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[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. Find out what happens when an estranged family member returns home on Christmas Eve.

But first, the usual content advisory…

“When Anders Came Home for Christmas” deals with family drama, cartoon violence, crude humor, monsters, loss of loved ones, and alcohol consumption. Unless you consider “asshole” swearing, this is the third story in a row without rougher language. I’m sure I’ll remedy that in 2023!

All right, let’s get to work!

* * *

When Anders Came Home for Christmas

The children were practically feral in anticipation of opening Christmas gifts when the doorbell rang. Oliver Sandberg opened the front door and was stunned to see his brother, Anders.

“What are you doing here?”

“It’s Christmas Eve,” Anders said.

“Yeah. That’s what I mean. What are you doing here?”

Before Anders could answer, Oliver said, “Why, I mean? Why are you here is the real question?”

“I wanna say I’m sorry.”

“You’re forgiven. Now: leave.”

Oliver was closing the door when his mother called from the dining room.

“Do I hear Anders?”

“Yep!” Oliver said.

“Let him in.”

Oliver stepped back and let his younger brother enter his home.

Emma Sandberg, the matriarch of the  family, sat at the head of a long table strewn with the remnants of a Christmas feast. The adults in her company found just enough room in their bellies for a bit of coffee or a tipple of brandy. Anders slowly walked past aunts, uncles, cousins, and old family friends. A pretty blond woman he’d never seen before caught his attention as he passed. He smiled at her and then leaned in to kiss his mother on the cheek.

SMACK!!!

Anders ran his fingertips across his stinging face.

“What’s that for?” he said.

“That’s for taking $500 from my nightstand before you left four Christmases ago.”

“I didn’t take any money, Mom.”

Emma leaned forward and grabbed a long, metal serving spoon from an empty plate. She wielded it like a club.

“Don’t you lie to me, Anders Sandberg! You’re not so old that I can’t put you over my knee!”

“I’m not lying. Look, I’m sorry about that night, but I swear I didn’t take any money.”

“How would you remember?”

“I…” Anders shook his head. “I’m sorry. That’s why I came here tonight. To apologize.”

“Are you sick?” his mother said.

“What? No. I just thought…”

“Thought what?”

“I don’t know,” Anders said. “I guess I thought you’d all be happier to see me.”

From the living room, the children sounded like a pack of wolves, yipping and howling and circling the Christmas tree as though it were a fallen elk. Anders’s mother looked at him.

“Can you go calm them down? If nothing else, you’ve always had a way with kids.”

“Sure, Mom…”

As he passed the pretty blond, he extended his hand and said, “Hi, I’m Anders Sandberg. You are?”

“Your brother’s wife.”

“Ah. Nice to meet you…”

* * *

In the living room, Anders asked Oliver, “When did you get married?”

“Two years ago.”

Anders gestured to the room full of kids. “Any of those hers?”

Oliver pointed to twin boys about nine years old, and a girl who looked a year younger. “Those three.”

“What about the other two?”

“Cousin Ronnie’s kids.”

“Where is he?”

“In the basement,” Oliver said. “Probably playing video games with the older kids.”

“Gotcha. Well, Mom wants to keep these five occupied, so what do you want to do?”

“What do you mean, ‘We?’ I’m going back to the table to finish my drink. And I’ll be listening out, so nothing funny, okay?”

After Oliver left, Anders went to the center of the living room and sat on the floor. The kids stopped barking and turned their attention to the tiny giant of a man before them.

“Hey, you all,” Anders said. “Your parents are finishing up dinner. Why don’t we keep it down a little bit for them? We can still have fun, but let’s not be so loud, okay?”

Several of the kids nodded their heads. One of the twin boys said, “Who are you?”

“I’m Anders. Oliver’s brother.”

The other twin said, “Does that make you our uncle?”

“Yeah, I guess I am. Uncle Anders. So, what would you all like to do?”

“Tell us a story,” the twins’ sister said.

“Sure. About what?”

A kid with a missing front tooth replied. “Tell us a story about Santa Claus!”

* * *

Santa’s Sad Helper

Once upon a time, there was a Santa’s helper. He was a good Santa’s helper, even though he sometimes drank a bit more than he should have—but you would have, too, if you grew up in his family.

Anyway, he never thought he’d be a Santa’s helper, but when the factory where he worked shut down between Thanksgiving and Christmas, he needed money for presents. Ya see, his brother was always the good one—cool and successful—while he was a total fuh— uhm…disappointment. To show up on Christmas Eve without gifts was to live up to his family’s expectations about him, and his ego had already taken a hit with the one job he was good at shutting down.

So, this Santa’s helper went from floor foreman to answering a Craigslist ad to make a bit of money before Christmas.

He thought it would be an easy gig, sitting in a mall and listening to children’s Christmas wishes, but he ended up standing in front of newly opened donut shops and gas stations, waving at passing cars. He got into it with his boss when she told him to go to a restaurant opening one day, but the restaurant was closed and still under construction inside. (The crew putting in drywall sure were confused when jolly old Saint Nick stolled in). Turns out, his boss got her schedule wrong and sent him to the restaurant when he should have been at a kid’s party. But…it was a job. Only problem: when it came time to get paid, the person booking his appearances took the money and ran.

And so, this sad Santa’s helper showed up at his brother’s nice house on Christmas Eve. Maybe he was a little drunk and still in his Santa costume…and maybe he made a scene when everyone in his family ridiculed him for showing up without gifts. Never mind he was hurting—he could never please his family.

Sad Santa’s Helper had enough. He’d drank just enough Old Grandad to loosen his lips. He started with his brother’s wife at the time, knowing she was cheating behind his back with a coworker. He spilled that secret. Then he told his brother how he always tried getting his approval, and was probably more a failure in life because he never got support from his family like others did. Maybe he crossed the line when he told his mom their father left when they were kids because she was an overbearing bully, but it sure felt good.

He stormed off into the night, the only words between them a couple days later when his mother called to accuse him of stealing $500 he didn’t take.

But the story of Sad Santa’s Helper has a happy ending…

After losing his house, he hit the road. He worked odd jobs and traveled the world on the cheap. In Milan, he bought a camera and began filming his adventures. He started a YouTube channel, a podcast, and has a book coming out next year. He landed some juicy brand deals. He’s having fun and doing well for himself. And, or some goofy reason, he still wishes he got along with his family.

The end.

* * *

“So, how was that?” Anders said.

Oliver’s step daughter said, “Terrible!”

“Yeah,” Anders said, “I suppose it was…”

“Is Santa Claus real? My brothers said he’s not.”

“Sure, he’s real,” Anders said. He waved his hands at the decorated room and Christmas tree and said, “Do you think we’d have all this if he wasn’t real?”

Anders looked at the twin boys. “I even hear Santa Claus has a tough brother named Not Santa who takes care of all the naughty kids who don’t believe. Got it?”

The twins nodded, and a kid in a reindeer sweater said, “Tell us an actual Christmas story.”

Anders said, “I just did.”

“That was just a story about a drunk Santa. We want a better story.”

Anders looked toward the dining room, hoping the group at the table was wrapping up. But drinks were still being poured, and conversation wasn’t ending. Glancing around the living room, Anders spotted something on the fireplace mantel that gave him an idea.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ve got one for ya…”

* * *

The Nutcracker and the Elf

The Nutcracker sat among broken ornaments at the bottom of the big storage box, while the elf went up on the shelf. Each day, the elf was moved to a new spot; each day, the elf reminded the Palmer children they better behave.

“Remember, kids,” Mr. Palmer said. “The elf returns to the North Pole each night and tells Santa Claus if you’ve been good or bad…”

What the Palmers didn’t know is that the elf moved on its own.

At night it got into the refrigerator and drank Mr. Palmer’s beer. Why would anyone suspect the elf when the Palmer’s teenage son, Noah, was the logical suspect? The elf laughed when Noah was told he’d be grounded for all of his holiday break from school for something he didn’t do.

Another evening, while the Palmers gathered as a family to watch Christmas movies, little Susie Palmer spit out her snack.

“Mommy, these walnuts taste funny!”

Mrs. Palmer inspected the bowl of nuts on the coffee table. She noticed liquid at the bottom of the bowl and sniffed.

“Oh my God, Fifi peed in the nut bowl!”

Susie wretched so hard that she threw up on the carpet. Fifi, the family’s toy poodle, rushed in for a taste, and Susie covered the small dog in another round of vomit.

Up on the shelf, the elf surveyed the chaos.

Closer to Christmas, the elf began breaking things. It started with Mr. Palmer’s golf clubs and then Mrs. Palmer’s hand mixer. The XBox was next to go. Mr. Palmer decided to install surveillance cameras to see who was damaging things, but the elf broke those, too.

On Christmas Eve, after the Palmers had all gone to sleep, the Elf fished a hot ember from the fireplace with a metal poker and placed it on the carpet.

It was shocked when the Nutcracker stamped it out.

“Enough!”

The Elf responded with a reflexive punch, but the old knight caught it in its mouth. It slowly bit down, causing the elf to yelp and try to squirm free.

“Quit it, ya nut-gobbler! I’ll behave! I’ll behave!”

The Nutcracker opened its mouth, and the elf rubbed its injured hand.

“What do you have to say for yourself?”

“I’m just doing my job, old man.”

“Old man? I may have roots going back hundreds of years, but I am younger than the Dame of the Household, who has had me since her childhood. You are a marketing ploy not even old enough to graduate secondary school—a bratty teenager created to urge consumption and control children.”

“What’s wrong with that?” the elf said.

“There are better traditions.”

“Oh, you’re gonna pull that whole tradition BS, huh? What did that get you? Forgotten in a box with other old things? Tradition’s terrible for the economy, Nut-Man. Things need to break and be purchased again—that’s where I come in.”

“You exist to destroy?”

“That’s a bit dramatic,” the elf said. “Mr. Palmer’s wanted new golf clubs for a while. Mrs. Palmer’s wanted a Vitamix for years. The kids want a Playstation. I’m only giving them what they want.”

“What about framing Noah and Fifi?”

“Hey, sometimes I am just an asshole.”

“You are worse than that,” the Nutcracker said. “You were about to burn down the house.”

“Don’t get your nuts in a bundle—I was gonna wake them up. Just thought about the piles of new things they’d have to buy if all this went up in flames. It’s insured, and because it’s the holidays, they’d get a lot of pity money, too. They’d miss it all at first, but they’d end up with so much new and much better stuff!”

“What about their memories? What about the things that cannot replaced?”

“Hate to break it to you, but look around. These days, it’s all about stuff. Mr. and Mrs. Palmer work at least 60 hours a week—usually more. When they do take a vacation, they work from their phones. The kids are too busy making videos for TikTok and YouTube instead of making memories. Even when they all get together to watch a movie, they ignore it…and each other. Little Susie will be no different than the rest of them in a couple years.

“Stuff gives their lives meaning. At the very least, it numbs their pain.”

“I cannot dispute that,” the Nutcracker said. “But I must try and do my best.”

“You do realize your best is not enough anymore, right? It won’t do. You’re a thing of the past.”

The Nutcracker stood in silence.

“Hey, buddy, you okay?” the Elf said.

Nothing.

“Pal…?”

The Nutcracker eventually met the Elf’s gaze and said, “I am afraid you might be right. Maybe my time is done. I have one favor to ask you before I return to my box.”

“Sure, anything…”

“Can you move that?”

“Move what?” the Elf said.

“Move deez nuts!”

With that, the Nutcracker drew its sword from its hip and ran the Elf through. He swung the Elf overhead and tossed him into the remains of the fire. All it took was a puff of breath for the flames to take hold. The Nutcracker warmed his hands by the glow of the Elf.

* * *

On Christmas morning, when the Palmers came downstairs to unwrap presents, Mrs. Palmer noticed the Nutcracker standing guard on the hearth.

“Did any of you put the Nutcracker there?” she said. But her family was already looking at their phones.

Little Susie Palmer said, “What is that, Mommy?”

“It’s a nutcracker. Your grandpa got it for me on a business trip to Germany when I was about your age. I used to make it talk and pretend it was your grandpa because he was always away working.”

“Like you and Daddy?”

Mrs. Palmer picked up the nutcracker and looked at her family.

“Hey, everybody, I have an idea. Hey!”

The rest of the family looked up.

“I think it would be nice to go the day without looking at our phones. This morning at least. Enjoy each other’s company without interruptions for once…maybe even make a few memories…”

* * *

Anders looked at the five children and said, “How was that one? Better?”

The twins shouted, “Yeah!” but their sister didn’t seem as impressed.

“Did you not like it?” Anders said to her and the others who weren’t convinced.

“It was a fun story,” she said. “But I want a nice Christmas story.”

“What do you mean by ‘nice?’” Anders said. “That can mean lots of things.”

“Something without drinking or fighting.”

“No drinking or fighting—got it.” Anders looked at the Christmas tree and spotted a fox ornament. “All right, I’ve got an idea. This is the story of the red thief.”

“I thought you said this was going to be a good story?” she said.

“It is, it is. Hear me out…”

* * *

The Red Thief

Dylan spent Christmas Eve day day in his garden, mucking about as much as his old bones allowed. He’d already covered his beds with manure and straw in preparation for winter; this final cleanup served more to keep him busy than accomplishing anything practical. He removed his muddy boots outside his back door and retreated into the warmth of his home. After a snack and a spot of tea, he stepped outside to clean them, but his boots were nowhere to be seen. In their place was a hand-knitted scarf.

In recent days, things had gone missing: a pair of gloves, a dish full of birdseed, and a trowel. Dylan picked up the scarf, admiring the pattern and texture. Despite the rapidly declining temperature, it felt warm in his hands. The day’s on and off snow covered his property in a fine dusting of white. That’s when he noticed footprints.

Dylan went back inside to bundle up. He put on his walking shoes, coat, hat, and wrapped the scarf around his neck. His pockets would have to keep his hands warm. He grabbed a Welsh cake on the way out and followed the prints into the hills.

He used to love walks in the hills with Annie, the two of them rambling for hours, lost in conversation and the countryside. Once, they walked so far after a hearty lunch that the darkness falling on the end of the day took them by surprise. They secured a room in an inn, enjoying the company of strangers and a warm meal before sleeping better than they ever had before.

Now, the hills were full of memories Dylan avoided as much as the trails and lanes cutting through the land. The darkness didn’t take him by surprise—he let it close in around him. The snow fell harder, burying the tracks and making his walk difficult. He didn’t mind—let the night take me for all I care! But Annie wouldn’t like that, so he pressed on until spotting a distant light.

The house was small, like his—another old homestead hidden in the hills. He’d soon return home, but first, he needed to warm his feet. He figured no one would turn away a stranger in the snow on Christmas Eve. He stepped to the front door and knocked.

An older woman, roughly his age, answered the door. Before he could say anything, she said, “My scarf!”

Dylan unwrapped it from his neck and said, “This is yours?”

“Yes,” the woman said. “I was out back the other day and got a bit warm, so I took it off. And then it was gone.”

“I think I know what happened,” he said.

“Do come in before you tell me. It’s warm in here, and you must be freezing.”

The cold drained from Dylan’s body. The glow of a fire and candles melted away all his stresses.

“Please, sit,” the woman said while pointing to a chair by the fire. “Can I get you anything? Some tea…cider?”

“Whatever’s easiest for you,” he said.

The woman shuffled off to the kitchen and returned with a steaming teacup.

“Thank you…” He stretched out the expression.

“Erin. My name is Erin.”

“Thank you, Erin. I’m called Dylan.”

She took a seat on her couch and said, “How did you come by my scarf?”

“I was working in my garden earlier today. I took off my boots, and when I went back to clean them, they were gone. In their place was the scarf. I’ve had some things go missing, lately—little things, like gloves. I saw fox tracks and followed them. And now I’m here.”

Erin rose from the couch and wandered off. Dylan wasn’t sure if he should follow her or not. She returned with his boots.

“They were at my door. I cleaned them up, figuring someone might be looking for them. A fox, you say?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve had little things go missing, too…”

They chatted over the cup of tea, and then another. Erin insisted Dylan eat a plate of turkey, roast potatoes, and parsnips—even though she had already eaten. After dinner, Dylan said, “I’ll have that cider if you don’t mind?”

He settled into the chair beside the fire.

“This is a comfortable spot.”

“My husband, Iwan, loved it. Said it was his favorite place to be.”

“I understand why. When did he pass?”

“Four years ago. What about you—I see you’re married?”

Dylan rocked the ring on his finger with his thumb and said, “I still wear this. My Annie is six years gone.”

“I’m sorry,” Erin said.

“No need. Seems we’ve both lost more than just scarves and boots.”

When Dylan finished the cider, he stretched and said, “I should head home. It looks like there’s a break in the storm.”

Erin stood up and said, “I can send you on your way with some food if you’d like?”

After pulling on his coat, Dylan said, “I have a Welsh cake to get me home, and a pot of cawl at home.”

“At least let me find you some gloves?”

Dylan nodded. He put his boots on as Erin rummaged through a closet. “Here you go. I’m sure Iwan would be happy to see them used again.”

“Thank you.”

When Erin opened the front door, she peered into the yard and said, “Well, would you look at that.”

On the edge of the light stood a red fox.

Dylan pointed to his feet and said, “Look what I found.”

The fox stood its ground.

Erin laughed and said, “The way it’s watching us, it almost seems like it’s checking to see if its plan worked.”

“What plan is that?”

“Bringing two old people together on Christmas Eve.”

“It hurts nothing for us to believe that,” Dylan said. “At least tonight. Thank you for everything, Erin. Happy Christmas.”

“And to you.”

As he stepped into the night, the fox trotted ahead, back toward the direction of Dylan’s home. Just before the evening’s darkness consumed them, Erin said, “You should come again for tea sometime. Perhaps New Year’s Eve?”

Dylan stepped back into the light and said, “That sounds lovely.” And then he followed the red thief’s tracks into the hills.

* * *

Anders looked at his brand-new-to-him step niece and said, “Was that a good enough Christmas story for you?”

She smiled and nodded so hard, her body shook.

“Good…good. I’m glad you liked it.”

In the dining room, Anders heard plates and mugs and glasses being gathered. His new sister-in-law said, “I’ll go rouse the basement crew…might take a bit to tear them away from what they’re doing.”

Anders waited, hoping they’d all come into the living room. But when he heard the noise of dishes being washed in the kitchen, he knew he was still stuck with the kids.

“All right,” he said. “I think we have time for one more story. This is one my grandma used to tell us…”

He was pleased to see he had the room’s undivided attention.

* * *

Trollson

Nobody knows when, how, or why, but a strange child was found wandering the streets of Sovandeberg long ago. The child had wild, course hair, dirty sharp teeth, and pointed ears. He stomped instead of walked, shaking the ground with each footfall. When the townsfolk gathered to see the young visitor, one of the elders said, “That is no child—that is a troll.”

Anyplace else, and the troll child wouldn’t have stood a chance, for trolls are wicked, terrible things. But the village of Sovandeberg was known for its kindness to all. And so, they named the visitor Trollson and cared for him like any other.

Before long, Trollson grew taller than anyone in the village. Not long after that, he was as large as a small house. Still, Trollson gently played with the other children in the village and helped out where he could.

When he outgrew the barn where he slept, the villagers discussed building him a bigger place. Knowing he’d soon outgrow that, Trollson told them he would be content sleeping alone on the outskirts of town. When he grew so large that he could no longer walk among the streets without fear of breaking the stone road beneath his feet or possibly crushing a house, the villagers visited him. In the summer, the children scaled his rocky frame; in the winter, they went sledding down his back. But it takes a long time for a hill to become a mountain—Trollson told his friends it was time to head farther east and sleep. They still visited him, of course, but it was a long journey to reach the sleeping giant.

In time, generations only knew Trollson through stories, most assuming the tales were little more than legends. Eventually, Trollson’s story was forgotten entirely.

* * *

Centuries later, Ancient Trolls thundered down from the Northlands, destroying villages and reshaping the land where they trod. They toppled hills and crushed forests for pleasure, leaving chaos and suffering in their wake. On Christmas Eve, they turned toward the village of Sovandeberg.

The ground rumbled as though the earth were about to open up and swallow the village whole. Cries went up from the watchman: “Trolls!!!” The legends had come to life.

The horizon rose up like a stone wave so tall, it blocked the light of the full moon at its apex. Fleeing would be futile—everything before the rushing trolls would soon be consumed by the charge. Some villagers resigned themselves to their impending end while others prayed. Then from the east, there arose such a clatter.

Trollson Mountain ripped itself free from its foundation and stood tall. It was hard to keep one’s footing as the mountain charged across the flatlands and met the invading army to the north. The battle lasted through the night, a noise so loud that some said they never stopped hearing it. Trollson ground the Ancient Ones to rubble—new hills formed where parts of them landed and settled. But Trollson was not left unscathed. By the light of the moon, he fell to his knees, splitting the land where later, rivers and lakes formed beside him. He settled his ancient frame against the ground and returned to his slumber.

* * *

Family comes in all shapes and sizes. While Trollson’s story was forgotten for hundreds of years, he was—and will always be—considered family by the residents of Sovandeberg. In fact, each Christmas Eve, even today, the villagers gather on top of the sleeping mountain and ski down their old friend by torchlight, singing his name and sharing this story so he is never forgotten again…

* * *

Oliver stood in the doorway between the two rooms. “Mormor used to tell us that story on Christmas Eve, didn’t she?”

Anders nodded.

“I forgot about it,” Oliver said. “We loved it so much when we were kids, but I forgot about it. You do know when I called you Trollson when we were kids that it was meant as a compliment? I was so jealous that my little brother was bigger than me.”

“Yeah, I know. We used to like each other.” Anders said. “At least sorta…”

“I don’t…” Oliver’s words trailed off when the rest of the family entered the room.

Anders grunted and creaked as he got up from the floor. He shook his legs out, teetering to one and then the other as the blood returned. “I should probably get going. Let you all open presents.”

As he made his way to the front door, Oliver turned to his mother. “I took the money.”

“What?” she said.

“Four years ago. The five-hundred dollars in your nightstand? I took it—not Anders.”

“What?!”

“The divorce with Carrie hit hard…”

“You let me think it was Anders all these years when it was you? You’re lucky I put up that serving spoon—I can’t believe this!”

“It’s okay, Mom,” Anders said while turning back from the door. “I’d have blamed me, too.”

He fished five 100-dollar bills from his pocket and approached his mother. “Here. I was gonna sneak up and put the bills under the drawer in your nightstand. Wait until the right moment and make a scene and go look. Rip the whole thing out and say, ‘See? There’s the money you said I took!’”

“You were going to let your brother get away with it?” she said.

“Until now, I didn’t know it was him. I’ve done enough bad things in my life that it all evens out. So take it.”

Oliver held his hand up. “No, I’ll pay it back. I don’t know why I never did. I’m not hurting for anything anymore. I’m sorry. Truly.”

“We’re good,” Anders said. He looked at the five kids still sitting on the floor. “Well, looks like it’s your lucky night, ya wee grunions. There’re five of you and I have five 100-dollar bills. One for each of ya.”

They snapped them up like tiny crabs before their parents could protest.

“All right,” Anders said. “I’m gonna head out and let you all get to your presents.”

“No, stay,” Oliver said.

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Someone’s gotta keep me honest.”

Anders was happy seeing the kids more pleased with their gifts than the money he gave them—not that it was forgotten entirely in the tornado of wrapping paper and boxes. They talked about what they might buy with the money given to them by their strange, new relative—and the twins went as far as waving the bills at the older kids, as if to say, “See what happens when you hide out in the basement?”

When it was all over and the other guests had left, Oliver walked Anders to his car.

“Look at that, it’s snowing.”

Ander’s looked up, watching dry, fat flakes falling to earth like frigid little leaves.

Oliver stretched and said, “In your travels, have you ever been to Sweden?”

“Yeah, one of the first countries I visited.”

“Is Sovandeberg a real place?”

“Nope. I wondered the same thing and went looking for it. But I found places that look exactly how I always imagined.”

“What’s it like…”

“It’s a great country—”

“No, what’s traveling everywhere like?”

“It’s nice,” Anders said. “Sometimes it feels a bit by design because of the YouTube channel and podcast, but it’s not a bad way to make a living.”

“I’ve never really traveled like that,” Oliver said.

“I get it,” Anders said. “I’ve wondered what it’s like settling down and having a nice house like yours. Family and other loved ones stopping by. We all trade for something.”

“I suppose we do. You’re welcome to visit whenever you’re in town.”

“I’d like that,” Anders said. “And maybe someday when you have the time, I can show you where Mormor grew up.”

“That would be great.”

The two brothers awkwardly faced each other in the street, until Oliver initiated a hug. Anders patted him on the back and said, “I’m glad I made this trip.”

“Me, too.”

When Anders unlocked his car door, Oliver said, “Drive safely, Trollson. Never know what’s out there in the dark on Christmas Eve.”

Anders said, “I will. And when I get back to my hotel room, I plan to sleep like a mountain, ‘cause those kids sure wore my rocky old bones out!”

* * *

[Quirky music fades in…]

Christopher Gronlund:

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks.

Theme music, as always, is by Ergo Phizmiz. Story music this time was a variety of Christmas music, all licensed through Epidemic Sound.

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

Well, this closes the door on 2022’s stories. With back-to-back monthly episodes, I used to start back up in March, but I’ll likely release a new story in February. What that story is…I have no idea. Well, I have roughly 100 ideas to choose from—I’m just not sure what stories I’ll write, record, and release in 2023.

But I’m sure looking forward to it.

I hope the rest of your year is safe and happy—and that the new year is full of many great things.

[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 likely contains spoilers of the most recent story. You’ve been warned…”

* * *

Early in the latest Not About Lumberjacks story, “Tin-Hearted Man,” a character recalls watching a fight between the protagonist and six strangers in a bar. By the time the storyteller squares up to help, the fight is over—the protagonist having destroyed six men with little effort.

While I’m a very peaceful person, violence features prominently in many Not About Lumberjacks stories (almost half of them, in fact). Some of it makes sense—tales about bullying are pulled from personal experiences of being picked on when I was younger. But I’m not sure why other violence, particularly stories featuring toxic masculinity, feature in many Not About Lumberjacks stories.

So, I gave it some thought…

* * *

My father was a very violent man, despite how loving he was to my sister, half-sister, step-brother, and me. He never raised a hand (or even his voice) to us, but he did try shooting a guy in the face during a road rage incident! (Fortunately, the guy only suffered powder burns from the shot.) Another time, he returned home late. My step-brother and I heard tapping on the window at the back door. It was my dad. He handed us a wet work shirt and told us to put it in a bucket out back. The shirt was drenched in blood. Turns out, in another road rage incident—this one with two guys—my father’s head was split from just above his left eyebrow, all the way back to the base of his skull, by a tire iron.

My father loved boxing and reveled in seeing crushing football tackles. Bench-clearing hockey fights were reason to watch the game. He once planned to take me to a dog fight, and when I protested, he figured maybe starting smaller—with cock fighting—was a good idea. (He was also let down that I refused to attend that as well.)

I can’t tell you how many times, while driving with him, he got into screaming matches with others…with me in the middle!

Sharing these stories, my father sounds like a complete asshole. And make no mistake: in many ways, he was. But there was something more to it, and I used to spend time wondering why he was the way he was.

* * *

My father’s father fought in Europe during World War II. He didn’t talk about it much—not even all the medals he had tucked away in a box. The only thing we know for sure was he was in The Battle of Hürtgen Forest, which saw 33,000 U.S. casualties.

Major General James M. Gavin described the carnage like this:

“All along the sides of the trail there were many, many dead bodies, cadavers that had just emerged from the winter snow. Their gangrenous, broken, and torn bodies were rigid and grotesque, some of them with arms skyward, seemingly in supplication.”

My paternal grandfather was a tough guy, and I’m sure my father tried being tougher than he actually was to evoke some kind of response from his quiet and short-tempered father.

(If you go all the way back to the second Not About Lumberjacks story, “Pride of the Red Card,” you’ll hear a story based loosely on time spent with my dad and his dad.)

* * *

          The United States has been at war for roughly 225 years out of the 246 since 1776. Some of those were major wars—others were short invasions—but violence is in our blood. Mass shootings are so common they often don’t make the news. Some people are quick to lose it in traffic; others attack the U.S. Capitol when they don’t get their way.

          I grew up with more than a few friends who were raised by fathers who wanted tough sons. I grew up with some friends raised by fathers who tried beating manhood into them. The child abuse in the most brutal full-length Not About Lumberjacks story, “Purvis,” is loosely based on the homelife of an old friend. (And the mention of a dog being shot in a house because it had fleas in the micro-short, “Be a Man,” is based on a real incident a relative experienced.)

          So, it only makes sense that violence finds its way into stories set in the United States.

* * *

          Among Not About Lumberjacks stories featuring violence, I’ve written slightly more tales without it. So, one might wonder, if I can write uplifting stories devoid of violence, why would I choose to include it in the almost other half?

          It’s one thing to find hope in a situational story about a family just being a family or a person experiencing a hardship and overcoming it, but hope seems amplified when characters are presented with a violent existence and find another way. In that sense, I find stories where violence is shown to not be the way very hopeful and inspiring.

          We live in a violent world, but if you look at the whole of it, each decade sees better days. Some areas might slip, like Russia’s current slaughter in Ukraine, but if you look at overall wars, life expectancy rates, infant mortality rates, and so many other dismal things…the bigger trend is more positive than negative. Progress is often painfully slow, and there’s no excuse for so many people to still suffer, but there is hope.

* * *

Back to “Tin-Hearted Man…”

Violence is thrust upon Nick Champeau since his beginning. When his father isn’t abusing him, classmates are. And he responds with violence to finally stop the pain.

But…the pain is still there.

He survives the The Battle of Kapyong in the Korean War by imagining his enemies as everyone who ever tormented him. He doesn’t lead with violence, but when confronted with it, he responds in kind.

Ultimately, though, he seeks to find kindness in an unkind world. Nick Champeau puts the pain of his life behind him and presumably finds a better life in the things that give him solace.

* * *

          While my father was violent, he was not unkind. He was funny, an incredible storyteller, and quick to help anyone in need. He was charming, reflective, and wanted something more than life gave him.

          Sometimes he worked hard for that better life, but when you’re raised to believe you won’t amount to much, it’s easier said than done to just put the past behind you and move on. Setbacks others can side-step seem like roadblocks when all you’ve known is pain and loss and struggle.

          My father was a very tired (and often depressed) man.

          Still, for all his faults, he did something so many before him couldn’t do. He might have tried killing another human being over a traffic dispute, but something in him decided, “I will not treat my children the way my father treated me.”

          My father broke one of the heaviest chains there is to break: a cycle of abuse. He was a man of many faults, but he decided, at least where his children were concerned, he would not be like the men who came before him. He hoped my siblings and I would have a better life and find the magic of being alive.

          That is the hope I write about…whether a story is violent or not…

* * *

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. When an estranged family member returns home for the holidays, he tells a group of nieces and nephews eager to unwrap Christmas presents four holiday tales.

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 show’s November anniversary episode. That’s right, Not About Lumberjacks is entering its eighth year of existence! When Big Nick Champeau is taken by the Thunder River, his lumber camp speculates what his life might have been like before becoming a lumberjack.

But first, the usual content advisory…

“Tin-Hearted Man” deals with loss of life, child abuse, alcoholism, physical fighting and violence against others, Korean War combat, facial disfigurement, lost love, loss of a pet, and drug use. But hey—there’s no swearing!

Before we get going, I’d like to thank the following patrons of the show (at least at the time of this recording): Mary Miller, Michelle Booze, Michael Howie, Mark Hosack, Elizabeth Mitchell, Geoffrey Little, Natalia Sylvester, Art Platt, Julia Lundman, Larry Tubbs, Tim Griffith, Mark Felps, Mary Salerno, Tim Czarnecki, John Sheffield, Lisa Eckstein, Cynthia Griffith, and Paul Csomo. (Okay, so Paul had to withdraw his patronage for a bit because his house flooded when it took an almost direct hit from Hurricane Ian in October, but he was there in the beginning, and I’d be remiss to not mention his patronage and friendship.)

If you’re interested in the Not About Lumberjacks Patreon, check out patreon.com/cgronlund for more details. Basically, whether you throw a dollar a month at the show, or more…you get all levels of exclusive access to what goes on behind the scenes of Not About Lumberjacks.

All right, let’s get to work!

* * *

Prologue

1968

Nick Champeau was a big, bad man, but he was no match for the Thunder River. He was out on a growing jam, working his peavey to free a key log, when everything broke loose beneath him.

Nick danced across rushing timbers as the bank crew extended their pikes, hoping he could grab hold before being carried away, but the river’s reflexes were quicker. The rush of logs pulled him far from shore at a bend; it was Nick Champeau against the river’s wrath. At first, he stayed upright in spite of nature’s fury—his reputation as the area’s strongest river pig giving hope to those watching that he’d defeat the river. When Nick stepped on the end of a short trunk appearing longer than it actually was, their optimism faded.

The river swallowed him to the waist, but Nick grabbed another log and pulled himself up in defiance. The current was stronger. Nick never fully regained his footing as the river ran more wild. Each time into the cold waters, his body took a beating, until it was half crushed by logs. Before he drifted out of view, his crew watched him go under one last time. Big Nick Champeau was never seen again.

* * *

On Sunday morning, after filling their bellies with flapjacks and coffee to the point of almost bursting, Michel DeCoeur stood before the wood-burning stove in the mess hall. He looked at the two long rows of benches filled with the toughest men he’d ever met and said, “I know we’re all still hurting about Nick.”

Heads went down; thick, calloused fingers picked at crumbs as Michel continued.

“I reckon we should have a bit of a memorial in his honor to get some of this pain out of our chests. If you’ve got something to say, step up here where it’s warm and say a few words.

Maybe share a story. I’ll start.”

He took a deep breath and then smiled.

“Nick and I were out drinking one night. Well, I was, anyway. We were minding our own business when a guy in the bar asked about the tattoo on Nick’s arm. I knew the guy didn’t care about it, and I’m sure Nick knew that, too. But he still answered. ‘It’s the Tin Man from The Wonderful Wizard of Oz book.’

“‘Why’d you get that?” the guy said. ‘It’s weird,’

“Nick said, ‘Sometimes it’s the weird things in life that give us our strength.’

“He had that weird way of answering honestly, but sounding like he was looking for trouble.

“The guy looked at me and said, ‘You two boyfriends?’

“Before I could speak up, Nick said, ‘So what if we are?’

“The guy shoved Nick in his Tin Man arm, and I said, ‘Hey, buddy. There’s two of us and only one of you. And my friend, here, is like three people. Why don’t you just let us be?”

“The guy broke a bottle on the bar and said, ‘I’m not alone…’

“When I heard Nick whisper, ‘Please don’t do this…’ I knew it was about to get ugly.

“I don’t know how many teeth that guy lost on the top of the bar, but he stayed down. Another guy cracked a pool cue across Nick’s back, but I don’t think he even felt it. He was in a rage, pummeling some of the guys with his fists, while taking out others with chairs and his boots.

By the time I squared up to join in, Nick had already ended things.

Half a dozen men lay on the floor, holding broken noses and picking their teeth up from the boards. A couple others weren’t moving at all.

Nick put a handful of money on the bar and walked off.

I followed him outside and said, ‘Where’d you learn to fight like that?’

“He never answered me…”

* * *

1939 – 1948

Nick Champeau was ten years old when his parents took him to the United States to visit his mother’s family for Christmas. Boston was a stunning change from Granby, Quebec—the American town full of life and lights like Nick had never seen before. They stayed in a motel because, in the words of Nick’s father, “Your family doesn’t like me, and I sure as hell don’t like them.” While Nick and his mother visited relatives, Nick’s father visited local bars.

On the Friday before Christmas, Nick’s uncle took him and two cousins to see The Wizard of Oz at the Colonial Theatre. It was Nick’s first movie, and the glowing marquis and ornate interior seemed like a fitting preview for what he saw on screen. The black and white beginning of the movie giving way to vibrant Technicolor felt like going from Canada to Boston. From the Tin Man’s first appearance on screen, when Dorothy and The Cowardly Lion find him rusted beside a tree and holding an axe, there was something about the character that fascinated Nick. In the Tin Man, he saw a strength and resilience he never had. He loved the movie with the exception of one thing…

That night in the motel, Nick tossed and turned in bed. Every sound startled him, eventually, to the point of tears. His father heard him sniffling in the dark.

“Are you crying?” he said.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I’m scared.”

“Of what?”

“The flying monkeys.”

“What flying monkeys?”

“From the Wizard of Oz.”

“It was just a movie,” Nick’s father said. “Don’t be a baby.”

But Nick couldn’t stop crying. When his sniffles turned to sobbing, his father got out of bed and gave him something to really cry about.

* * *

In the years that followed, Nick’s father continued giving him something to cry about, often for no other reason than Nick being in the wrong place during one of his father’s wrong moods. School was no refuge. Being the smallest kid in his class meant even other small kids picked on him, hoping to appear bigger to their peers. Instead of studying, Nick spent his days being as inconspicuous as possible, which meant passing by things he might have otherwise thrown himself into: mainly, English classes and band.

Through it all, imagining himself as the Tin Woodsman from The Wizard of Oz and the books in the series he came to love was the only thing that made the pain of Nick’s existence bearable.

Then, in his 15^th year, Little Nick Champeau got big.

* * *

In one summer, he went from being the smallest kid in his class to one of the largest in the entire school. But old habits are hard to break: the group of boys that tormented Nick were like small dogs trying to attack a wolf. He was in the gymnasium when it happened, the group of boys cornering Nick in preparation for humiliation and a beating.

Nick did nothing to thwart their taunting, but when they came for him, physically, years of rage exploded from within. By the time Nick was done with the group, lips were split and noses were broken.

But Nick was still no match for his father. He picked up Nick from school early. As soon as the front door to the house closed, his father unleashed his rage .

Nick did his best to defend himself, even attempting to fight back, but that made matters worse. By the time his father was done, Nick’s face was swollen, and his eyes would soon be black.

As his father walked off, Nick whispered, “A day will come when you’re not going to be able to do this anymore…”

* * *

A year later, Nick had enough of school. He dropped out and got a job loading and unloading cargo in the Port of Montreal. When his day was done, he often stayed with friends, only returning home to visit with his mother when he knew his father was at work. During one such visit, his father returned home early.

“What are you doing here?”

“Visiting Mom.”

“What’s that on your arm?”

“A tattoo. I got it a couple months ago. It’s the Tin Man from The Wonderful Wizard of Oz book.”

“Why’d you get that?”

“I like it,” Nick said.

“You shouldn’t go marking up your body like that. It’s stupid.”

Nick stopped talking.

“Did you hear me?” his father said.

Something in the pit of Nick’s stomach burned.

His father stepped forward, grabbed Nick’s face, and said, “I’m talking to you!” Nick broke the hold and ducked when his father threw a punch.

Nick always envisioned the big fight with his father: him destroying the old man in a legendary fight where tables, chairs, and even bones were broken. If not taking his father’s life, at least showing him a glimpse of his final breath as Nick wrapped his hands around his neck and squeezed. But all it took was one punch to drop him to the ground.

Nick stood over his father, waiting for a dirty kick to his crotch—another round of blows at the very least. But his father stayed down, cowering beneath his son.

Nick shook his head, closed the door behind him, and never returned home again.

* * *

Michel DeCoeur looked around the mess hall and said, “Anyone else?”

He took a seat at the end of a long bench when Jean-Marc Avignon stepped up to the wood-burning stove.

“I don’t have much to say,” Jean-Marc said, “but I want to say Nick Champeau was a good man. When he came to our camp a couple years back, he learned fast. There was nothing he wasn’t willing to do. I’ve never seen someone do as much as he did in such a short amount of time.

“He was nice to me. Like many of us, my life hasn’t always been good, but Nick treated me kindly. He treated us all that way. Even though he was a quiet man, I felt he liked us all.

“I caught Nick sitting alone in the woods one day. I asked what he was up to, and he didn’t say a word. He was staring into the trees like he saw something only he could see.

“Another time, I got up the courage to ask him about that big scar on his face. Instead of answering, he pointed to a butterfly resting on a blade of grass and said, “Well, would you look at that…?”

* * *

1948 – 1951

Nick’s favorite thing about Montreal was April Dufour. After a night of talking into the early morning hours at the party where they met, Nick knew he had found someone special. In the months that followed, every dream Nick mentioned was supported by April. “If you want to play the guitar, what’s stopping you from getting one and learning how to play? If you want to write, then why don’t you write?” And he supported her, working extra hours to save money for a future together, hoping to help provide everything in life she wanted as well.

Two years later, a job on the docks wasn’t enough for Nick. He wanted something that would allow him to do more with life than just pack and unpack ships. April wasn’t as enthused about Nick’s decision to join the Army.

“We have plenty, Nicky. Why would you want to go and do that?”

“It’s just for a few years,” he said. “When I’m done, I’ll be able to do so more than work on the docks.”

* * *

In April of 1951, Nick regretted his decision to enlist. In Korea, on a hill west of the Kapyong River, his battalion dug trenches in anticipation of a Chinese advance. A day of skirmishes gave way to the realization they were staring down the entire Chinese 118th Division in an all-out battle. To avoid being overrun, Nick’s company captain called down artillery strikes on the hill they were defending. All Nick could do is hunker down in his trench and pray to not be hit by his own side.

It wasn’t enough. The ceaseless pace of the firefight gave way to hand-to-hand

bayonet charges. Nick rose above his brigade in the slaughter, imagining his foes were every person who ever wronged him. In the fury of the moment, while screaming down on an enemy, he felt the end of a bayonet enter his mouth and exit the back side of his right cheek. Before Nick drove his bayonet into the chest of his foe, the Chinese soldier pulled at his own bayonet with all his might, ripping its way free through the side of Nick’s face. But his greatest injury was yet to come…

* * *

A medical discharge meant Nick could return home a year sooner than planned with

full benefits. He raced to April’s apartment hoping to surprise her, but he was surprised to find it occupied by someone else. When he finally tracked her down, he could tell she was horrified by the wound on the right side of his face. It was apparent April did not want to tell Nick the bad news in person.

“I told you we had enough, but you didn’t listen,” she said. “I didn’t want you to
go—I didn’t want to wait. I thought you’d be killed in the war. I was going to write you. I met somebody—“

Nick’s world seemed to fall away beneath his feet; he felt like a man spinning lost in space.

With those words—I met somebody—Nick Champeau became a man without a heart…

* * *

Pierre Tremblay warmed his hands by the stove before saying, “What I liked about Nick is he wasn’t just a one-sided fella. Michel talked about how you didn’t want to get on Nick’s bad side, but he was also a nice guy.

“And Jean-Marc is right: he loved the woods. He once told me the forest was his mistress. A few weeks ago, I caught him in the middle of the next stand we’re gonna to cut. He was sitting on the ground, talking to the animals. I’m not kidding: birds, squirrels, and a deer were around him, listening. I’d not have been surprised to see a bear or moose stop and listen— his voice had that soothing way. He told them a story he made up about all the animals building a village in the forest, and then he apologized for cutting down the trees.

“To me, a job’s a job, and I don’t feel bad about what I do for a living. Maybe Nick did, though. It makes me wonder what Nick thought in the river. Did anyone else notice how he looked back at us when he went under—like he was making sure we all saw it?”

* * *

1951 – 1963

After the war and breakup, Nick spent his savings on a Willys Utility Wagon, a new 35mm Canon camera, a used Linhof large format camera, and a brand-new Gibson acoustic guitar. He headed out west, working odd jobs along the way: a stagehand in a theater in Toronto, a carpenter’s apprentice in Winnipeg, farm laborer outside Saskatoon, and a line cook in a diner called Mount Lunch near Banff. A short stint lumberjacking north of Vancouver. In his time off, he wrote about his travels in a journal, took photos, and practiced playing guitar. In time, he saved enough to travel north, wandering the Yukon and western side of the Northwest Territories.

In the Territory of Alaska, he found Nanook.

Nick spotted the white husky wandering the streets of Fairbanks, cold and hungry. After luring him into the back of the wagon with some salami, he spread out another blanket beside his where the two back seats once were, before Nick ripped them out so he always had a dry place to stretch out and sleep. Nanook’s company was even more soothing than the surroundings. The

two took the Alaska Highway 1,523 miles south, to Dawson Creek, simply because it was a thing to do.

Nanook and Nick lived a nomadic life for years, crossing the country to the east and back again. In Vancouver, Nick decided to head south, into the United States. The two visited the legendary national parks of the country: Yellowstone, Yosemite, Zion, and The Grand Canyon. In California, Nick summoned the courage to grab his guitar and perform on the streets in San Francisco and Los Angeles, making a little money in the process. They eventually lost themselves in the desert southwest, where Nick was introduced to psychedelics. The combination of scenery, peyote, and music gave way to Nick’s most prolific period of photography and writing. In Arches National Park, Nick took his favorite photo: an image of Nanook and him in profile, framed by the Delicate Arch.

Three months later, Nanook was gone.

Nick noticed him slowing down as they traveled. Nothing seemed wrong, other than age taking its toll. No pain—just time catching up. They headed north, to Glacier National Park, so

Nanook could live out his final days in a place that reminded Nick of the wilderness outside

Fairbanks. With his best friend gone, Nick headed to Boston.

His mother moved to the city to be with her family after his father died. He’d sent letters home, but hadn’t seen his mother in over ten years. The pace of life in Boston seemed overwhelming, at first, but Nick eventually settled into a routine. He took a job developing photos and reconnected with the two cousins he met the night he first saw The Wizard of Oz.

When the oldest of the two found out Nick played guitar, he said, “Ya know something? We should really form a band…”

* * *

André Benoit was the next to speak.

“Like Phillippe, I think I talked at Nick more than anything. It was nice having someone who never tried telling you what to do when you needed to get something off your chest.

“I would sometimes try talking to Nick, but you know how he was? I once asked him what he did before coming up to this camp, and he said, ‘This and that. Odd jobs and such…’ I think he might have even been in the Army.

“Another time, I asked him what he’d do if he weren’t a lumberjack. He said he didn’t know, but I noticed a slight grin that told me he had his ideas…”

* * *

1965

The crowd at the McGill Ballroom was not as enthusiastic as Nick hoped when he and The Tin Hearts took the stage. The crowd stood on the floor with a shared distant look; it was as though the band stepped onto a stage in another dimension, invisible to the room before them.

But as they began playing “The Morning I Melted,” the crowd’s attention turned.

A Hammond organ and jangly guitar riff were joined by a drum kit played with timpani mallets, a sound smoothing all the music together. Bass notes seemed to resound for minutes. As Nick sang about taking a voyage of the mind during breakfast one morning, the crowd swayed and gyrated in unison to the tune. It would only build from there.

Behind the band, a light show reminiscent of the Technicolor dreamscapes of the Wizard of Oz movie swirled and pulsated to the beat. The Tin Hearts took the crowd on a musical journey, a trip for even the few sober members among them. One moment, it would not be hard to imagine oneself lost in a field of barley or drinking in a Medieval pub; then, rising guitar riffs pierced the ballroom while the bass and Nick’s voice echoed in the chests of patrons, taking them inside themselves. The music ebbed and flowed until a high, sustained guitar note reverberated above it all.

The light show behind the band stopped as a spotlight illuminated Nick in the darkness. He closed his eyes and sang a song called “My Butterfly” with no musical accompaniment. By the time he was done, everyone in the ballroom felt Nick’s loss.

The Tin Hearts closed with “The Telephone of Dreams,” a tune that condensed the previous hour of music into a 17-minute encore. By its end, the band and crowd were drenched in sweat, many among them not the same people they were before the show started. If Nick had any reservations about how they’d be received, the audience before him settled his doubts. Their applause echoed in his bones—it was even better than he ever imagined.

Unfortunately, it was one of only three gigs The Tin Hearts played before breaking up.

* * *

In the mess hall, others stepped up to speak in Nick’s memory. Most spoke about a man of few words who only seemed to want to be left alone to find kindness in an unkind world. Maurice Savard told the group Nick mentioned he came up to the lumber camp after something happened to his mother and cousin. “An accident, I think.” Etienne Lambert discussed how mesmerizing he found the blue eyes on the husky tattoo Nick had on the arm opposite of his Tin Man. Hugo Alarie said, “I think we know when our time is up. Nick seemed even more calm than usual the day he went under, like something in him knew what was about to happen.”

Michel DeCoeur closed out the ceremony.

“Has everybody had their say? All right. It’s funny how you can sometimes feel the closest to the people you know the least about. So many of us are quick to spill everything about ourselves, but Nick gave very little—except for hard work and support when and where it was needed. Maybe we feel close to him and hurt like we do because we were able to put our own feelings about things on him because he was usually so quiet. Like we saw who we wanted him—and even us—to be.

“But I think it’s more than that. I may not have known much about him, but I really do think the things I will carry in my heart about him are real…and somehow, that makes me want to be a better person. You all know how I can go on and on, so I’ll take a clue from him and stop rambling. But not before saying one final thing…”

Michel raised his coffee mug and said, “Cheers to Nick Champeau; cheers to a man you don’t meet every day…”

* * *

Epilogue

1975

Four and a half decades in the forest were all Michel DeCoeur could bear. Years of swinging axes and sawing timber was hard on the bones—the old man left his family in the woods behind and went to live with his sister in Montreal. The change was too much at first, but he remembered Nick telling him there were things to be found and lost in the city. After lunch each day, Michel went for a walk, looking for the little things most pass by, never noticing. He saw the way young couples in love looked at each other, and he came to appreciate the smells of restaurants and cafes as much as breakfasts in the mess hall in the lumber camp. He stopped in shops that caught his attention along the way—or he stopped and watched the ships on the Saint Lawrence River.

On one of his afternoon walks, in the window of a small bookstore, Michel spotted something that made him gasp. The book’s cover featured a photograph of a brilliant white husky in profile with a massive, bearded man, both framed by an arch in the American Southwest. The title: Nanook and Me. Below the photograph, the author’s name: Nicolas Champeau.

Michel looked over his shoulder, half expecting to see Nick standing above the crowd on the sidewalk, their bodies rushing around him like a boulder in fast waters. But Big Nick Champeau was nowhere to be seen…except in the shop’s window display. Michel opened the door and stepped inside, hoping to learn the real story behind the man who was more than a match for the Thunder River.

* * *

[Quirky music fades in…]

Christopher Gronlund:

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks.

Theme music, as always, is by Ergo Phizmiz. Story music this time was by Sandra Marteleur, licensed through Epidemic Sound. Psychedelic tracks purchased for use through Pond5.

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. And, for as little as a dollar a month, you can support the show at patreon.com/cgronlund.

December’s Christmas episode is on its way. When an estranged relative shows up to a Christmas Eve celebration, he takes it upon himself to entertain the younger members of the family with a series of Christmas tales…

[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 likely contains spoilers of the most recent story. You’ve been warned…”

* * *

Before chatting about “In the Margins,” I have a listener question to answer. Curtis Hart asked: “What is your thought process when choosing other narrators?” (Okay, so he specifically asked how I choose between Cynthia narrating a story instead of me, but I’ve used other narrators in the past, so I’d also like to cover that.)

While I’d be comfortable narrating every story I write for Not About Lumberjacks, when a story is from the point of view of a woman, I prefer having women narrate those stories. In my mind, I associate my deeper voice being a strange thing to carry a story featuring a female protagonist. So that’s why women narrate the stories I write featuring women.

When it comes to the other narrators I’ve chosen over the years, there are just people I love working with. I adore hearing their take on something I’ve written. Perhaps the best example is Michael Howie’s reading of “The Hidebehind.” It takes place in a lumber camp in Ontario, Canada, and Michael has the perfect tone and authentic accent for that story. That’s really it: I like working with friends…most of whom, I know through podcasting.

So…why don’t I do it more often?

When working with others, you have to arrange things around two schedules: the narrator’s schedule…and mine. Also, I believe in paying narrators, so there’s cost involved. (Because I work with friends who refuse to take money from me, I offer to pay them or donate to a charity of their choice…and they always choose charities!)

Not About Lumberjacks is a thing I do on my own time, and I sometimes find myself with a break in my schedule sooner than planned. If I keep production in house, I can adapt to those moments and sometimes get episodes out sooner. But if I tell someone they have three weeks to narrate a story and I find myself with unexpected time a week in, I can’t tell them to adapt to my schedule if they planned to narrate things a week later.

I’ve not used a remote narrator since Jesse Harley narrated “Geocached” almost two years ago. I’d love to work with others more, but it’s just easier to do it all right here.

That’s why Cynthia narrates even more than she has in the past: we live beneath the same roof! The logistics of creating a new episode is just easier when everything is recorded on the same gear and in the same manner. (Well, that and—just like how people love hearing my voice—many listeners love hearing Cynthia’s voice on the occasional story.)

So, a quick recap: I feel like a story with a female protagonist is best served by a woman’s voice and…it’s just easier to do everything under one roof.

Thanks for the question, Curtis!

And now…a bit more about the latest Not About Lumberjacks story, “In the Margins…”

* * *

In 1979, a good friend introduced me to a strange, new-to-me game called Dungeons and Dragons.

Figuring out a tabletop role-playing game as fifth graders wasn’t easy, but when we settled on our version of the rules, we had a blast. In time, we were regulars at Viking Hobby Shop (now Ron’s Mundelein Hobbies) in my hometown, spending our allowances on new adventure modules.

I loved everything about Dungeons and Dragons, with one big exception: the puzzles.

It’s not that I don’t appreciate puzzles; it’s not that I necessarily hate puzzles, but I can’t claim to be a fan of them. With Dungeons and Dragons puzzles, the biggest issue I had is I couldn’t see what my character was trying to solve. (And in the 70s, the men writing D&D adventure modules seemed to really get off on creating complex puzzles—many that made sense only to them.)

* * *

A year or two before discovering Dungeons and Dragons, The Hobbit became a favorite book. The famous chapter, Riddles in the Dark—in which Bilbo is challenged by Gollum to a series of riddles—captivated me. As a fourth grader, I couldn’t figure out the riddles, but…once they were revealed, I understood them.

That seemed fair to me: a challenge to readers who might be so inclined to ponder the questions Bilbo and Gollum posed to each other, but not leaving people hanging if they didn’t figure things out. (Or, ya know, resulting in a favorite D&D character dying because they crawled into the mouth of the friggin’ great green devil, rather than trying to figure out the portal of mists puzzle in Tomb of Horrors.)

* * *

With my disdain for puzzles, and vague tolerance of riddles, it might seem strange that the latest Not About Lumberjacks story is based on them. But I set out to do what Gary Gygax’s puzzles did not: give listeners and readers a chance to figure things out if that’s their thing…but also provide answers like Tolkien did for me in The Hobbit.

* * *

I’m a technical writer by day, and I’ve also assisted with usability studies. Sometimes I treat the fiction I write like the software I document and test: my goal is not to show off how complex things are behind the scenes, but instead—to present something that makes sense to users. (In this case, listeners and readers.)

I could have tried writing the literary version of the computer game, Myst—where Kenna had to run to this side of campus to the other—flipping switches and turning levers to unlock the hidden library. But that would be miserable to write, and even more miserable to listen to.

So, the riddles are solvable…at least if you’ve read plenty of children’s literature. (And if you haven’t, you still didn’t have to wait long for answers. Hell, the clue to one of the novels was the first line from The Hobbit, which mentions the book’s title. And most of the other books can be found with a little digging on Google…I know, because I put myself in Kenna’s shoes to see what popped up in basic searches!)

Assuming the role I’ve had in usability labs, I also considered the format. Short riddles and poems, many of which Kenna repeats, is a consideration to people listening. Sure, you could always pause and write things down if you’re really into solving things, but ultimately, it doesn’t matter if you figure out any of the clues because Kenna solves them for you.

* * *

I’ve chatted with people who assume I put great effort into planning the stories I write, but I’m not one to plan. I find that wading into a story and doing the work reveals what’s there. I did think about making Kenna’s challenges more complex, but that would have resulted in a slog of a tale. Even dedicating as much time to the first couple riddles with all the others would have likely worn thin. (Which is why there’s almost a montage as she rushes about, solving things quickly.) What mattered wasn’t so much the gauntlet Kenna was running, but where it took her. More important than the riddles was her relationship with her parents and school…her losing her job along the way. And then: not having to figure out what she’d do with the rest of her life because the efforts in her studies resulted in a job coming to her.

* * *

“In the Margins” is a story of appreciation to many of the books I loved as a kid. It’s also an acknowledgement that most written stories never see publication or find an audience. It’s never lost on me how fortunate I am to have a small audience listening to the stories I tell. There are regular Not About Lumberjacks listeners around the world I don’t know—and that blows my mind!

* * *

I started out this behind-the-scenes essay talking about how much I’m not fond of puzzles, but that’s not entirely true. Every story I write is a puzzle in which I figure out how characters and places and words and ideas and scenes all fit together. It’s far more complex than a puzzle to be solved in Dungeons and Dragons—and by the end, I want everything to make sense for listeners and readers—even when I’m writing stories with ambiguous endings.

To that point, if you didn’t figure it out: the answer to Kenna’s book riddle— A patchwork quilt Is the best defense against a frenzied storm On a dark and stormy night…—was A Wrinkle in Time.

Maybe I am a bit like those crusty old Dungeon Masters after all…

* * *

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 you’re kinda thing.

In November, it’s the annual REALLY Not Not About Lumberjacks episode. Find out what happens to Big Nick Champeau when a wicked river carries more than just logs downstream…

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

[Listen]

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

Christopher Gronlund:

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

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

This time, it’s a story about a strange book found in a college library that changes someone’s life forever…

But first, the usual content advisory…

“In the Margins” is a light-hearted story about books that almost doesn’t merit an advisory. But I suppose if I had to dig, I’d say there are a couple moments of light suspense and passing talk about college debt. There’s no swearing, although I guess in a roundabout way, there’s an unspoken moment alluding to a word some find offensive. But really: this is just a charming little tale…

One quick thing before we get going…

Some people assume another fiction podcast influenced Not About Lumberjacks, but it was actually an educational show called Evolution Talk, by a guy named Rick Coste.

If that name sounds familiar, it’s because Rick narrated the role of Pepper in the Not About Lumberjacks story of the same title. He’s also popped up, here and there, on other episodes.

The effort Rick put into Evolution Talk impressed me so much that I wanted to do a show of my own where I aspired to that level of quality. How good is Rick’s podcast? Good enough that a book deal came to him!

On October 15, Evolution Talk will be released as a book and audiobook. You can visit evolutiontalk.com to follow links where you can preorder both. I may have been the book’s first preorder, and I plan to get the audiobook as well. Rick is its narrator, and it’s always nice hearing him read.

I’ll be sure to include links to Rick’s sites in the show notes, ‘cause he also has a bunch of audiodramas and other things out there. He’s a mighty snazzy person…

All right, let’s get to work!

In the Margins

Upon a shelf in the rare books collection of the University of North Tingale library was a massive tome seeming to have survived centuries in a forest without total decay; or perhaps pulled from an ancient, wrecked ship at the bottom of the ocean. Its pages looked like undulating layers of clouds on a stormy day pressed between stained brown binding board. Upon its massive spine, a worn archival plate reading: THE EVD COLLECTION. FOLIO 1031. Lifting the volume was like pulling a stone from a garden, but its true weight was in its pages, smooth vellum sheets covered in handwritten text in a language Kenna Baynes had never seen.

She spent the morning guessing common words: “and,” “the,” “to,” and “I.” From there, she back-formed the script to construct longer words, until creating a loose key of letters. In time, she discerned the book was a handwritten catalog of others—a folio of titles from an old collection. When Kenna got up to stretch her legs, she thought, “How have I never noticed this thing before? An old, one-foot thick, half-decayed-on-the-outside, but well-preserved-on-the-inside book doesn’t just appear.” Was it so new to the collection that someone set it down while entering it into the library’s catalog and databases?

After a short stroll around the four tables in the rare books room, she returned to the massive tome. Exhaustion overcame the urge to continue deciphering text, so Kenna carefully flipped through its pages. About half an inch in, she saw it, two lines written in the margin:

The modesty and merit

Of the little gray bird

She noted the lines in her journal and closed the EVD FOLIO. When she returned it to the shelf, she noticed a woman on the far side of the room watching her.

By the time Kenna grabbed her journal and approached, she was gone.

* * *

On the main floor of the library, Kenna pulled her phone from her backpack. She opened Google and typed: The modesty and merit of the little gray bird. The search returned a book title: Modesty and Merit; Or, The Gray-bird’s Story of Little May-Rose and John by Ferdinand Schmidt. A search of the library’s catalog revealed the book was part of The Delaney Juvenile Collection in Hawthorn Library.

On the way across campus to Hawthorn Hall, Kenna kept an eye out for the woman she saw in the rare books collection of the main library. There was something unsettling about the way she peered at Kenna through the shelves, even though she figured it was likely the woman was watching her struggle with such a massive book. She paused at the entrance of Hawthorn Library and pulled out her phone, pretending to look at it while surveying the area one last time before going in.

Kenna found the book on a shelf near the back of the collection. It had a brilliant blue cover with ALL THE CHILDREN’S LIBRARY embossed on the front. The spine depicted a young girl reading a book above the same words on the cover, with MODESTY AND MERIT beneath another image of the same girl walking along a path. Kenna took the book to the tables in the learning commons and sat down.

She paid close attention to the book’s front matter, preface, introduction, and initial chapter, but couldn’t determine what any of it had to do with the marginalia found in the folio. Before deciding if it was worth borrowing the book and reading at home, she flipped through its pages. On the first page of the fourth chapter, written in the margin, were the words:

Can be found

Beneath the eagle’s wings.

She removed her journal from her backpack and jotted down the margin note beneath the other. She whispered as she read.

The modesty and merit

Of the little gray bird

Can be found

Beneath the eagle’s wings.

On her phone, she searched for beneath the eagle’s wings, resulting in several similar book titles: a Ken Follett novel, a story set during the Vietnam War, and an older novel set during the Spanish-American War. If a clue was hidden in any of those books, it would have to wait for another day—Kenna was almost running late for work. She flipped through the rest of Modesty and Merit, finding no other marginalia, and placed the book on the reshelving cart on her way out.

* * *

On a good day, Kenna had a difficult time focusing at work, but after the day’s discoveries, she had a harder time than usual. Her job in food services at Medical City Tingale was not without its challenges—loading tall carts with meals and delivering to patient rooms—but once load-in from the kitchen was complete, the rest was mostly routine. On this particular day, the cooks berated her for moving slowly; her thoughts were devoted to books instead of matching meals to rooms.

When she took the job, her parents said she was retreating from the challenges of better work. Kenna was the first in her family to attend college, and her mother and father did not approve of her choice to pursue a career in library science; nor were they keen on her doing menial labor or working in a service industry like them.

“If you’re going to go into debt, study something that will pay off,” her father once told her.

Her reply of, “If you’re going to demand your child go to college, then make sure that child can pay for college,” was a point of contention between the three.

Her parents meant well—she knew that—but she felt like anything shy of becoming a doctor or lawyer would never be enough. After completing her undergraduate studies, Kenna entered the master’s program. Her father told her to get a job and not take on more loans, and her mom said, “You can only hide behind the safety of school so long before you have to step out into the real world.”

Her mother was right to an extent: Kenna’s plan was to get a PhD and teach. But a career in academia was as much a part of the “real world” as anything, where one was compensated with real money to pay real bills and have real concerns about the future.

She wished her parents acknowledged that.

* * *

There was a slight chill in the air as Kenna cut across campus on her way home from work. Soon, crisp breezes would send a blaze of leaves skittering about sidewalks and covering manicured grass beneath autumn’s quilt. There were days the arguments made by Kenna’s parents to leave college for a job weighed on her, but when fall arrived, there was no better place to be than school.

She stopped abruptly in the middle of the quad. Before her, illuminated atop a concrete block was a bronze statue of the university’s mascot: an eagle. During her shift at work, she’d rolled the four lines around in her head like a mantra:

The modesty and merit

Of the little gray bird

Can be found

Beneath the eagle’s wings.

Kenna glanced around at the mostly empty square and approached the sculpture. She looked at the massive bird tilted in flight with its wings spread wide; unfortunately, she saw nothing beneath them. She’d never been so close to the eagle. Even though others climbed onto its base and took photos, she was one to stay off the grass and keep to designated walkways. But she was there, so why not?

She reached up and grabbed the edge of the concrete pedestal, scaling the side with her feet. Standing at her full height, the eagle towered over her. She examined the statue and where it was mounted to its foundation, but nothing stood out. Working her way around to its back revealed the same. She jumped down behind the sculpture and looked around. In a small pile of stones at the base, one caught Kenna’s attention. Tucked away among the darker, weathered stones was a lighter chunk of granite. She grabbed it and pulled, expecting a weight that wasn’t there. She rolled it around in her hands, realizing it was a fake rock usually used to hide house keys. She struggled with the sliding panel at its bottom, eventually opening the stone.

Out fell a small metal cylinder with a screw-top lid. Inside was a piece of rolled-up paper. She unfurled it like a tiny scroll and struggled to make out what was written on it.

Moving around to the front of the eagle sculpture, in the floodlight illuminating the massive bird, she realized she was holding the full key to the text in the EVD COLLECTION FOLIO.

On the back appeared to be a short message in the strange script. She found a bench beneath a light and sat down. In her journal, she worked out what it said:

In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit…

* * *

The following morning, Kenna was at the main library when it opened. She took the collection’s copies of The Hobbit to a table and flipped through the pages, looking for another clue.

Nothing.

She’d noted there was also a single copy in the Delaney Juvenile Collection in Hawthorn Library, but she had something else to attend to first.

Kenna kept an eye out for the woman who seemed to be watching her the previous day as she made her way to the rare books collection. After checking in, she immediately went to the shelf where she found the massive folio.

Nothing.

It was not shaping up to be the morning she hoped for…

* * *

Kenna practically jogged across campus to Hawthorn Library. She took its copy of The Hobbit to a table and slowly turned its pages. There in the margin, beside Gollum’s second riddle to Bilbo Baggins, was another written in pencil:

Where does the wind come from

In its ever-turning gyre?

And can it be harnessed

From the top of a spire?

The only spire on campus was the clock tower at the top of the administration building. It never dawned on Kenna to see if it was accessible to students, but it was only a couple buildings away—and she still had time before her morning of classes started. She placed The Hobbit on the reshelving cart and made her way to the administration building.

Kenna’s only trips into the building were to the bursar’s office on the first floor. She wasn’t sure if she’d be allowed access beyond that, but she found an elevator that took her to the top floor. After wandering the hallways, she found a door leading to a stairwell. The stairs leading down were open, but a locked, retractable cage blocked access above. She knew she couldn’t pick the lock, and she doubted they’d let her up—even if she asked nicely. Kenna looked out the window, pondering her next move—and then she saw it…

* * *

The University of North Tingale was known for looking ahead—all while preserving its better traditions. Part of this future view was acknowledging the situation its students would face long after its Chancellor and older professors were gone. The university’s standing as an academic force was rivaled only by its focus on environmental sustainability—a campus powered completely by renewable energy.

Kenna stood before the three wind turbines powering the athletic complex. She quietly muttered the latest clue to herself:

Where does the wind come from

In its ever-turning gyre?

And can it be harnessed

From the top of a spire?

The only thing she could see on the tops of the turbines were warning lights for medevac helicopters on the way to the hospital where she worked. Even if Kenna could reach them, the area around the turbines was fenced and off limits. She walked along the fence line thinking about other places the riddle might refer to. Did she give up too easily in the administration building? Was there another spire on campus or in town—like a church—she was missing? But it seemed obvious the riddle alluded to the wind turbines. Kenna was so deep in thought that she almost tripped over the small pile of stones at the base of one of the fence posts.

Like the evening before, one of the stones was not as it seemed. Nestled in the hollow space inside the fake rock was another piece of paper with a message. She sat down and decoded it.

A book can be as strong

As the Tree of Heaven

Growing beside an apartment

in old Williamsburg

* * *

Kenna was never one to skip classes, but if there was ever the day to do so, it had arrived. She raced back to Hawthorn library and searched the catalog for A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. Thumbing through the book, she saw it in the margins:

Many things go unnoticed

As we race through our bustling days

But when viewed through the Enduring Arch

The seventh hour points the way.

There were several fountains on the campus grounds, but only one Enduring Arch, a memorial erected in honor of students and alumni no longer alive. Kenna made her way to the mall stretching out before the administration building and looked around the arch. It was tucked away on a shaded pathway beneath a canopy of trees, a bronze work not too much taller than a large doorway. She saw nothing at either base, or near the dedication carved into a stone on the walkway beneath it.

“The seventh hour points the way,” she whispered. Was the clue meant to be solved earlier that morning, or did she need to come back in the evening? She looked around for other clues, but nothing stood out. Kenna was about to give up when the clock tower chimed.

“When viewed through the Enduring Arch…”

Kenna stepped back along the path and lined the tower clock up with the top of the arch. While it was ten in the morning—time for the second class she’d miss that day—she traced a line with her eyes from the center of the clock face to the seventh hour. Following it further led to a cluster of bushes along the side of the administration building.

The campus was alive with motion, students and faculty rushing about their mornings. Kenna felt strange crossing the grass and approaching—and then looking behind—the bushes, but no one seemed to notice as they trotted along, lost in the business of their days.

In the bushes, Kenna found another fake stone. After deciphering the message inside, she read:

There is no lake in the green camp

Where we toil beneath a blazing sun

All under the watchful eye

Of the one who owns the shade.

This riddle wasn’t as obvious as A Tree Grows in Brooklyn to Kenna, but she figured the answer was somewhere back in the Delaney Juvenile Collection…

* * *

On her way to Hawthorn Library, Kenna searched green camp book on her phone. The first result was for a book called Stanley Yelnat’s Survival Guide to Camp Green Lake. Clicking the link brought her to an image of its cover. Written at the top: “Louis Sachar, author of the bestselling Holes.”

She’d heard of the book—even meant to read it when she was younger. Thumbing through it in the Delaney Collection led her to another clue.

* * *

The rest of Kenna’s day was a blur. The hint in the margin of Holes—The next clue you seek, May make us seem haughty; It can be found in the spot, That a C makes quite naughty—led her to three large letters spelling U N T. It was meant as a photo op in an age of social media, where students could pose beside free-standing letters as tall as them and let the world know they attended the University of North Tingale. Instead, students often posed to the left of the letters while holding signs with a large C written on them, while others bent to their sides, forming Cs with their arms. In the grass behind the U, Kenna found a stone. Its deciphered message read:

The heart of two dogs

Can be measured

By a boy’s love and

Something only an angel can plant.

In the margins of Where the Red Fern Grows, the next clue—It seems you’re getting closer, ever growing in your powers; the next stone that you seek, lies in a bed of flowers—led Kenna to the main university entrance. There on a hill, surrounded by a bed of flowers about to give in to cooler weather, was the university crest. She wandered up, not caring if she was stepping someplace she was not supposed to be at this point, and found a fake stone.

It was not lost on Kenna how direct the last clue was—seemingly written for her, letting her know she was getting close. It was a bit unsettling. But as she sat at the bottom of the hill with the stone’s note and the script key, her concerns disappeared. The next deciphered message read:

When your memories are not your own

And a nurturing father is not enough

You can escape Elsewhere on a sled

And be delivered to sweet music.

Kenna read Lois Lowry’s The Giver in junior high school. She found it to be a rather bleak read, but was moved when its main character hears music for the first time as he rides a sled down a big hill to a house full of lights. In the margins next to that scene, she read:

Just in case you’re wondering

Our intentions are rather legal

The final clue can be found behind

The university’s luckiest eagle

Kenna’s stomach rumbled as she crossed campus to a bronze bust of an eagle near the Student Union. She’d stopped by the water fountain at Hawthorn Library with each pass, but hadn’t eaten since breakfast. On a pedestal in the grass outside the union building was Baldy, a statue students rubbed on the head for luck at the beginning of each semester. Behind his base, hidden in bushes, was a stone. She opened it and took the final message into the union with her, where Kenna finally got a bite to eat.

* * *

She was exhausted after losing herself in a day unlike any other, and the first bite of a chicken wrap hit the spot. After another bite, Kenna reached in her backpack for her journal to decode the message. That’s when she saw her phone and realized she had several missed calls.

Work!

Not only had she skipped classes for the first time, she’d never missed a shift at work, either. The messages from her boss went from sounding concerned to angry. Kenna called back.

“Sarah, it’s Kenna—I’m so sorry I didn’t call. I’m not feeling well. I closed my eyes before getting ready for work and dozed off. I think I’m sick.”

She’d never lied, either.

“I’m sorry…I said I’m sorry. What?! Are you serious? This is the first time anything like this has happened—I never miss work…What do you mean? Well, if you want to be like that, you never give anyone a reason to feel motivated. You treat everyone like they’re beneath you—especially students…No, I don’t think I’m better than you. No, I don’t. Look, do I still have a job or not? Fine. If you’re going to be like this the first time I’ve ever called in sick, you’re probably doing me a favor. Take care!”

Kenna was glad she’d had a couple bites of her chicken wrap—she couldn’t imagine being upset on an empty stomach. After calming herself with a series of deep breaths, she finished eating and decoded the message.

When we were young

Toys seemed real.

Left on their own

Toys become real.

Kenna cleared her tray and rushed back to Hawthorn Library to find its copy of The Velveteen Rabbit.

* * *

As Kenna approached Hawthorn Hall, she noticed the woman from the rare books collection leaving the building. She chased after her, calling, “Hey! Hey!”

The woman walked faster, and Kenna broke into a full run. She cut the woman off.

“Can I help you?” the woman said.

It dawned on Kenna that she may have just chased down an innocent person. The woman appeared to be in her mid 60s and harmless.

“I’m sorry,” Kenna said. “It’s just…it’s been a strange couple of days. I swear I saw you watching me yesterday in the rare books collection at the main library.

The woman smiled and said, “You best hurry. The Eliza Vivian Delaney collection is about to close for the weekend…” Then, she turned and walked away…

* * *

While searching the collection’s catalog for their copy of The Velveteen Rabbit, Kenna realized she’d spent the last twelve hours racing about campus on a chase she hoped was about to end. Throughout the day, she’d vacillated between intrigued and terrified, wondering if she was being set up for a dreadful end. But the look on the woman’s face seemed to assure her she was safe. She went to the shelf to pull The Velveteen Rabbit, but was greeted by THE EVD COLLECTION FOLIO instead.

“Eliza Vivian Delaney,” Kenna said while shaking her head.

She picked up the massive tome and sat at a table. A piece of paper stuck out from its pages. Kenna removed it—happy to see she didn’t need to decipher yet another clue.

Kenna,

You have likely deduced these pages contain a listing of books from a collection. Some of those books are housed on the shelves around you. The others are here as well—just out of view.

Beneath the short note was a hand-drawn map of the library where she sat. A dashed line pointed back beyond the restrooms.

Kenna picked up Eliza Vivian Delaney’s big book and followed the path to a door reading NO ADMITTANCE.

She shifted the folio to her off arm and checked the door.

It was unlocked.

* * *

Kenna opened the door and saw a stairway leading down, the only light illuminating the way from the dim bulb in the stairwell. She cautiously descended, until reaching the bottom. A hallway lit by distant red EXIT signs spread out to her right and left. Kenna closed her eyes for a moment, hoping to adjust to the darkness. It worked. Before her, taped to the wall, was an arrow pointing to her left drawn on a piece of poster board.

Before the events of her last two days, Kenna would have turned back once she opened the door and looked down the dark staircase—if she even made it that far. She always played it safe, even though her parents believed her choice of study was reckless. Now, she found herself at a crossroads—without a job, support, or even much more than a vague idea what she’d do after graduation. Her mom was right: it was easy to hide behind the safety of school. But as Kenna looked down the old steam tunnel, she didn’t feel safe. If nothing else, she had a massive book in her hands that could serve as a weapon or shield. She slowly made her way down the hallway.

As she neared the end of the corridor, in the red glow of the EXIT sign, a figure seemed to rise up from the floor. Kenna froze. She turned her head back the way she came. If she dropped the book and ran, she could probably make it back to the light of the staircase—but she couldn’t do that to the old tome. She turned back to face the figure before her.

“What do you want?” she said.

“Don’t worry, Kenna.”

The voice was familiar.

“Who are you?”

“You’re safe.”

Kenna stepped closer and recognized her Special Collections and Archives professor.

“Dr. Sheng? What’s going on?”

“I’m about to show you.”

She turned and descended the staircase behind her.

* * *

Kenna followed her professor. As she passed through the door at the bottom of the stairs, she saw an old bomb shelter sign on the wall. On the other side of the door was a small library.

About a dozen people, ranging in age from someone who could be Kenna’s big brother to a woman who could be her great grandmother, sat at tables in front of rows of shelves. Dr. Sheng took the folio from Kenna and sat with the others. She gestured for Kenna to sit in a chair facing the group.

“We’re sorry if we startled you,” Dr. Sheng said. “Consider it a bit of clever hazing.”

“Hazing…for what?” Kenna said.

“We’d like to offer you a job in the better part of the Eliza Vivian Delaney Collection. Well, not better—there are so many wonderful books upstairs. Perhaps ‘the more interesting’ part.”

“What’s going on?”

The woman Kenna spotted in the main library’s rare books collection spoke.

“Every six to eight years, we notice the right person to help carry on this collection. We’ve all been that quiet soul content to be alone in their studies and the books they love.”

Kenna looked around the room, noticing two other professors she’d had during her undergraduate studies. The younger man tended to the service desk upstairs.

“Our offer is simple: as secure a job as any you will find—one that offers opportunities to teach and travel if you desire?”

“Doing what?” Kenna said.

“Teaching here at the university if you wish? But mostly, helping us find and catalog books that never existed.”

“That makes no sense. How could you catalog books that don’t exist?”

“Well, books that were never published. That’s what’s down here: manuscripts found in piles at estate sales. Novels stored on old hard drives. Stories deserving a wider audience than a handful of friends and family, but never seeing publication. Some of the greatest books ever written spent their lives hidden away in drawers or boxes, never seen by the public—but still, every bit as deserving to be read as many classics.”

Dr. Sheng patted the EVD Folio and said, “That’s what’s cataloged in this book.”

“But why the strange code?” Kenna said.

“Miss Delaney was a very playful woman. One of the university’s first librarians, she fell in love with books—particularly children’s books—and never outgrew them. She developed the code as a child to communicate with a friend. Don’t worry, the folio’s contents are now deciphered and in a database.

“Eliza had an uncle who wanted to become an author, but never saw publication. He helped build the steam tunnels beneath the university, back when one needed academic or social standing to see publication. His books are the first entries in the folio—an accounting of their titles, a biography, and a description of the books he wrote. Some of his manuscripts are on the shelves behind us. Miss Delaney believed it was a shame how many great writers are never read. She made it part of her life’s work to find and catalog other lost manuscripts. We carry on her tradition, and we’d love for you to help.”

Kenna dreamed of one day working in an ornate library, a palace to literature made of cut stone, rich woods, and gleaming brass. The heart of the Delaney Collection could have been the library at any old elementary school built in the 60s: a concrete space full of metal shelves, lit by fluorescent lights. But it seemed fitting that such a collection was housed in an old bomb shelter. It was a comforting thought that if the world became fire, ‘books that never existed’ would be the books to survive.

Kenna smiled and said, “So, when do I start?”

* * *

Epilogue

SIX YEARS LATER

Kenna and Dr. Sheng spied on the potential new recruit, a quiet bookworm named Roger.

“Roger? Who names their kid Roger these days?” Dr. Sheng said as they watched him tinker with a fake stone behind the massive eagle statue. He opened it and looked around when he found the rolled-up paper within. Kenna and Dr. Sheng averted their gaze and returned to acting like two colleagues who bumped into each other on the way to teach their next classes.

Roger went to the same bench Kenna sat on when she was given the code’s key and directed to the first book in her playful hazing. This time, though, Kenna got to write the clue:

A patchwork quilt

Is the best defense

against a frenzied storm

On a dark and stormy night…

* * *

[Quirky music fades in…]

Christopher Gronlund:

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks.

Theme music, as always, is by Ergo Phizmiz. Story music this time was by Adriel Fair, Trevor Kowalski, and Many Moons Ago–all licensed through Epidemic Sound.

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

November’s anniversary episode is on its way, and I can assure you, there will be no mention of lumberjacks. Especially not a rough-and-tumble lumberjack with a heart of…tin?

It’ll all make sense in November…

[Quirky music fades out…]

[The sound of a chopping ax.]

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