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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! It comes in at three tales this year:

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

But first, the usual content advisory…

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

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

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

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

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

And Patreon supporters get an instant third entry.

This also applies internationally.

Check the episode show notes for more info.

All right, let’s get to work!

The World Beneath Her Brush

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

* * *

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

* * *

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

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

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

* * *

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

* * *

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

Three months later, she arrived.

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

One day, she finally asked about the unfinished globe.

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

“What if I finished it?”

“We need to focus on work that pays.”

“What if I did it in my spare time?”

Vicente shrugged. “Up to you…”

* * *

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

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

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

Vicente shrugged. “Up to you…”

* * *

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

A phone call changed everything.

“Hello?” she said.

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

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

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

* * *

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

This is how it went for years.

* * *

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

* * *

The King of French Fries

[Music and Singing…]

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

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

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

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

It could be worse—we could be seagulls…

* * *

[Music and Singing…]

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

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

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

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

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

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

Except French fries!

(I’ll fight to the end for those…)

* * *

[Music and Singing…]

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

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

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

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

If we’re noticed at all…

* * *

[Music and Singing…]

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

[Music and Singing…]

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

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

For I am the King of French Fries!

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

* * *

Suburban Home

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

“Hello?” I said.

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

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

“What did they do this time?” I said.

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

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

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

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

“So, what did you do?” I said.

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

“How’s mom doing?”

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

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

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

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

“All right. Bye, Dad.”

“Bye. Love you!”

“Love you, too.”

* * *

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

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

Nancy stormed away and into her house.

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You can’t be serious!”

“Oh, but I am.”

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

His reply?

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

Not a single person said no.

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

“We can’t even turn them on.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She responded with a scream.

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

There was no response.

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sorry we scared you.”

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

“You did all this for me?” she said.

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

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

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

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“For what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you.”

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

(Hell, maybe even more…)

[Quirky music fades in…]

Christopher Gronlund:

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Quirky music fades out…]

[The sound of an axe chopping.]

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

[Listen]

[Intro music plays]

[Woman’s Voice]

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

[Music fades out]

Christopher Gronlund:

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The longer answer is this…

* * *

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

* * *

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

Well…

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the annual Christmas episode is committing to a bit.

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

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

I likely have enough Christmas stories for a collection.

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Merry Christmas!

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

[Listen]

[Intro music plays]

[Woman’s Voice]

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

[Music fades out]

Christopher Gronlund:

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

* * *

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

* * *

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

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

* * *

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

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

She was not the only one to mention the departure.

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

I hope YOU enjoyed it…

* * *

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

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

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

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

[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 second-person point of view tale in which YOU are a lumberjack!

But first, the usual content advisory…

“Old Growth” deals with death, gore, anguish, being lost in a forest, being alone in the dark, and…creatures. Despite all that I’m back to another episode without swearing. Look, it’s an environmental horror story about finding a sense of balance, okay! It’s not even gory at every turn…more just…creepy in its intent.

Before getting into the tale, I want to thank everyone for supporting Not About Lumberjacks and helping make this episode…the 50^th full story episode of the show!

Yep, the big 50!

And to honor the occasion, I’m doing a giveaway without making you jump through too many hoops or forcing you to share things online and tagging people—I’m not a big fan of that. (Although you’ll get an extra chance if you do…share things, that is—But seriously, I’m not gonna make you tag anyone ‘cause I hate that tactic.)

Anyway…

People have been asking about Not About Lumberjacks t-shirts and other merchandise for a while. It’s coming, but I’m not quite there yet. So, this is your chance to be one of the few people on the planet with a Not About Lumberjacks t-shirt!

Here’s how it works (and this applies internationally—none of that, “Contest valid only in the United States” stuff):

To get one entry in the random drawing, all you have to do is email me at NALStories@gmail.com and tell me your favorite episode or something you love about the show.

That’s it!

If you email me and tell me that…AND let me know you’ve shared this episode (or your fave)…or something else you love about the show online somewhere…or that you’re subscribed to my YouTube Channel, newsletter…anything like that, and you’ll get a second entry.

Finally, if you’re a Patreon patron, or sign up for my Patreon and let me know you did, you’ll get a third chance.

I’ll do the random drawing on Saturday, December 23 and contact the winner then. (And just so you know: all contact will be directly from me, so if you get contacted through an Instagram account meant to look like me, or any place other than NALStories@gmail.com, it’s not me. I only mention this because I know that even when someone tiny does some kind of a giveaway, scammers try figuring out ways to exploit it. You’ll know me by the email address and my babbling thank you for supporting the show!)

So that’s it, and again…this applies to international fans of the show, too.

All right, let’s get to work!

Old Growth

You’ve waited for over an hour for the skidder to arrive, to grab your piles of export logs and haul them off to the loaders. All the radios are silent, even when calling to other crews on the mountain.  You wonder if it’s a prank, despite your tendency toward a seriousness that instills apprehension in others from having needless fun when you’re around. You’re the one who retires early to your bunkhouse room while others stay up late in the cookhouse playing cards. You’re the one who reminds the crew to keep focus on-site, knowing that a wandering mind does not last long in the timber.

If they are up to something, you’ll make sure they regret it.

* * *

You climb out of your harvester and begin hoofing it back to the yard. Maybe it’s a problem with your radio and others are waiting for you—maybe there’s a reason the skidder didn’t return for more logs or no one has walked out to tell you something’s broken down, and that everyone gets a bit of a break on a lovely early autumn morning.

You walk along, listening to your footfalls, taking the cool air into your lungs and releasing each breath in a slow fog that lingers in the still air. Before you and to your left, all the way down the mountain, lie the efforts of your work. You tell yourself it will all one day come back, the same thing you tell yourself on every mountain you’ve helped strip bare. To your right: old growth forest that doesn’t come back the same way ever again….at least not in our lifetimes.

Not in many lifetimes.

* * *

Ahead, you spot the skidder. Its door is open, but Vinny Pastor is not inside.

“Even if there’s a break for maintenance,” you think, “he’d have at least brought everything back to the loaders.”

As you get closer, you hear it: a sound like a dog chewing on a bone. You slowly move to the far side of the vehicle, curious to see what’s between it and the trees. You step back on an angle, putting distance between you and the skidder as you poke your head around.

At first, you think it’s a wolf feeding on a recent kill, but there are no wolves in this part of the state—especially this high up in the mountains. Besides, it’s much larger than a wolf. You’ve heard that deer sometimes chew into bones for minerals, but this is too large for a deer, and elk stay down lower in the valleys.

When it stands on its hind legs and stretches to its full height, you catch a glimpse of the insides of Vinny Pastor. Ribs stick out in directions they were never intended to point—most of what’s inside is gone, dripping from the face of the creature before you. In your last effort to rationalize what you’re seeing, your think to yourself, A bear?” But as it looks at you with eyes not too unlike your own, a face more ape-like than ursine, you now understand that sometimes the things behind legends are real.

Everyone’s heard the stories and names: Bigfoot, Sasquatch, the Fouke Monster, and Skunk Ape; Yeti, Yeren, Orang Pendek, and Yowie. They have always been just that: stories, with blurry photos or footage as “proof” the legends exist. But you’ve seen no strange tracks in all your years in the mountains, and only heard stories meant to frighten green loggers coming into camp.

Now you think at least some of the shaky videos you’ve seen on television were real. As you look at a mouth slicked with the blood of a friend, you understand how fear would make it difficult to film with a steady hand. “If I’m to be next,” you think, “I’ll be the one to finally get conclusive proof.” But something so massive would be on top of you before you reached your phone in your pocket.

Running back the way you came isn’t an option. Even if you did make it back to the harvester, it would offer no shelter. The slope leading down is littered with stumps, a field of obstacles even without being pursued. A bear can run 40 miles an hour going downhill, and you imagine the hairy creature before you could likely do the same—if not move even faster.

Instead, you retreat into the forest.

* * *

As you rush through the trees, you listen behind you, surprised to hear nothing. Perhaps the creature decided a meal at its feet is better than chasing down another bite. As you stop, the only sound is your breath and the racing beat of your heart. You close your eyes and inhale deeply through your nose…out through the mouth. Repeat. When the pounding in your ears subsides, you open your eyes.

It’s darker than it should be. Not nighttime dark, but dark enough that you look to the canopy to see if storm clouds have moved in as you’ve calmed yourself. Layers of foliage high above let in just enough light to make out where you are.

You miss this kind of forest, the type of place you wandered as a child. No monoculture waiting to be harvested; instead, old growth ponderosa pines, juniper, Douglas firs, and mountain hemlock. Lichen-covered roots search for nutrients, velvet green arteries pumping life through the dirt.

You once listened to a podcast about the web of life hidden beneath forests, a network like old phone wires allowing trees to communicate. Old timber sacrificing energy to younger trees across the forest grid, giving up their life for future growth. The DNA of fish found inside inland trees, nutrients shared from tall cousins near shorelines. You remember listening and thinking, “I wish all humans were as generous.” It was one of those days you felt shame about what you do for a living.

You sit still for a minute, listening out for the creature while considering other things it might have actually been. “Would the crew have gone to such lengths for a prank?” Anything to ground yourself again in reality.

It’s only when you hear the laughing of a child that you know for certain something about this place is not right.

* * *

You consider it might be stress, or maybe the wind moving through the treetops, carrying and distorting distant sounds that resonate unlike their source upon arrival. You once visited a relative in Texas and camped beside a massive granite dome that crackled in the night as the heat of the day rose up from it like old ghosts. The wind made a bobcat’s call sound like a screaming crone by the time it wound its way through the treetops and settled into camp. It was the only time you were ever frightened while camping.

But when you hear the laughing child say your name, you know it’s not just the wind.

You run, until catching a whiff of something familiar: thick and rich tobacco. The sticky scent lingers in the humid air, reminding you of your grandfather smoking a cigar after dinner and telling you stories about logging by hand. For a time after his passing, you even tried smoking a cigar after every dinner, but it was a thing that smelled much better than it tasted—especially the morning after.

You spot the source of the smoke, a massive, hairy figure sitting on a branch in a tree that doesn’t belong here. The tree’s trunk flares at its base like thick ribbons slicing into the ground. Embers from its inhabitant’s cigar burn hot, turning into fireflies that float off into the darkness. You don’t know whether you should speak or turn back, but it doesn’t matter. Something on the path before you rises from the moss into a crooked stance and fixes its eyes upon you.

It’s much smaller than the creature at the skidder feasting on Vinny. You look for a branch or stone—anything with which to defend yourself should it charge. It opens a mouth that looks like it could stretch wide enough to swallow you whole. You realize what you thought was bristling hair covering its body is actually grass. It holds a single bronze bell in each of its hands. The melody and tone begins pulling you into its spell…

* * *

“Follow me!”

Where the trail splits, a woman stands before you, waving you her way. You pull yourself from the chiming of the bells and do as you’re told, figuring if it’s to not end well, better it be at the hands of something you can comprehend than a twisted creature with a mouth full of fangs.

When she turns, you see something move behind her: a tail. Following it up to where it connects at the bottom of her spine, you realize her back is a hollowed hole ringed with flaking bark like a dead tree. Still, you follow her over the hill.

* * *

In the grove before you, an old woman bends over a bleeding tree stump, mixing potions in a stone bowl. She adds water and sap, ground leaves and earth. Some of the concoctions are fluid and colorful, while others are viscous and brown. Salves are placed into small pots. When she’s done, she gets to work.

All the trees are bleeding, deep red sap oozing from gashes in their trunks. Some are saved, while others bleed out, shriveling tightly until shattering into piles of sawdust. The potions are for all the broken animals, beautiful, innocent beings gasping for breath all around. Like the trees, some are rescued while others perish. Beyond the marred trees and wounded animals lies a long tunnel of fire and earth scoured by man.

The old woman looks up after tending to a deer, which rises up on spry legs and leaps into the trees.

She says, “I will not claim my actions don’t matter because they do to this land and these creatures. But I can only do so much. Why must you do so much to keep me so busy?”

* * *

You turn and rush down a green trail cutting through a forest that reminds you of visiting your relatives on the East Coast. What it must have been like to arrive on those shores, seeing new land after such a long and arduous journey. It smells like those family summer trips, rich earth and distant salt and sand. You were taught this is where the nation began, until discovering there were already many nations beyond that coastline.

Before you stands a short man with hair like porcupine quills. He raises a bow and fires an arrow, hitting you in the stomach. You fall fast asleep…

* * *

You dream a myriad creation stories, lore that carried all people forward no matter where they rose. In time, tales and science collide and merge, with many finding room for only one or the other, while others make space for both. Civilizations rise and fall—some legends are lost to time, while others are carried with elders to new lands never to be forgotten. In faraway places, people come together to discover they are not so different.

You dream about the Great Turn. Smokestacks rising above forests; an insatiable desire for more. Old stories are replaced by a lust for new industry. Simple trade among small bands becomes a wicked pursuit where people cheat their neighbors. Prosperity at the suffering of others. Dwellings that once housed entire families are toppled for bigger homes inhabited by fewer people. More material is needed.

They come with axes and saws, taking entire forests instead of thanking nature for only what is needed—sacrifice for sacrifice. Soon, timber powers the machines used to take even more and start newer industries. Lumberjacks and loggers become legendary, romanticized in stories, song, film, and television. They tell tales about the forests and we tell even taller tales about them.

You learn this truth: every forest has its guardians, and you and your crew have awakened them.

* * *

You wake up on your back, staring at the canopy. Trees on all sides of you rise high, meeting above your head like a cathedral. The sky is gone, replaced by twisted branches blocking your view toward the heavens. How is it you can even see?

An old man clears his throat and, when you notice him, offers you a hand up. His other hand is a source of light, glowing with no visible means but his will. When you’re standing once again, he smiles and turns away, begins walking toward a tight tunnel of branches. The entire chamber pulses like a heart.

You remember hearing an old myth, that if one spots a perfect circle in a forest that it’s a portal to other places. An old yard boss told you, “If it’s deep in the timber, it’s always a gateway to another time or dimension, even if you don’t see it. That’s where the ancient things come and go.”

Is this the tunnel of light people who’ve crossed in death, only to return, say is the final walk we take? Your apprehension is noticed; the old man grins and turns into a raven. He flies down the tunnel lighting the way.

“Trickster,” you think, and refuse to follow.

* * *

The cathedral of branches collapses around you, snaking along the ground and grabbing you by the feet. Green tendrils shoot out from brambled walls, wrapping your arms in leaves and vines. When you try calling out, a coil of vegetation muffles you. You’re lifted from the ground, extremities pulled to their limits—Vitruvian in Green. Never one to dwell on death, you have imagined it on occasion: car wrecks, drowning while kayaking, rolling over in the harvester and tumbling down the mountain.

Pulled apart by a living forest never made the list.

“Just do it!” you try shouting despite being silenced.

What must you look like, suspended and stretched to your limits in the center of the heart of the forest?

* * *

The ground shakes, and the vines holding you taut resonate with the pain of every tree and animal taken beyond the agreement of old arrangements. How can one person endure such suffering all at once? The agony transforms you.

With each thundering wave comes the groaning and crackling of ancient hardwood pushed to its limits. You realize the wind in your face is not from some faraway place, but from the exhalation of the venerable god now standing before you.

His ancient visage commands attention, bright green eyes hold you in his gaze. A pointed nose gives way to a mustache and beard like a tangle of roots at the base of a tree. His brow rises into smaller branches, projecting a long-forgotten wisdom. His hair is moss and leaves.

“You have learned a difficult lesson today, little one.”

The vines loosen their grip.

“There is still good in you. Were there not, you would not have made it this far.”

“What do you want from me?” you say.

“I believe you know.”

“Am I supposed to apologize? I’m sorry! Is that what you want?”

“No. I want you to carry this message back to your kind. You, little one, are a problem. Your brothers and sisters, too. You have enough, but always insist on taking more. When you were new, we welcomed you as our own. You were a different kind of animal, but as much a part of The Circle as the rest of us. In time, though, your hearts filled with greed instead of wonder. It was not enough to live in harmony with the rest of us.

“There have always been thoughtful creatures among your kind, but their words have been silenced by ignorance and power. There is no shame in that, for we became silent as well. That was our undoing. It is time to make our presence known again. The Old Groves stand with the lands, seas, and the skies. Where one is harmed, we all are harmed; where one cries out in pain, so go us all. And we have grown tired of you.”

“I don’t know what you want me to do,” you say.

“That is for you to figure out. I am not here to make demands on you, but to ask you to consider your place in The Circle and what you might do to change things. Before it is too late.”

The vines holding you in the heart of the forest release their grip. Before you fall, the Old Growth God catches you in his hand and places you on the ground.

“Remember this, little one…”

* * *

As the Ancient God departs, an old woman steps out from the inside of an elder tree that shouldn’t be there. The ground is now a pond beneath your feet. You panic for a moment, expecting to fall in and be soaked, but your feet find purchase on the water’s surface. You walk to the shore, where the old woman looks at you and smiles. She reaches up and touches your cheek.

“It is not often people make it this far,” she says. “You would be amazed by how many fight back, thinking they can win a battle with nature. Here, and out there, harmony is the path to survival. In the long times, even we will be gone. Your life is not even a flash before our eyes.”

When she raises her arms, the far edge of the well-rooted grove is bathed in soft light shining through the trees. You hear the familiar grumbling of Vinny’s skidder hauling logs.

“I have set things right,” the old woman says. “Now, you must do the same.”

You step into the light.

* * *

Vinny Pastor brings the skidder to a stop and opens the door.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” you say, even though you’re not sure.

“We were worried about you. Kept trying to call and got no response. What were you doing back there?”

“I thought I saw something in the trees.”

“Don’t know what it would have been. Sure we’ve scared almost everything off the mountain by now. Want a ride down for lunch?”

“Sure.”

Vinny rotates the seat enough for you to squeeze in and stand in the corner of the cab on the ride back to the crew.

* * *

After lunch, you say, “Do you guys ever question what we do?”

“What about it?” Nash Anderson says.

“Like this job. Should we really be cutting such old growth?”

Pam Clark takes a swig of coffee from her Thermos and says, “Hell yeah, we should! There’s a lot more money up here than down there.”

“Yeah,” you say, “but what about the future? Don’t you want your kids and grandkids to see old timber stands like these?”

Vinny says, “That’s what state and national forests are for.”

Dakota Grant winks at you and says, “You going woke on us?”

“No. I just think…”

“Think what?”

“I just think there are some places we need to leave be.”

Your boss, Colton Lewis, looks down the mountain and says, “Too late for that.”

“You sure you’re okay?” Vinny says. “You looked like you’d seen a ghost when you came out of the trees.”

“I don’t know what I saw,” you say, “but I think we need to leave.”

“Leave what?”

“The mountain.”

“Not happening,” Nash Anderson says.

“Then I need to leave…”

As you get up and walk off, Colton says, “Why don’t you just finish out your shift? Ride back to camp and sleep on it. Take a day or two and think about things.”

But you keep moving, side-stepping the stumps of ancient trees you toppled with the harvester.

“You’re serious?” Colton says. “All right—fine. We’ll pack up all your crap and mail it with your final check!”

You stop and turn back for a final look at another forest that will soon be gone. It may fall, but others still stand. As you walk down the mountain, you think about where you stand in The Circle and how you will use your voice to speak for those who cannot.

[Quirky music fades in…]

Christopher Gronlund:

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks…this episode and all the others. Hitting the 50^th full story episode knowing there are people who’ve listened to every tale makes this a joy to do. Don’t forget to check out the show notes for the giveaway rules if that sounds like your kind of thing.

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

Sound effects are made in-house or from Epidemic Sound and freesound.org. I also got some of the woodier sounds effects in this episode from Bluezone Corporation. They have some cool stuff. Visit nolumberjacks.com for information about the show, the voice talent, and the music. Also, for as little as a dollar a month, you can support the show at patreon.com/cgronlund. And remember, if you’re a patron or you sign up, you’ll get an extra chance in the t-shirt drawing.

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

[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…

* * *

There’s a line in the latest Not About Lumberjacks story, “Lakeview Estates,” that goes like this:

“Since its construction in 1961, Nate’s Corner stood at the crossroads of Kimball Avenue and Dove Road in the tiny East Texas town of Tooksberry.”

Tooksberry is entirely fictional, but anyone living in Southlake or Grapevine, Texas will know Nate’s Corner as Yate’s Corner, an actual gas station and tiny grocery store that sits at the crossroads of those streets, with Kimball establishing the border between the two towns.

Whether calling them Easter Eggs or inside jokes, Not About Lumberjacks stories are full of little things that don’t detract from the tales if you’re not aware of the reference (that would be a cruddy move on my part) but adds a little something more for those in the know.

* * *

Tooksberry, spelled T-o-o-k-s-b-e-r-r-y, is a nod to how so many places in Texas are named after other places, but often spelled or pronounced differently. And its rivalry with nearby Holstein is based on local rivalries of once rural towns now thinking they are much more than they really are.

As so many places nationwide (and even worldwide) have grown, most of us are familiar with this kind of development and the competitiveness that often comes with it.

Geographically, I used Harleton, Texas as Tooksberry’s location, even though it’s nothing like real-life Harleton. But my friend [and Monday night online gaming group rival], Jim Bearden (aka: PeePaw), grew up in Harleton—so that’s a nod to him.

And speaking of my Monday night gaming group, the protagonist of “Firing the Muse”—Warren Quinn—is a mash-up of the first names of two other friends who have killed me countless times in Among Us and destroyed me in rounds of Golf With Your Friends.

* * *

I love working little things like this into stories, but I always ensure these tiny additions never confuse those not in the know. Many of us have read a book or watched a movie where we’ve felt we’re not in on the joke. It can feel every bit as annoying as sitting with people talking about a past you’re not part of, or even going as far as deliberately telling inside jokes and stories meant to exclude you for a laugh.

Those kinds of things should always be seamless. And if it’s a joke you’re going for and not just a reference, you should always be ready to make fun of yourself.

* * *

Four years ago, when I released “Alone in HQ,” I took a poke at podcasters—some of whom are very precious about what they do. In the story, I say:

“What happens to a podcaster during the apocalypse, he wonders, when there are no more get-rich schemes to be shared, movies or television shows to review, or true crime to talk about; no more self-important hot takes on popular culture, long-winded interviews to schedule, or dude-bros who think they’re actually funny?”

Even if you’re not that familiar with podcasts, most people would assume the kinds of shows I mentioned are popular. (I know people who don’t listen to podcasts, but have asked me what kind of interviews I do or if I talk about true crime.)

It would be a low blow to tease these kinds of podcasters and leave myself out of the criticism. So…I even make fun of myself in that section with these lines:

“Employee #312566 likes to think the guy with that lumberjack show found a solar charger and still writes and records his stories. Maybe with twelve years and little else to do, if the power ever comes back, he’ll have enough of a backlog to finally release his show again on a regular schedule.”

At the time I published that story, “Alone in HQ” got bumped for more than a year by other stories I’d already written. I had one friend in particular who couldn’t wait for a post-apocalyptic story written by me, so it was my way of admitting, “Yeah, I kind of slacked on the show recently…”

* * *

At the time of this writing, I recently went to East Texas for an annual writing retreat I do with a friend. One night around the campfire, my friend Deacon mentioned Stephen King’s The Dark Tower series—how King blended characters from other stories into that, and how characters from that series are mentioned in other King books. (King’s kind of known for that.)

Nods like that to fans are a time-honored tradition for many writers. We see a character named Jenos Idanian in the I, Jedi Star Wars book. The name was used as an alias by Han Solo and adopted by another character after him. Jenos Idanian is an anagram for “Indiana Jones,” a character played by actor Harrison Ford—who was also our favorite smuggler from Star Wars: A New Hope.

C.S. Lewis wrote a poem in Through the Looking Glass in which the first letter of each line spells Alice Pleasance Liddell, the name of a child he knew. And F. Scott Fitzgerald included an epigraph in The Great Gatsby attributed to a poet he created in his earlier novel, This Side of Paradise.

It’s fun for authors to give nods to other works and for readers to dig and discuss these literary surprises.

If you miss these things, they usually affect nothing, but it you recognize them, it’s like a secret handshake or password to an elite club.

* * *

Another example from a Not About Lumberjacks story—this time, from “Gerald’s Grail.”

They spent the afternoon meandering around town, ending the day in a convenience store that had a few arcade games in the back. Gerald and Brian got excited when they saw a new cabinet next to Joust.

“What’s Tron?” Akara said.

Gerald and Brian looked each other in mock amazement before Brian said, “We really need to get you caught up on some movies you’ve missed. Trust me on this one…”

This reference to the Tron arcade game is obvious to Gen-Xers, but there’s more in that little exchange.

My dear friend, Curtis Hart, loves the movie Tron. (And he’s been a big supporter of Not About Lumberjacks from the start.) Somewhere along the way—I think in 2010—he posted something about Tron on Facebook.

My reply: “What’s Tron?”—knowing full well what it is and how much Curtis loves it.

It was one of those goofy things that caught on, to the point friends started replying to Curtis’s future posts with random images asking, “Is this Tron?”—or doing posts of their own, setting up the in-joke.

Thirteen years later, we try being a bit move covert about dropping “What’s Tron?” into things, so…slipping it into a Not About Lumberjacks story made me laugh out loud when I wrote it, and I would have loved seeing Curtis’s face as he listened.

But as goofy as forcing it into a story was, it does serve a purpose. The character asking “What’s Tron?” is a Cambodian refugee. Growing up, I had friends with parents and grandparents from Mexico, but no friends born in other countries until the later 70s and early 80s, when people from Vietnam and Cambodia moved to my hometown. Things my friends and I took for granted were unknown and even challenged by our new friends who lived lives we couldn’t fathom.

Akara Mok is a nod to those old friends and the things I learned about the world from them.

We couldn’t believe they weren’t aware of some pop culture reference that was second nature to us, and they couldn’t believe we assumed they’d know, given how different their lives were from ours up until that point.

* * *

There’s one final inside joke right up front in the latest Not About Lumberjacks story—the name.

I live in an area that was once a bit rural, despite being adjacent to more populated spaces. Today, the area is not only developed, but near some of the wealthiest towns in Texas. Where an outlaw biker club was in the 1980s is now a suburban ranch (likely for the tax breaks). Where a cult compound stood is now office space. And multi-million-dollar homes stand on sites where tiny homes once dotted the land.

In high school, I worked as a dishwasher and busboy at a restaurant called The Catfish Hut. At a bend in the road on the final approach to that slog-of-a-weekend-job was a trailer park called Lakeview Estates.

Today, it’s the site of million-dollar homes in a housing development called—you guessed it—Lakeview Estates.

To this day, that’s one of my favorite inside jokes…

* * *

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 November, it’s not only the annual anniversary episode, but the 50^th story episode of the show! So, what’s in store for the most NOT Not About Lumberjacks story of the year? How about this:

The first second-person story I think I’ve ever written in which YOU are a lumberjack…

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