Calama.”

* * *

It was a ridiculous notion to travel someplace so unknown on a whim. Patagonia made sense—a place people dreamed about visiting. But a small city in the middle of such a barren landscape?

Three months later, she arrived.

Three days after that, she wondered if she’d made a mistake.

Lost in a working city, rather than a place tailored for tourists, left her thinking about all the other places where her finger might have stopped on the globe when she was younger: London, Paris, or even further south, in Santiago, where there would be more to see and do. She considered excursions to other places in the region, to at least feel like she’d made the right decision to take such an unorthodox trip, but she was always one to stick to processes—to commit to the bit.

* * *

She found her true love on a Tuesday morning in a nondescript white stucco building on one of the city’s many side streets. The wooden sign hanging from a weathered copper brace over the door read: CARTÓGRAFO.

Vicente was a lithe old man with a beard and mustache that reminded her of paintings and drawings she’d seen of Don Quixote. The walls and tables in the small shop were covered in hand-rendered maps—a half-finished globe the size of a bear-hug rested on a tall stock pot in a back corner near a door. She was happy to discover his English was much better than her high school Spanish.

The maps were unlike those in her beloved atlas, or any cardboard globe in school: works of art with tiny details defining places in minute illustrations. The kind of art one would return to time and again. And she did. Most days, even if wandering into the Atacama Desert for its geysers, lagoons, and moon-like terrain, she stopped by Vicente’s shop. She told him how she spent days poring over atlases, how she worked in her father’s shop and studied art in university, until dropping out. At the end of her two-week visit, she didn’t want to leave.

“Then stay,” Vicente said. “I will teach you.”

* * *

When the paperwork for a longer stay was complete, she eased into a new life. The maps Vicente made were mostly created for families, with custom paintings denoting where ancestors started and settled. Jobs, hobbies, and life events painted in tiny details along the way. She took to it quickly, with Vicente telling her she was a natural at what took him years to master. It was a quiet way of life, the two working for hours in silence in the back room of the shop, only stirring when someone wandered in, or to share work or brew mate in the afternoon.

One day, she finally asked about the unfinished globe.

“That…requires much more time,” Vicente said. “More supplies. Few people have the money to make it worth my time.”

“What if I finished it?”

“We need to focus on work that pays.”

“What if I did it in my spare time?”

Vicente shrugged. “Up to you…”

* * *

In the months it took to finish the globe—matching Vicente’s touch, palette, and style—she understood why he stopped. It was slow work, with few people able to pay to make it worth one’s time. But the process of moving a world in her hands, spending time in every place on its surface, satisfied her like nothing else she’d ever done.

When the globe was coated in resin and she called it done, she set to work on the base, putting to work everything learned in her father’s woodshop. When the stand was complete, she worked with Vicente on the copper meridian, punching and engraving it by hand.

“We can set up a website,” she said one day during lunch. “Find people around the world who can afford custom globes.”

Vicente shrugged. “Up to you…”

* * *

The globe sold for $7,500 to a businessman in the United States, a tiny sum for someone who already seemed to own the world. A small wave of inquiries followed. She set to work figuring out how to make the process more efficient, printing the planet in 24 strips, carefully stretching delicate paper over a sphere waiting to be painted and illustrated by hand. The venture did well enough that two local artists were hired to help keep up with demand, while Vicente continued working on maps.

A phone call changed everything.

“Hello?” she said.

“Hi, yes. I’m inquiring about a world…”

She’d been reading books set in Brandon Martin’s Cosmeros setting her entire life. The opportunity to create a massive globe based on the series was an even greater thrill than the price. It took almost a year and a half to finish the 127 centimeter orb based on maps and descriptions from the books and TV show.

The pay was enough to buy a house with enough space for visits from family and friends.

* * *

When Brandon Martin shared the Cosmeros Globe on social media, she purchased a two-story open warehouse with frosted windows on the long sides to let in natural lighting—reaping the benefits of living in one of the sunniest places on Earth. More local artists, along with a dedicated woodworker and coppersmith, were hired to keep their little world turning. Despite the thrilling rush of it all, she and Vicente still met for lunch in his small shop, still had afternoon mates and Friday pisco sours.

This is how it went for years.

* * *

The passing of Vicente was not unlike the passing of her grandfather, two men she knew better than others, despite reserving their words for only things that mattered. On every map and globe that followed, she painted a tiny shadow reminiscent of his beard and mustache where his body lay.

The CARTÓGRAFO sign hanging over the front of the shop on the street was moved to the doorway in the back, replaced for passersby by one reading CARTÓGRAFA. Each morning when she opened her mentor’s tiny showroom, she whispered, “Buenos días, maestro. Por un buen día por delante,” to the maps on the walls, preparing for a good day ahead.

* * *

Once a month, even in the cold of winter, she hiked into the Atacama to spend a night beneath a sky full of stars. It was funny how, in time, she stopped seeing the area as barren, knowing that such a seemingly devoid space—like the firmament above—was full of wonders beyond her thoughts if she looked hard enough. She thought about friends who’d made it through art school, how hurried their lives in cities—working for demanding clients—turned out. “There’s something to be said for living in a bustling space packed with inspiration,” she thought, “but even more to be said for a place where there is little more to do than lose oneself to a passion.”

Life has a way of knocking a person off course. Routes imagined as children close, storms drive us in other directions. We land on unknown shores, find our way as the world turns beneath our feet. If we’re lucky, the paths we walk are paved in good memories.

She thinks these things—and more—as she fades off to sleep, a tiny spot of life in a vast desert on a massive globe cradled in the universe’s arms.

* * *

The King of French Fries

[Music and Singing…]

The tailless grackles of summer
Panting and staring at me
What are you doing, Oh, God…
Why won’t you please let me be?

I am the King of French Fries. Perhaps you’ve seen me strutting around the parking lot with a fry held high in my beak like a scepter. How do I know I’m king? Because I am the center of attention, the bird with the coveted starchy symbol of power all others crave. But I’m too quick for them—an impressive feat among such a speedy flock.

No sooner than you park, and I’m beneath your car, savoring the shade and lapping up water falling from your AC condenser. It’s hot down here on the pavement, but we get by. Once, a news crew came to our lot, cooking eggs on asphalt and in a frying pan placed on the hood of their vehicle. We all ate like kings that day, after they tossed their tasty experiments into the grass. Yet somehow, we are deemed the dirtier species, angering you when you see us on the roofs of your cars or climbing on your sports racks and staring. Remember this: when we are at eye level and equals in height, you are the lesser creature. We know you fear us, and we think that’s funny.

“What do you want? I don’t have any food, you little mooch. Your eyes are so freaky. Stop following me!”

It could be worse—we could be seagulls…

* * *

[Music and Singing…]

The tailless grackles of summer
Where are you flying to now?
You disappear for hours
Each day like you’re keeping a vow.

I have a bird who lives in a mulberry tree along the walking trail buffering our concrete realm and the lush, green streets beyond The Wall behind the parking lot. Ours is a love that can never be: a northern cardinal and a great-tailed grackle? Were we hoomans, though, they’d make movies about our devotion to each other…or at least a musical. I know she’s so much more than just a pretty face, and she knows I’m tender and kind.

Past the park where she lives lies a neighborhood with shade trees and gardens full of bird baths; feeders and hoomans who keep lists of the birds they’ve spotted on fancy trips with expensive viewing gear. Some birds are even given free housing, while the rest of us must scrounge for every breath.

My cardinal friend reminds me it’s not all peaceful and secure. Where there are trees, there are squirrels waiting to steal eggs or consume newborns. Neighborhood cats on the prowl or hawks waiting to swoop in from above. More chemicals to avoid than just antifreeze and oil. You’d think as much as many of us are loved by hoomans, that they’d take better care of us all.

But our mulberry tree conversations are not all serious and focused on gloom. It’s a daily reminder that sometimes all one needs in life is another mind upon which to bounce ideas and challenge one’s notions—to listen on hard days and support lofty dreams.

That hour or two each day on the far side of The Wall is a reminder that one does not need to travel far to see how different, but similar, we all are. Nature can claim any of us at any time, so we’re better off flocking together than fighting over little things.

Except French fries!

(I’ll fight to the end for those…)

* * *

[Music and Singing…]

The tailless grackles of summer
Panting this hot afternoon
Lesser creatures would suffer
But you stand there singing your tune.

Ours is not an easy life, but what can you do? Sometimes the heat’s so bad during the height of summer that I’ve gone weeks without a memory. (You’d think we’d at least remember the pain of days.) Maybe it’s a good thing that each sunrise is new. All I know is I’ve made it before and will make it again, even though we are not as loved as other birds.

We lack the standing of corvids—no memes or movies about us. Say “icteridae,” and you’re met with blank stares. But we are the cousins of meadowlarks and red-winged blackbirds; caciques and orioles. Hoomans swoon over them—even travel the world to get a glimpse of some. Were we uncommon, you’d love us—you’d say, “Oh, my—behold their iridescent black plumage. Catch them in just the right light, and their bodies become rainbow nebulae, an understated palette in the hands of God. Their piercing yellow eyes can look into one’s soul; their calls and trills alive with all that’s come before.”

But instead, we get, “Oh, it’s one of you!”

If we’re noticed at all…

* * *

[Music and Singing…]

The tailless grackles of summer
Blotting the sky out each day
I want to witness this sunset
Why must you get in the way?

At sundown, I call in the flock. You think there are a lot of us in the parking lot during the day, just watch us descend in the evening—you’ll wonder if each of us magically splits into four-and-twenty blackbirds every night! We celebrate making it through another day with song. What is a cacophony to you is a celebration of life for us, a wall of sound and motion better than any hooman end-of-day gratitude journal. We sing because we are still here!

The sun goes down, and for a moment there is relief. We settle into bushes and treetops, safe among our flock. That is the part most of you never hear, our quiet calls and coos to each other letting our brothers and sisters know we made it.

In the morning, we will dance in the sprinklers and hydrate, prepare to survive another day. Knowing that waits for us on the other side of sleep ensures our dreams are sound and that no matter what happened today, there is always a tomorrow…until the day there is not.

Make the most of it given one’s circumstances, eh?

* * *

[Music and Singing…]

The tailless grackles of summer
Surviving and doing your best
The stars are twinkling above you
Lay down your sweet heads and rest

In my dreams, I wear a crown of gold and wield the mightiest of fries. I survey my lands from the back of a squirrel named Maximus, ensuring my flock is safe from all sides. No swordsman can hold their own against my skills—no harm will fall upon us in the night.

For I am the King of French Fries!

(And I hope all of our futures are bright.)

* * *

Suburban Home

I was conceived after a Hüsker Dü concert in 1984. My parents claim my surprising arrival made them better people—not that they were ever really bad, just different. Decades later, they’re still different. In ways, though, they’re everything we’re told we should aspire to become: self-made wealthy parents with a big home in an affluent suburb.

My dad was there in the 80s with cameras, filming and photographing his friends skateboarding and playing in bands, and then selling direct-to-consumer videotapes to a hungry audience. Along the way, a love for guerrilla marketing became a degree in business marketing from the University of Pennsylvania. He was in the right place at the right time, doing publicity and marketing for all those outcasts who later became millionaires: skaters, game designers, indie actors, writers, and hip-hop artists. They knew his name long before he had one of the largest alternative marketing firms in the country; in turn, making him a millionaire as well. He still thinks it’s a riot that he made the cover of Entrepreneur Magazine in 1998.

After getting her PhD in Psychology from Columbia University, my mom went from writing a life advice column in a local alternative weekly paper to bestselling self-help books. Her radio show, Walking with Wendy, was syndicated coast to coast—and while she turned down a TV talk show offer to raise me, you’ve likely seen her as a guest on Oprah and other shows, talking about her books.

My dad always told me, “Being the best person you can be and becoming what they don’t expect is the most punk thing you can do.”

* * *

My dad called me on the last Saturday in September, which was strange because he called every Sunday, just to hear my voice.

“Hello?” I said.

“Hey, kiddo. I know Sunday’s our day, but you gotta hear this shit. Ya know how the homeowners’ association is always messing with us?”

When I was young, while other people’s parents were teaching their children to be obedient, my dad taught me that it’s important to have a nemesis in life. His logic was this: whether it’s a person, an ideal, or institution—living in opposition of someone or something ensures you will never become complacent. Sure, you can strive for great things on your own, but you’re likely to work even harder if it’s to show up a nemesis. The nemesis against which my father pushes back against was Nancy Stickwick and the Camelot Hills Homeowners’ Association.

“What did they do this time?” I said.

“Little Ms. Inverted Bob-Cut pounded on the front door, demanding I take our Halloween decorations down.”

I wanted to point out to my father, a man who still wears a green Mohawk each summer, that ridiculing someone for their choice of haircut borders on comical. Instead, I said, “Did Nancy and the board cite you on violence and gore again?”

“Nah, I learned my lesson with the Return of the Living Dead display last year. Looking back on it, I did go overboard on that one. No, this time she got me for putting up decorations one day early. One day!

“I told her, ‘Some of us still work for a living, Nancy,’ and that it was the only day I had to decorate. She of course had a printout of the CC&Rs in hand and showed me decorating is to occur no more than 30 days before a holiday. One day!”

“So, what did you do?” I said.

“I took everything down and will put it back up at midnight. Won’t make a sound…nothing she can get me on.”

“How’s mom doing?”

“She’s fine. Still a bit nervous about the hip surgery in November, but looking forward to it at the same time. She can’t wait to get back to full strength.”

When my mother was in grad school, she took up running. A 5K fun run led to a 10K race with a goal. Half and full marathons followed. In time, triathlons and ultra-marathons were the only things that challenged her. With each personal best time came a bit more strain on her hip.

“I’m still planning on being there for the surgery and helping out with Thanksgiving,” I said.

“Thanks,” my father said. “I’m gonna let you go. Gonna go chat with some of the neighbors who are growing tired of the HOA and their shit—let them know the latest.”

“All right. Bye, Dad.”

“Bye. Love you!”

“Love you, too.”

* * *

While my parents lead interesting lives, I cannot say the same for me. Not that it’s bad in any way—I quite like my life—but when you’re raised by two people who traveled the world, started successful businesses, and wrote bestsellers, being a technical writer doesn’t compare. Still, it allows me the flexibility and security to do what I want—and the ability to work anywhere at any time.

My mother had her left hip replaced on the first Monday in November. The day after, I helped my dad take down his Halloween decorations by 11:59 p.m., ensuring everything was gone in time to meet the seven-day deadline for cleanup mandated by the Camelot Hills Homeowners’ Association’s governing documents. The entire time we worked, Nancy Stickwick stood at the end of her driveway, craning her neck between watching us and the time on her phone. When everything was stowed away with minutes to spare, my father walked to the end of his driveway and took a bow.

Nancy stormed away and into her house.

* * *

On the Monday before Thanksgiving, my dad and I were driving back from a run to South Philly Food Co-op for Thanksgiving groceries when we saw workers putting up Christmas lights at Nancy’s house. Dad pulled into the driveway, got out, and headed across the street. I followed to ensure he didn’t cause too much trouble.

When Nancy opened the door, my dad pointed to the crew hanging lights and said, “What’s this?” Before she could answer, he continued. “We’re not allowed to decorate 30 days before a holiday. Today’s 37 days.”

“I know,” Nancy said. “I don’t plan to turn them on until next week. And nothing is going in the yard until the Monday after Thanksgiving. I’m sorry those of you who still ‘work for a living,’ as you put it, can’t decorate this weekend.”

“Doesn’t matter,” my dad said. According to the HOA’s CC&Rs, you can’t even hang lights right now.”

“It’s the only time they could come out and do the work,” Nancy said. “I’m sure in the spirit of Thanksgiving, you can make an exception.”

“No, I can’t. They have to come down. Those are your rules, Madame President.”

“You can’t be serious!”

“Oh, but I am.”

“If I tell them to stop, I still have to pay. And I won’t be able to get them back unless there’s a cancellation.”

“Then I guess your house will be dark this year and you won’t win the neighborhood decorating contest. You shouldn’t win anyway. Only people who actually decorate should be eligible.”

“We should talk about this,” Nancy said. “Meet up for coffee and work things out.”

“Nope! I tried that before. Several of us have. You only try this crap when your own rules come back and smack you in the face. The lights need to come down. And just so you know, I’m not the only one tiring of your bullshit. Happy Thanksgiving, Nance!”

* * *

Growing up with straight-edge punks for parents, Thanksgiving was a different experience than that of my friends. There was never a bird at the center of the table; instead, my father printed photos of the turkeys he adopted from Farm Sanctuary each year and placed them on the fireplace mantel. While my mom tries a new vegan roast each year, Dad still insists on making a separate Tofurky because—as he puts it—“They were there for us from the start.” But other than that, I suppose my day was not too much different than most. We came together as a family, sharing in a feast that gave us leftovers for days. Maybe my dad and I didn’t play catch in the yard with a football, but we always kicked a soccer ball around, which my father claimed was real football. And we watched movies and talked about how quickly the holidays snuck up on us.

I’ve always assumed my parents’ love for suburban life came not so much out of shocking a neighborhood with their presence, but from a lack of stability in their pasts. It was oddly genuine, even though they did acknowledge the humor and irony in their approach. There was no greater goal after I came along than to ensure my upbringing was nothing like theirs. This also allowed them to throw themselves into their love of the holidays, with the height of their year coming each Christmas.

The weekend after Thanksgiving, the interior of our house transformed from a cozy autumnal den into a place rivaling Santa’s workshop. Dad’s love of model trains twisted and turned through every room in the house—HO scale hoppers and gondolas filled with candy were never out of reach. My father’s collection of ugly Christmas sweaters was curated long before the days of deliberate, branded “ugly sweaters” became a thing. On the stereo, my mother replaced the nostalgic tones of The Subhumans and Conflict with the even more nostalgic Christmas tunes of Bing Crosby and Nat King Cole. When the house could contain no more merry holiday cheer, our winter wonderland exploded into the yard.

In the days before the Camelot Hills Homeowners’ Association came to wield such power, people drove from other towns to see our house. We joked that once Dad put up all the lights, our home could be seen from space. Until real snow fell, long rolls of snow blankets covered the yard. Somewhere along the way, he purchased a beat-up 70s-era tornado slide and drugstore merry-go-round from a crust punk he met at Love Hall and stayed in touch with over the years. After restoring them, complete with candy-cane striped paint, we became the house where everyone wanted a photo taken—long before the days of tailored Instagram traps. But once Nancy Stickwick was voted in as President of the Board, all that changed.

Rules were put in place to curb neighborhood traffic and put an end to what was deemed “tacky” (i.e. our yard). When she added decorating timeframe to the rules, Dad put up a nativity scene several days early, even though he’s a life-long atheist. When Nancy told him to take it down, he wrote a letter to the local paper, accusing her of banning the Baby Jesus. Every year, he found a new way to push her to the edge.

As I grew older, I went through a phase of wishing he’d back off—even telling him to take it easy. It was embarrassing

His reply?

“When people who crave power attain it, they only push for more. Had more of us stood up to her early, none of this would have ever happened. The funny thing about those with a lust power, and those who support them—they always turn on their own. As long as someone pushes back, eventually, terrible people can be broken.”

* * *

Where Nancy Stickwick is involved, I’m convinced if my father could mark his territory with urine or feces, he would. The pleasure he derived from tormenting the woman within the rules she foisted upon the community was only eclipsed by his love for holidays and his family. On November 25th, I helped him decorate the yard for Christmas.

When Home Depot launched their 12-foot tall skeleton, Nancy’s response was working with her voting bloc to ensure no decoration in the neighborhood exceeded 10 feet the following year. Dad’s response was to cut two feet from his each of his skeleton’s legs—fuse the ends together—and have a strange-looking 10-foot tall skeleton standing guard over Halloween. Nancy forced her husband to climb on a ladder with a measuring tape to ensure Dad was in compliance.

This season, Dad called his decorating plan “The 10-foot Christmas,” where every item in our yard would fall exactly within the height restrictions: 10-foot Santa, 10-foot gingerbread house, 10-foot pile of over-sized presents. Situated in the center of it all, he placed a candy cane pole topped with a gold ball and “North Pole” sign. Along its length, Dad drew a height ruler, proving nothing exceeded Nancy’s height rule. At the bottom of the pole, he placed a sign reading, “Merry Christmas, Paul!”—a nod to poor Paul Stickwick having to climb a ladder to measure Dad’s skeleton.

It still didn’t stop Nancy from dragging her husband over to measure the North Pole marker.

When it was determined no rules were broken, before Nancy left in defeat, Dad said, “Really looking forward to seeing your house all lit up tonight, Nance. Oh, wait…that’s right!”

As she stormed off toward home, she muttered, “I hate you…”

Dad waited long enough for her to believe she got away with it before saying, “Love you, neighbor. Stop by anytime!”

* * *

While my father was all about decorating for the holidays, Mom celebrated by baking. Had she never left South Philly for the suburbs—had she never pursued advanced degrees and written a small pile of bestselling books—I can imagine her owning a hipster bakery off Broad Street. Even those among Nancy’s little circle looked forward to my mom’s baking each fall and winter.

When I was young and—according to Dad, “When we were still allowed to have fun in the neighborhood”—Dad dressed as Santa and dragged me (dressed like an elf) around in a decorated wagon. We delivered fudge, gingerbread cookies, rum balls, and fruitcakes people actually enjoyed. The tradition never died, although now I walk along with my father in my elf outfit instead of being pulled behind him. (Only because I refused once I reached my teens.)

Mom’s strong recovery from hip surgery meant there was no interruption in her annual baking schedule. Ten days before the big holiday, Dad and I pulled my old wagon through the neighborhood and delivered Mom’s sweet gifts. I could tell something was turning in Dad’s head by the way he kept looking toward the sky. I found out what he was thinking when, after wrapping up front door chats, he steered some conversations toward Nancy and her brash ways. All it took was an eye roll or someone shaking their head for Dad to say, “Quick question. Were I to challenge Nancy for President of the Board next term, would I have your support?”

Not a single person said no.

* * *

When Mom and Dad moved to Camelot Hills, they immediately raised suspicions. In the eyes of our neighbors, the arrival of two aging, tattooed punks meant property values were in jeopardy of crumbling, that soon the streets would be overrun by the cast of Suburbia, Repo Man, and The Decline of Western Civilization…combined. But once Mom appeared on Oprah and other afternoon TV talk shows, they warmed up to my family. And when it became known she turned down an offer to host her own show because raising me came first, only the most suspicious of Nancy’s friends held on to their initial judgment.

After delivering Mom’s snack packs, we walked along the winding streets, savoring the glow of lights and decorations. Dad put his arm around me and pulled me close, his way of saying “This is a special moment with you,” without saying it out loud. And he was right. I was fortunate to grow up where I did, to have the parents I have. Their outlook on life shaped my own, without ever infringing on where we saw things differently. I was allowed to be the quiet person I am, never expected to be anything other than kind and aware.

Mom and Dad’s house sits in a cul-de-sac at the back of Camelot Hills. It’s not the biggest house in the development, but it’s the one that’s been featured in magazines. It was a fight from the start, building a modern style home among fabricated traditional-in-appearance McMansions. After topping the hill on the street where I grew up, the homes anchoring the development spread out like a tiny village all its own. It’s a gut feeling, like you crossed some invisible barrier and entered a newly discovered space.

Dad paused and took it all in: our house lit up like a little kid’s Christmas daydream; the Kaplan’s menorah in the window on the final night of Chanukah; houses and trees outlined in lights. Then, at the end of the street, the Stickwick’s darkened house, with its smattering of yard decorations standing in silhouette, bleaker than anything Dad ever put up for Halloween.

He shook his head and said, “I took this one too far…”

* * *

I told Dad it wasn’t his best idea, but went along with it anyway. His love for decorating over the years meant our garage and attic were full of miles of spare light strands. We dressed like cat burglars to blend into the shadows, making multiple trips to the stone wall surrounding the Stickwick’s yard. Dad used his ladder to climb up and over, and I tossed coil after coil to him.

We started with trees hidden on the edges of the property, wrapping them with lights, before moving closer to the house. Heavy clouds rolled in as we worked, hiding a crescent moon and sky full of stars. When all the trees were wrapped, we worked on the wrought iron fence by the driveway. I told Dad we’d done enough and needed to quit while we were ahead, but he insisted on moving to the house.

“We should come back tomorrow,” I said. “Tell the Stickwick’s what we’re up to. Offer to finish up then.”

“It’s better as a surprise,” Dad whispered.

“We can’t even turn them on.”

“True…but they can. When we’re done, we’ll give them cookies and tell them to throw the switch.”

“That kind of thing only happens in movies, Dad.”

He took me by my shoulders and said, “Have a little faith in the plan.”

I felt exposed the entire time we strung lights from trees, along the wall, and at the gate. Moving toward the house—seeing the interior all lit up as the Stickwick’s went about their evening not only left me feeling anxious, but also shamed. They were entitled to their privacy, and there we were, right outside—able to look in.

When I raised this point to Dad, he said, “Then don’t look inside.”

He walked up and down the front of the house, checking for motion-triggered lights so he knew where we could move without concern.

“I bet the crew that started hanging the lights when I pointed out they were starting too soon disconnected them and Nancy and Paul never noticed. See? It’s unlikely they even look outside.”

Still, he positioned his ladder in such a way that we wouldn’t be noticed if someone looked out, even when wrapping the tall pillars near the entrance.

It took hours, but we outlined the house and windows. When Dad went to work on the front door, it happened.

The panicked voice of Nancy Stickwick through the intercom of her video doorbell said, “Hello? Who’s there? I’m calling the police!”

“Nancy, no,” Dad said. He looked into the lens, seeming to forget he was wearing a black ski mask. “It’s me, Milo Stevenson.”

She responded with a scream.

“Mrs. Stickwick, it’s Karl Stevenson,” I said. “Please don’t call the police.”

There was no response.

* * *

We removed our ski masks and sat on the steps to the Stickwick’s house. Dad reminded me what to do when the cops arrived. In his younger years, he always pushed back against authority, all but looking for a fight from the start. With age came a strong desire for survival and a focus on de-escalation. He texted Mom, letting her know what was happening, just in case.

We watched two police cruisers come down the hill, their emergency lights obscured by freshly falling snow. The Stickwicks buzzed them in at the gate, and Dad and I emptied the contents of our pockets on the porch, pulling them inside-out to show they were empty. We stood up and raised our hands above our heads.

When the Stickwicks turned on their front light to step out, the house and trees lit up the decorations Paul placed in the yard in an effort to create some semblance of holiday cheer. When the police ordered my father and me to slowly turn around, Nancy saw it was us and realized what we’d done. It didn’t stop her from allowing the cops to cuff us as they sorted out what was going on, but by the end of the ordeal, the police had a laugh and went on their way. As they drove down the driveway, Mom walked up with a package of baked goods.

“I felt bad about being so petty last month,” Dad said. “So, we decorated for you. We wanted it to be a surprise.”

“It’s been quite a surprise,” Paul Stickwick said.

“I’m sorry we scared you.”

Nancy looked like a little kid as she stared at how much Dad and I did that evening.

“You did all this for me?” she said.

Dad nodded. “Well, you and Paul. And the neighborhood. The street didn’t look right without your place lit up.”

“After all I’ve done, you still did this for us?”

“Well, it’s not been entirely one-sided, Nance. I’ve definitely taken part in our ongoing petty-fest over the years.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“For what?”

“The way I am.” She fought back tears. “Every time I’ve looked at how dark the yard was this year, I sat with that. It was my fault. Any other year, and I would have blamed you…hated you even more. It’s just how I was raised to be. Everything was my fault growing up, and everybody else’s once I did.”

Dad looked to mom for help. She handed me the box of desserts and took Nancy’s hands in hers.

“That’s not an uncommon feeling,” Mom said. “What is are people coming to that realization on their own. That’s a big step, Nancy.”

Even Mom seemed surprised when Nancy locked her in a hug and broke down on her shoulder. My mother gave her time to let it out and then pulled a napkin from the box of cookies and cakes.

After Nancy used it to dry her eyes, she said, “I’m sorry.”

Mom rubbed her shoulder. “Don’t be. If you ever want to talk, I’m here. If you’re uncomfortable talking to me, I can refer you to someone.”

“Thank you.”

When Nancy Stickwick regained her composure, Dad offered her a cookie. Then Paul.

We stood in silence, the five of us, eating Christmas cookies in the snow with our neighbors, just like a scene from a movie…

* * *

Nancy and Paul Stickwick’s yard went on to win the annual holiday decorating contest. When Nancy planned to speak up and credit Dad and me, he told her, “We all won this year, so just accept it. But next year, it’s on!”

I won’t say Dad and Nancy went on to become good friends, but she always lingered and chatted with him after weekly sessions with my mom.

Dad ran uncontested for the President of the Board of the Camelot Hills Homeowners’ Association, winning unanimously after Nancy’s old voting bloc refused to vote in protest of what they saw as a grave betrayal—their sister in hostility stepping aside to let “that old punk rocker” take over. In time, his spirit of cooperation shaped new rules that made it a better place to live. He only faced resistance once, when he suggested dissolving the HOA entirely. He half-joked with me that some people are simply too afraid of their own potential for unregulated good.

I sometimes wish I could travel back in time, to grab my father and show him how his life ended up. I’d say my mother, too, but I don’t think she’d be surprised. But to see my Dad’s face upon viewing the neighborhood where he lives would be priceless, the absolute confusion about where, along the way, he “sold out,” and then: the realization that he never did.

My parents are better people than they were when they were younger, but isn’t that the point of life: to learn and get better? But in many ways, they are the same people they always were, keeping promises made to themselves when younger and finding their way in a world that was always against them. They may not be following bands and crashing on floors anymore; no longer fighting in the streets or living on the cheap, but they’re still punk as fuck!

(Hell, maybe even more…)

[Quirky music fades in…]

Christopher Gronlund:

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks.

A BIG thank you to Cynthia Griffith for narrating “The World Beneath Her Brush” AND for not only coming up with the idea and initial stanza for the “Tailless Grackles of Summer” song, but arranging and singing the little tune…while I plunked away on the mandolin.

Theme music, as always, is by Ergo Phizmiz. Story music, with one exception, was licensed through Epidemic Sound.

The exception? The Descendents’ song, “Suburban Home,” is used with permission from the band. For me, rights for use is like an early Christmas gift because it’s a song I’ve loved for decades, and it obviously inspired the title to this year’s actual Christmas story.

The band’s heading out on tour in 2024, so check them out!

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

With back-to-back monthly episodes, now begins the annual long wait for March. But I still tend to get things out earlier in March, so it’s not much longer than usual, and it keeps me on schedule.

So, what can you expect for the next story? How about a tale called “Not Again,” in which a guy makes a time machine, takes it back to 1983 for a test run, and ends up breaking down in his past?

[Quirky music fades out…]

[The sound of an axe chopping.]

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

[Listen]

[Intro music plays]

[Woman’s Voice]

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

[Music fades out]

Christopher Gronlund:

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

* * *

Halloween is my favorite holiday (and takes place during my favorite month), but Christmas is a close second. (And I’m rather fond of December as well.)

Growing up, Christmas Eve meant visiting my mom’s mom and then Christmas day at home with immediate family.

Later, my father moved to a suburb south of Kansas City, which meant a couple Christmases were spent in the Sunflower state. I’ve also spent many a mash-up of Christmas and Hannukah with my Jewish cousins.

These days, my wife and I visit my mom on Christmas Eve and then spend Christmas day together. (Usually getting in a morning hike.)

None of this is too out of the ordinary, except…I’m a life-long atheist.

So, why do I do an annual Christmas episode and not an all-encompassing generic holidays thing?

The short answer is most popular Christmas stories are not overtly religious. Growing up, the closest it got to religious was Linus’s speech in A Charlie Brown Christmas. But A Christmas Carol, A Christmas Story, the Rankin/Bass stop-motion specials, Elf, and even—depending on who you ask—Die Hard, are quite secular.

The longer answer is this…

* * *

Six years ago, I had an idea: I’d do something with all those story ideas that din’t merit 3,000 – 10,000 words. I’d put together an episode with shorter short stories.

It just-so-happened that I decided to do it around Christmas.

The idea was originally called “Stocking Stuffers,” with all those bits of very short fiction being the short story equivalent of something found in a stocking on Christmas morning.

It seemed only natural to include at least one Christmas story in the episode.

* * *

Another reason I love doing an annual Christmas episode is each year I see someone I know through social media talking about “The War on Christmas.” They act like no one is allowed to say, “Merry Christmas,” anymore—how it’s now “Happy Holidays.”

Never mind that there are many holidays during this time of year, and never mind that the free market so many of these Scrooges claim to love realized being a bit more inclusive of additional celebrations is good for business. And never mind that many of my Christian friends say, “Happy Holidays,” just like people have been doing for more than 100 years.

So, when I—a life-long atheist—tell them I say “Merry Christmas”—and even do an annual Christmas episode for my fiction podcast—it destroys their false narrative that we somehow want to topple the holiday we all love.

* * *

So why, then, do I not write stories about other holidays taking place this time of year?

Well…

Even though I’ve celebrated Hannukah with family, I’m not Jewish—I don’t feel that’s not my story to tell. (And really, the most memorable Jewish holiday for me was Passover because my aunt was a good cook and went all-out on that!)

I’m not a pagan, so basing a December episode around Yule or the Winter Solstice isn’t happening. (Although I have worked in some Scandinavian, German, and Welsh lore based on pagan roots into past Christmas episodes—but I’ve never featured an actual holiday.)

Just as I feel I’m not the right voice for a Hannukah story, I’m not going to write about Kwanzaa, Ramadan in the years it occurs during December, Bodhi Day, or other holidays I don’t celebrate.

I suppose if I anchored the annual December episode with a New Year’s Eve or Day story, I might call it a holiday episode, but I’m now committed to Christmas.

* * *

Author John Green did a YouTube video about a year ago on the subject of committing to a bit.

He talked about a musician named Jonathan Mann who’s written and shared a song a day on YouTube for over 10 years. (As of the time of this writing on December 13, 2023, he’s released song number 5,460!)

John talked about how he and his brother Hank worked in every word from the lyrics to Smash Mouth’s song, “All Star,” into their YouTube video titles for a time.

He mentioned Dolly Smith, a British woman who had not missed a match of her beloved Derby County Football/Soccer Club in over 70s years. (As a Leicester City supporter, even I can appreciate that! [Derby County is one of Leicester’s bigger rivalries.])

John’s right: there is something about committing to a bit!

With Not About Lumberjacks, I’m now committed to an annual lumberjack story each November in honor of the show’s anniversary. (Even though some fans have done mental gymnastics in jest to tell me why the stories are still not about lumberjacks.)

Last year, I committed to a new bit: adding an annual story (in print, even), to patrons of my Patreon.

And the annual Christmas episode is committing to a bit.

The great thing about these commitments is, in time, you have little bodies of works inside a larger body of work.

Were I to self-publish books, I likely have enough lumberjack stories for a collection.

I likely have enough Christmas stories for a collection.

And, in time, I’ll have enough Patreon-only “Well-Rooted Grove” stories to share as a collection. (Likely, for a free episode of the show in a handful of years when there are enough stories for that.)

Doing back-to-back monthly episodes in the middle of the busy holiday season and rush to close out a year at work is not my best idea, but I’m committed to the bit at this point.

* * *

I thought the annual Christmas episode would be a one-time thing the first year I did it. Nothing said I had to continue, but people like it, so I have.

Nothing said I had to commit to annual lumberjack stories or this other thing I now apparently do in May for Patreon patrons.

To spin it all back to Christmas and me, it’s a gift that people think highly enough about the stories I write, narrate, and release that they give me a bit of their time in a world where there are a bazillion other things they could focus on.

A new season of Not About Lumberjacks begins each year in November with the anniversary episode, but there’s always something special about closing out the calendar year.

It’s a time for reflection and many holidays all stacked up together.

No matter what you celebrate—or don’t—I wish you mighty health and fun in the new year…

And Merry Christmas!

* * *

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

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

With back-to-back monthly episodes, now begins the annual wait for March. (But I still tend to get things out earlier in the month, so it’s not too much longer than usual.)

So, what can you expect for the next story? How about a tale called “Not Again,” in which a guy makes a time machine, takes it back to 1983 for a test run, and ends up breaking down in his past?

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

[Listen]

[Intro music plays]

[Woman’s Voice]

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

[Music fades out]

Christopher Gronlund:

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

* * *

Second-person present tense point of view is strange to me. On one hand, I’ve been using it since 1979, when a friend introduced me to Dungeons and Dragons when I was 10. Using “You”—as in, “You hear the sound of small, wooden wheels rolling across damp cobbles. You trace the lonely sound to a hunched figure bundled in rags, pushing a rickety wooden cart through the fog.”—puts the players right there in the scene. For the game, it’s second nature to me.

But while I grew up in the time of Choose Your Own Adventure books, known for their second person point of view, I preferred reading the books my older sister, mom, and stepdad read instead of books written for me and my age at the time.

I’ve never written a story using the point of view until writing the recent Not About Lumberjacks story, “Old Growth.”

* * *

Originally, the protagonist for “Old Growth” was going to be a female lumberjack trapped on the side of a mountain with some kind of creature. The story idea came to be when my wife told me she watched a TV show about the Ape Canyon Bigfoot attack on miners in 1924. It was not a big leap from, “Miners under attack on Mount St. Helens,” to “Something’s attacking lumberjacks in an old growth forest in the Pacific Northwest.”

Of course, I had to run with that. So, I made a female lumberjack and couldn’t wait to get started.

Along the way, though, I saw author John Green reading an excerpt from his latest novel-in-progress. It was in second person.

“That’s what I should do for ‘Old Growth!’” I thought. “Put the listener or reader right there, like it’s happening to them!”

* * *

Obviously, Not About Lumberjacks stories are about things that mean something to me. Perhaps the biggest recurring theme is work/life balance or finding time for your dreams despite a world that makes many demands in opposition of those things. It’s no secret that I’d rather do this show full time than be a technical writer, but…being a technical writer isn’t so bad, especially when it allows me the security to write whatever I want, here, with no regard to financial considerations. But I like to think Not About Lumberjacks stories aren’t preachy, even when they are a bit more focused on topics dear to me.

Disguised (or maybe not) in September’s story, “Lakeview Estates,” is commentary about the housing crisis in the United States—how even if one can afford a house, depending where they live, they now have to bid against multi-national conglomerates running property management companies. “Old Growth” is an obvious statement about environmental destruction at the hands of humans, and probably as in-your-face as I’ll ever get. (And even then, I wanted the story to be more entertaining than anything.)

* * *

Choosing to use “You” instead of a character name worked with what I hoped to do with “Old Growth” before I even knew what it would really be about. I knew I wanted to rely on the sounds to create an experience, while of course being interesting enough for those who read Not About Lumberjacks stories instead of listening. People loved the sounds in “Rockbiters,” and I wanted to put in that kind of effort again.

Knowing I wanted to put a bit more than usual into the sounds of “Old Growth,” once I made that decision, opting for a second person point of view only made sense. It’s a story with a message, so the combination of sounds drawing you in and speaking directly to you…it seemed like it would carry more weight. At the very least, be a bit creepier since it’s happening to “you” and not just some random character.

* * *

While “Old Growth” is the first second-person point of view story I’ve written, I’ve thought about using it with another episode I’ve not yet done. Around the time of the release of “Godspeed, Crazy Mike,” I ordered a couple “Choose Your Own Adventure” books for research. I toyed with the idea of a father reading that kind of tale to his son, with some options resulting in a much stranger story. Maybe even releasing a separate PDF where YOU could be led through a story of your own choosing.

Beyond that, I don’t see writing other stories using that point of view. I have nothing against it, but when I mentioned it to Cynthia, she said, “When you do the usual content advisory for ‘Old Growth,’ you might want to mention it’s a bit of a departure with the point of view.”

She was not the only one to mention the departure.

Depending what you read, second person is maybe not common, but also not uncommon. Sci-Fi and Fantasy use it to great effect. The third book in Jeff Vandermeer’s Southern Reach trilogy, Acceptance, is in second person. N.K. Jemisin’s The Fifth Season shifts points of view in the same novel—and she’s uses it in other works as well. But second person isn’t reserved for only sci-fi and fantasy: Jay McInerney’s Bright Lights, Big City addresses “You” directly, a so-called “serious work” in second-person.

* * *

When I set out to write “Old Growth,” I thought writing in second-person would be as simple as replacing “I” or a character’s name with “You.” And in many ways, it was.

As I worked on the story, though, considering the point of view made me think about the protagonist and what they felt and saw a bit more than usual. The story felt more personal than it would have, had I chosen a third- or first-person point of view. It was easier to think about what I wanted listeners and readers to hear and feel.

I usually write from my gut and always do give thought to what I want people to feel. Still, using “Lakeview Estates” as an example: I wanted you to feel for the characters and the situations they faced, but there’s still a layer of separation when reading about characters you don’t personally know.

With “Old Growth,” I wanted the story to feel more personal, like it was happening to YOU!

I hope YOU enjoyed it…

* * *

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

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

In December, it’s the annual Christmas episode. That means you get a handful of very short short stories, and at least one bigger story tied directly to the holiday season.

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