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.

It’s time once again for the annual Not About Lumberjacks Christmas episode! 

If you’re new, here, in 2017 I gathered up all my shorter short stories (like stocking stuffers) and released them for the holidays. A tradition began, and each year I now release several random tales, with at least the final story being a Christmas tale of some sort.

This year’s stories:

• “Bigfoot’s Here!” – A surprise involving a Bigfoot costume does not go as planned!
• “Above and Below” – Three survivors of a nuclear war—a billionaire in his bunker, the head of his security detail, and a technical writer who was hiking in the mountains when the missiles came down—navigate their way through a very different world.
• “Gifts Through Time” – A woman finds three items in an antique shop and does everything she can to find out the stories behind them.

Before getting to the stories, I want to call attention to the two additional narrators who helped with this episode.

Cynthia Griffith is now stranger to Not About Lumberjacks. Next to me, no other person has read more of my work for the show. While she’s pulled back from all social media, you can learn more about her on the Not About Lumberjacks Talent page.

* * *

AJ Fidalgo is normally a cast member in audiodramas — Madison On the Air, No Return, The Silt Voices, and Nine to Midnight to name a handful — but he proves he has narrating skills as well! He brings the second story, “Above and Below,” to life.

You can learn more about AJ of his website, ajfidalgo.com. That’s A-J Fidalgo — F-I-D-A-L-G-O dot com.

If you’re in need of an audio drama cast member or someone to narrate a story for you, I can say with confidence that he’s great to work with!

* * *

And now, the usual content advisory…

Spread throughout the three stories making up this year’s Christmas episode are gun violence, minor gore, passing mention of implied suicidal ideation, conventional and nuclear wars, deaths, a vehicle accident (including the sounds…in case you’re listening to this while driving), and—of course—swearing!

No matter what you celebrate this season (or not), I wish you and yours all the best as we face down the end of another year.

All right, let’s get to work!

BIGFOOT’S HERE!

When Bigfoot stormed into the cabin, Hugh Mitford shot him in the head. The creature stood in the doorway for a moment and then fell backwards into the snow outside. Hugh’s friends, Nick and Garrett, looked on in shock. Zach said, “Where’s Ernie?”

Hugh gazed at the Glock 20 in his hand.

“Oh, shit…”

“You think?” Nick said. “But…he went to the bathroom a few minutes ago.”

Zach got up and knocked on the door.

“Ernie? You in there, Ernie?”

Cold air rushed into the hallway when he stepped in. He went to the open window and looked outside. Tracks in the snow going around the corner near the front porch. He turned and ran to the front door.

“Oh, my fuckin’ God, Hugh—you killed Ernie! I told you to put that fuckin’ gun up!”

Hugh raised a hand to his mouth and said, “I thought he was a bear.”

“Bears fuckin’ hibernate!” Zach shouted. He bent down for a closer look.

Blood flowed from the bullet hole and eye holes of the Bigfoot masked ripped halfway off Ernie’s face. Zach braced himself and pulled it off. He raced down the stairs and shared his dinner with the bushes. He didn’t look down at his friend when he went back inside.

“What are we gonna do?” Garrett said.

The five friends met up at Nick’s cabin for a long weekend before the rush of the holidays got the best of them. An unexpected storm coming off the Pacific and burying them in an early-season mountain snow was not in the plans.

“Not much we can do except wait until the roads are passable,” Zach said.

“I’m…I’m sorry,” Hugh said. “The door flew open, and I saw something big and hairy about to charge at us. I’m sorry…”

Garrett put a hand on Hugh’s shoulder. “He told me he had a surprise for us. I guess that was it.”

The four stood in the cabin’s great room trying to process what had just happened. Eventually, Zach said, “Nicky, can you go to his room and get a blanket or his sleeping bag? Something to wrap him in…”

* * *

The next morning, when Zach woke up and went to the porch to check on Ernie, he wasn’t there. He pounded on everyone’s doors. Nick, Garrett, and Hugh staggered out.

“What’s up?” Garrett said.

“Ernie’s gone.”

Nick snapped awake. “What?!”

“I woke up, went out front to check on him, and he’s not there. Did any of you move him?”

They all shook their heads no.

“You’re sure…?”

Their heads bobbed up and down.

“I might joke about a lot of things,” Hugh said, “but I’ve barely slept. I kept thinking about what I’ve done. Kept thinking about how I’m gonna have to look at Charlotte and tell her I shot her husband.”

Nick wandered to the front door. He braced for the cold as he opened it and stepped onto the porch.

“Guys…”

The rest of the crew joined him.

Nick pointed. “Look…”

A track cut through the snow, as though someone dragged a large sack behind them. A set of massive bare footprints moved alongside the rut.

Hugh said, “Do those prints look like…?”

“Is this a setup?” Zach said. “You and Ernie messing with us?”

“No…no!” Hugh said. “I guess I can see why you’d think that, but last night, I almost…”

“Almost what?”

Garrett stepped beside Hugh and said, “Why don’t you give me the gun for the rest of our time up here?”

Hugh nodded. “It’s back in the cabin, but yeah…you can take it when we get back.” He choked back tears.

Zach gave him a hug. “It was a mistake, Hugh. A horrible mistake, but still…you didn’t know.”

“Yeah…”

“So, what now?” Nick said.

“Guess we put on some warmer clothes and see where these tracks go.”

* * *

They fought their way through deep snow for an hour before Nick stopped and said, “Do you guys smell coffee?”

Zach raised his head and sniffed the air. “Yeah.”

The smell’s intensity grew; the tracks led to a cave.

“Do you think it’s safe in there?” Garrett said.

“It’s where the coffee’s coming from,” Zach said. He looked around and found a stick the size of a club. Tested it against his hand.

The others found similar protection, and then the four stepped inside the cave.

* * *

The scent of coffee was intense. Somewhere further in, they heard a deep humming. Where the cave tightened to a hole they’d have to squat through, they saw warm light. Zach raised his index finger to his lips, signaling to the others to be quiet. He stepped through the hole and entered a well-lighted cavern.

It was decorated like a loft apartment: a living area with oversized furniture; a dining area to another side of the space. And before a wood burning cooking stove, a massive, hairy figure of legend. That’s when the group noticed a costume-less Ernie on a slab of a prep island.

“Welcome, gentlemen,” the creature said before taking a sip of coffee from a nearby mug.

Zach wished they had Hugh’s gun.

“What’s going on?” Garrett said while trying to look confident with his stick.

“You can put those down,” Bigfoot said. “I can imagine this is the strangest thing you’ve ever seen, but I assure you, I mean you and your dead friend, here, no harm.”

“What’s going on?” Nick said.

“As much as I’ve pieced together, your friend packed a costume for a getaway trip this weekend. One of you had a gun and shot him when he surprised you.”

“I swear, I thought he was a bear!” Hugh said.

“Bears are currently hibernating,” Bigfoot said.

“So I’ve been told.”

Zach stepped forward for a better look. “What are you doing?”

“Your friend is dead, but his spirit has not yet left the forest. The last thing I want are a bunch of your cops poking around up here. So, while I can’t promise your friend will be the same—at least visually—I should be able to bring him back.”

A tiny pile of flesh and bone was placed beside Ernie’s body, the remnants from the bullet wound.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Bigfoot said, “I need to focus.”

The massive creature began to chant. He removed a pot from the stovetop and set it on the island where Ernie’s body rested. He reached in and pulled out a sticky substance using two fingers and placed it in the hole in Ernie’s head. After moving it around, he took the skull fragments from the small pile and careful rebuilt Ernie’s face. More goop, and more pieces, until it was built back up.

“You all would do well to go sit on my couch for this next part.”

Zach, Hugh, Garrett, and Nick did as they were told. In the kitchen area, Bigfoot’s chanting turned to song. The room shimmered before them, and everything went black. 

* * *

Ernie screamed when he woke up and saw Bigfoot standing over him. The last thing he remembered was laughing as he opened the door to his friend’s cabin while wearing a Bigfoot costume. Maybe he’d had more to drink than he thought.

“Is that my Bigfoot suit?” he said.

“No. I am Bigfoot.”

“Really funny, guys…”

Bigfoot pointed to his couch. Ernie looked for something to defend himself with when he saw his friends all crashed on the couch.

“What the hell’s going on?”

“You were shot. By your friend—the bald one. When he saw you in the costume, he thought you were a bear. And yes, I told him, ‘they’re hibernating.’”

“Are they dead?”

“Just asleep. They won’t remember any of this. You, however, will. My suggestion: keep it to yourself. Go on one of those, ‘Abducted by Bigfoot’ shows, and your family will never escape the ridicule. You might lose your job.”

Ernie raised his hand and felt his forehead.

“Hugh really shot me?”

“Don’t hold it against him. I fixed you as best I could, but it was a big hole. It will heal up better in the coming weeks. Up to you to decide what story you wish to tell about the scar. Now, let’s lead your friends back to the cabin, so I can sing to them a shared memory…”

* * *

In the minds of Zach, Garrett, Hugh, and Nick—after having a few too many drinks—Ernie stepped outside for a breath of fresh air. They heard him yell, and Hugh rushed to his rescue, shooting at the mountain lion that swatted him in the face.

* * *

The rest of their extended weekend in Nick’s cabin was what they all craved: time in the company of good friends, away from the rush of everyday life. The surprise storm was seen as a blessing: a couple extra days before the sun returned and melted the snow enough to leave.

As they drove down the mountain in Nick’s Land Rover, Hugh was particularly quiet.

“You okay back there?” Zach said from the passenger seat.

“Yeah…just…”

“Just what?”

“I don’t know. You guys believe in Bigfoot?”

“No,” Ernie said. “Why?”

“Dunno. Just came to mind.”

Ernie watched the trees roll by and said, “With all the cameras and other technology out there, if Bigfoot were real, we’d have proof by now. No such thing—I’d bet my life on it…”

ABOVE AND BELOW

When the bombs fell during the height of Pandemic Three, Erol Easley was underground. He’d been preparing for years, another billionaire with another luxury bunker. What better way to wait out the end times you and the politicians you bought contributed to than tucked away safely beneath a society destroying itself on the surface? Comfort for you; misery for the rest. Not much different than life before two additional zoonotic outbreaks, each worse than the one before—all punctuated by a full-scale nuclear war triggered by Globotek A.I. going rogue and convincing enough world leaders they were under attack. Who knew that 80s movie would come true? Too bad Easley’s pet project wasn’t interested in a nice game of chess.

Near the top of the underground compound, head of security, Archer Sterling, was two blast doors between safety and Armageddon. The bomb that leveled San Jose came first with a bang, and then the echo of a thousand thunder claps roaring in unison. When it was over, everything held up as intended—a cool billion dollars well spent.

At the south end of the valley, Hannah Davis watched a mushroom cloud rise over the city, followed by additional flashes north and west. She wasn’t sure if she was lucky to have taken time off to go hiking in the mountains on a Wednesday, or if all to come would make her wish she never knew what hit her.

As long as the winds kept driving toward the Pacific, she stood a chance.

ONE WEEK LATER

“Mr. Easley, this is Archer up top—”

“I know who it is,” Erol said into his radio. “You don’t have to announce yourself each time you have something to say.”

“Fine. I’m heading out with three others to investigate topside.”

“Good luck. And don’t bring any mutants home.”

Archer shook his head and finished gearing up. After ensuring sensors and cameras showed all was clear, the small unit stepped through the airlock in the first blast door and entered the hangar. Two climbed into an Oshkosh L-ATV tactical combat vehicle, while Archer and his second in command opened the outer door.

Cool air rushed in. It looked like an ordinary, dreary day, but as they drove out and north, they saw the devastation. There’d been no reports about how many people were gone, all the people Archer and his crew once knew no longer there. Repeated across the country and around the world. Not yet ready to head closer to the blast zone, they turned back along the mountains.

* * *

Hannah heard the vehicle before she saw it. Her instinct was to hide, but supplies were running low. What little she knew about foraging for food would not sustain her.  She stepped out and waved, quickly second-guessing the decision when a .50 caliber machine gun was leveled at her chest.

Archer said, “Raise your hands above your head,” into a microphone. His order echoed from the PA horn on the outside of the vehicle.

“Are you military?” Amber said.

“Raise your hands above your head.”

“I’m not doing that if you won’t answer. You can trust me or shoot me. Look around: none of us have much to lose.”

The vehicle idled before Hannah until Archer opened the door, stepped out, and approached. He stopped several yards shy of her personal space.

“Are you military?” she said.

“Former. Private security these days.”

“For who?”

“I’m not at liberty to disclose that,” Archer said. “What are you doing out here?”

“I came down from the mountains to look around.”

“Do you live up there?”

“Nope! I took a day off to hike, and then boom. Not sure that was a good idea, or a bad one.”

“Day off from what?”

“I’m a technical writer,” Hannah said. “For Globotek. Or I was…”

“Globotek, huh? Got a question for you, then. Do you feel a little guilty? Working for the place that started all this?”

“Everyone’s gotta eat. Almost impossible, these days, to work for a place that’s a hundred-percent clean. But yeah, even though I started looking for something else, ‘cause the CEO’s ranting on social media kept getting worse and I didn’t want to be associated with that, I can’t help but feel some underlying guilt.”

Hannah looked at the gunner on the top of the vehicle. Another armed guard at its side.

“I probably shouldn’t have admitted this, huh?”

“No, you’re okay,” Archer said. “We work for him, too.”

“Who?”

“Erol Easley.”

“Like, for him? Not just at his company?”

“Be careful out here,” Archer said. “Guessing not everyone’s as nice as us.”

Before climbing back into the ATV, Hannah shouted, “If he’s still alive, tell him Hannah Davis quits!”

ONE MONTH LATER

The settlement of Nuevo José was little more than a tent-and-shanty community between the remains of old San Jose and Morgan Hill to the south, a gathering of people exhausted by the way things were. If you were looking for a lost relative, it was the place to ask for help—had something to trade; the place to bargain. A village where a can of beans or clean water was worth more than gold.

Hannah divided her time between the mountains, foraging for chanterelle mushrooms while in season and bringing down bags of slender wild oat to be ground into flour—and helping out where she could in Nuevo José. She was teaching a young boy how to play chess on a Pressman plastic and cardboard set when she heard someone say, “You remind me of my little sister.”

She excused herself from the lesson and said, “Hey, it’s the big gun boys,” as she approached Archer and his crew.

“It’s good to see you’re safe,” he said.

“You, too. And if I had a much older brother, you’d remind me of him, I’m guessing.”

“Much older? How old do you think I am?”

“Old enough to be on Social Security, if that’s even a thing anymore. But seriously? I’m guessing you’ve got 10 or so years on me. So 42, give or take a couple years toward 50.”

Archer laughed and said, “Yep, I’m 10 years older.”

“So, how do I remind you of your sister?”

“She loved chess. Always tried getting me to play. She always beat me when we did, so I’d find excuses to skip out.”

“Loved chess? Is she…?”

Archer smiled and said, “She died well before all this. In her 20s.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” He smiled and added, “She was really cool.”

“That means you think I’m really cool. If I remind you of her.” She nodded toward the chess board. “Want to play?”

“I’d love to, but I have some business to tend to.”

“Your boss’s business?” Hannah said.

“Nah. Nuevo José business.”

“Gotcha. How is he?”

“Who?”

“Your boss.” She leaned in a whispered, “Mr. Easley.”

“Insufferable. He has everything a person could want, and more, but all he does is complain. Asks what we’ve found up top.”

“What do you tell him?”

“That we’ve seen some people, but they always run away and hide. That it’s not yet habitable up here.”

“Why don’t you all just leave?”

“I have a contract to protect him, and I’m a man of my word.”

“I’m guessing you have a lot of food and water there, too, that makes staying easy?” Hannah said.

“Years worth. That’s what our business today’s about. Sharing some of it. We’ll catch up on that chess match another time.”

THREE MONTHS LATER

“I’m beginning to wonder if you’re lying to me, Archer.”

Archer picked up his radio and said, “Sir?”

“It’s been several months and you keep saying there’s not much up there,” Erol Easley said. “I’m not stupid.”

Archer looked at his crew and said, “It’s dangerous up there. Still irradiated, and the people we have seen are looking for a fight.”

“Like I said: I’m not stupid. The strike was an airburst. Less radiation. Are you hiding something from me?”

“No, sir. It’s just…”

“Just what?”

“Up top, you’re to blame.”

“Me? Why? After all I’ve done for them?”

“You were warned about making your A.I. model align with the results you wanted it to produce. Used your influence to have the administration choose it for their systems. I know it didn’t launch an attack, but it made leaders on edge—including ours—think there was an attack. And once there was confirmation that actual missiles were airborne, that was it.

“With all due respect, sir, I’ve seen what happens to people trying to regain power up there. They’re beaten down and torn apart like a zombie movie. If they see you, they’ll kill you. We’re trying to find a route to safety when it’s time to leave. Right now, it’s best you stay down here.”

* * *

“Hey, it’s the Big Gun Boys!”

“How’s it going, Hannah?” Archer said.

“Cold, but good,” she said. “What brings you to town?”

“Blanket drop. Some coats, too.”

“Who’d have imagined so much snow in the valley, huh? At least the kids have been having fun.”

Archer grinned and said, “It’s a different kind of winter, that’s for sure.”

“Got time for that game of chess you owe me?”

“Next time…I promise.”

“I’ll hold you to that, Mister Man of Your Word.”

“That’s me.”

“Speaking of, how’s your boss?”

“Suspecting. Questioning why we spend so much time up here. Wondering where some of his better bottles of wine have gone. Talking like everything would be better if we brought him up and let him take over.”

“They’d tear him to pieces.”

“I’ve told him as much.”

“How long are you going to live like this?”

“As long as any of us, I suppose.”

“No, how long are you going to stand by his side?”

“I’m under contract. Like you said: ‘Man of my word.’”

“Yeah, I get that. But things have changed. Hell, there aren’t even courts in the area that would hold you to those terms. And it’s not like Easley could safely show up, even if there were. You can do more out here, for everyone, than down in a hole for him…”

SIX MONTHS LATER

Nuevo José looked more like a place that had suffered a terrible storm than a missile detonation to the north. Homes were being rebuilt, power and communications slowly restored, greenhouses taking the place of fertile fields. People working together, vowing to never return to the way things were before.

Hope rising from leveled cities.

It was far from an ideal world, but a world in which Hannah fit in well.

* * *

“Hello, Archer,” Erol Easley said as he entered the security bunker behind blast door number two.

“Sir!” Archer said as he rose from his chair. “To what do we owe the pleasure of this visit?”

“Cut the bullshit, all of you. When you head out today, I’m coming along.”

“Sir, I’d advise against that.”

“I don’t care what you think,” Erol said. “I’m your boss, and you’ll do as I say.”

“For your safety, and ours, that’s not gonna happen.”

Erol Easley stepped forward and got in Archer’s face.

“You do not tell me what to do, understand? No more of your, ‘But they’ll tear you apart,’ shit. I have money; I can help them rebuild.”

Archer laughed. “You’re fucking clueless, boss. Money means nothing out there. Everything you built and lived for is gone. All your hostile deals and screwing everyone out of a dollar is not forgotten. Out there, you’re not the second richest man in the world, at least as long as someone with a pickup truck bed full of food and fresh water exists. You have a bunch of exhausted people above who have lost everything, and no matter how you spin it, you are a big part of the blame. I’ve seen the military haul off others like you. My advice? You have your chef and servants down there. Food and water to last you a few years—“

“Ten years. I was told I have a decade’s worth of supplies.”

“Yeah, well others needed it more.”

“You stole from me?”

“You stole from so many people. Stole mothers and fathers from children. Stole a way of life from everyone, all in the pursuit of greed.”

“I’ll have you arrested if you leave.”

“You really don’t get it, do you? There’s no system to arrest me. No courts to hear a case. The best thing you can do is lay low. When your provisions near an end, leave the area. Do everything you can to not be seen.”

As Archer and his crew moved toward the airlock, Erol Easley shouted, “You can’t just leave!”

Archer put his hand on his sidearm and said, “Stop us, then.”

Easley stepped back and put his hands up.

“I thought so,” Archer said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to Nuevo José to play a nice game of chess…”

GIFTS THROUGH TIME

Maya didn’t know what she was looking for, but knew she’d find it somewhere in the Treasured Memories antique shop. She walked slowly around the tables and shelves, waiting for a hit. The first came in the form of a red and black robot toy from the 1950s. A plastic drawer slid out from its chest. Nestled inside was a folded slip of paper reading: “To Charlie From Petey Windlow. Happy birthday, 1956.”

She picked it up and closed her eyes.

Something more was in there.

She placed the toy near the register and told the shop owner she was still looking for other holiday gifts.

Next came a wooden music box with a stunning inlay on its lid featuring leaves, a sheaf of wheat, and two flutes. Opening it produced no tune—either it was not wound or broken—but the eight pieces it played were listed in French on the back side of the top.

Maya placed her hand on the box and closed her eyes. Another piece set down at the front register.

The rest of the shop was a walk through history, but nothing else spoke to her—until returning to the front to pay for the robot and music box. She saw the final item in the glass case beneath the cash register. She pointed to it and said, “May I please see that ring?”

The shop keeper opened the case and handed it to her. A half-carat diamond set in an intricate, Art Deco design on a two-tiered frame of white gold.

She held it in her hand and said she’d take it as well.

* * *

Maya saved money each year, waiting for the day a particular small antique shop called to her. Larger stores and warehouses were too overwhelming. Once, it was a garage sale for an old yo-yo and a bracelet from the early 1900s.

* * *

As night fell, she bathed and focused on her breathing. Drew all the curtains in her parlor and prepared the space. She’d known others who followed elaborate rituals. For her, it was little more than silence, a candle, and the item in the center of a round pub table she was told to keep after its inhabitant left.

She placed the toy robot in the middle and closed her eyes. Slow breaths in through the nose—out through her mouth, careful to not disturb the candle flame. Several minutes later, she was not alone.

* * *

“If you are here, please touch the flame.”

She opened her eyes halfway and waited.

“It’s okay,” she said.

A moment later, the candle flickered.

“Good. You are safe here, and I give you permission to enter.”

The memories of another life flashed beside her own. Two kids—best friends—against the world. Creeks were traversed, railroad tracks followed into neighboring towns. Bullies avoided. Summer nights catching fireflies and playing hide-and-seek and kick-the-can. A pocket knife piercing fingertips, and a vow that they were now and forever blood brothers. A tenth birthday, and the party that came with it.

“You’re Charlie,” Maya said. “And this is your robot.”

The flame flickered, and more memories flooded her mind. A moving van, and a boy holding the robot promising his friend, Petey, that they’d never lose touch.

From River Forest, Illinois to Kansas City and a different school. A girlfriend, and a promise he’d return from Vietnam in one piece. They’d marry when he returned, but she’d moved on when he got back. Attempts to find Petey led nowhere, and then came cancer.

Agent orange taking another life.

Maya took a slow, deep breath and said, “I’m sorry all that happened to you, Charlie, and I understand not wanting to move on. But you don’t have to stay. Others are waiting for you. I promise you’ll see Petey again—I promise to do everything I can to get this to him and let him know you never forgot him if you move on. When his time comes, He’ll know to find you.”

The weight of another life in Maya’s mind vanished. When she regained her center, she said, “Charlie, if you’re still here, can you move the flame?”

Nothing.

“Charlie, can you touch the flame?”

It was clear he’d finally let go and moved on…

* * *

After removing Charlie’s robot from the room, Maya placed the music box on the table. This one worried her. She repeated her slow breaths until sensing she was not alone.

When she said, “If you are here, please touch the flame,” nothing happened.

She took a deep breath and whispered, “You can do this, Maya. Okay… Si vous êtes ici, veuillez toucher la flamme.”

The candle flickered, and she apologized for her French—explained it had been years since studying in school. After giving the spirit of Marie-Noëlle Decoin permission to enter, Maya was flooded with more memories.

Marie-Noëlle listening to her mother’s music box as a child. Falling in love with Jean-Denis Simonet, marrying, and giving birth to a daughter, Yvette. Embroidering her favorite flower, a peony, and then stitching it into her daughter’s blanket. A perfect life in Reims until the Blitzkrieg.

Then:

Chaos in the streets. Marie-Noëlle kissing Yvette as her mother left with her for the train station. She promised to catch up with them after finding Jean-Denis. Yvette waving goodbye while carrying the one thing she refused to leave behind: her peony blanket.

Marie-Noëlle and Jean-Denis never made it out.

In her broken French, Maya apologized for all that happened to Marie-Noëlle, told her she’d find her daughter or other descendants and return it to family if she’d finally let go.

The next time she said, “Si vous êtes ici, veuillez toucher la flamme,” the candle flame remained still.

Maya was alone.

* * *

Maya placed the ring in the center of the table, readied herself for one more visit, and said, “If you are here, please touch the flame.”

It flickered, and she gave the spirit of Carlos Lopez permission to enter and share his story.

He met Audrey Loder on the side of the highway. Helped her change a flat tire, and then asked if she wanted to get a cup of coffee.

He was surprised when she said yes.

At the diner, he said, “I expected you to say no to this.”

Audrey smiled. “Normally, I would.”

“So, why are we here?”

“Because you were the one who stopped to help.”

Their romance was like a movie: him—a tool-and-die machinist’s apprentice; her—a law student and daughter of a state Senator.

Her father said Carlos was only after money, but Carlos had no idea who she was or what her father did when he met her.

A family dinner…overhearing Senator Loder talking to Audrey’s uncle about how Carlos was just a passing fancy his daughter would grow out of.

 A year later, Carlos—engagement ring in pocket—attending the Loder Christmas Eve gathering at Audrey’s insistence.

After dinner, her father—his belly full of prime rib and 20-year-old Pappy Van Winkle bourbon—telling Carlos what he really thought of him.

Maya felt his rage, saw his thoughts race from fighting back to deciding it was best to leave.

Audrey following him to his car, begging him first to stay—and then, to be careful before he sped away.

He lost control of the car on a curve while looking at the ring.

“I’m sorry that happened to you,” Maya said. “I’m sure others are waiting for you. I’ll be sure the ring reaches Audrey if you’ll let go and move on…”

The candle didn’t flicker when she asked him to touch the flame.

* * *

Two days later, Maya sat at her desk looking for answers.

“What are you doing, here, on your day off?” the head reference librarian said.

“Some genealogy research. For me, this time—I’m not working.”

* * *

Tracking down Peter Windlow and Audrey Loder wasn’t difficult, but Marie-Noëlle Decoin took some digging. An act of marriage from 1938 was the starting point. Finding where Yvette ended up took most of the morning, but Maya found enough to connect an Yvette Simonet (now Yvette Stewart) in Cambridge, Massachusetts to Marie-Noëlle. More research revealed Yvette was still alive and lived with her daughter, Coralie, in Boston.

* * *

Back home, Maya carefully packed up each item. Before sealing the boxes, she sat down for her favorite part of the annual tradition: writing messages to those receiving her gifts through time…

* * *

Peter Windlow’s wife brought the package to him in the den.

“I thought you said you were going to stop ordering so many things online.”

He took the box and said, “I did. I’ve not ordered anything in weeks.”

He pulled out the worn pocketknife he carried since childhood and opened the box.

“Is that a robot?” his wife said.

He set it on his desk and looked in the drawer: the note to Charlie!

“Oh, my god…”

“What?”

“You’ve heard me talk about my old neighborhood friend, Charlie?”

“Yes. Many times.”

“I gave this to him on his tenth birthday.”

“Who sent it?”

Peter opened the card and read:

Charlie wanted his blood brother to have this.

Peter looked at the pocketknife that sliced open their fingers before continuing to read.

Charlie ended up in Kansas City, and later served two tours of duty in Vietnam. He sadly succumbed to cancer in 1986. I’ve included what I could find about his life after he moved away from River Forest.

I know this doesn’t bring your old blood brother back, but I hope it brings you great memories.

Merry Christmas, Peter,

Your Secret Santa Claus

* * *

Audrey Loder came home to a package near the front door. She ran through recent online orders in her head, but wasn’t expecting anything. There was no return address.

After removing her shoes and coat, she opened the box. Inside: an envelope and a small box containing an old diamond ring. The letter read:

Audrey,

This will likely seem strange—maybe even creepy—but Carlos Lopez wanted you to have this ring.

She stopped reading and stepped back; then, slowly approached again.

When I say Carlos wanted you to have this ring, I mean he intended to propose to you on that fateful Christmas Eve. This was with him when he died.

Audrey wondered who would do such a cruel thing. It wasn’t that she carried the grief of his loss like a weight, but she never found someone she loved again.

If I explained how I know all this, an already strange letter would seem like a cruel prank. I assure you, this is not. I apologize if this is painful for you—what I do is not always easy, and I sometimes wonder if certain things are better left in the past.

The only thing I can say in the hope you believe this is real. He was the one who stopped to help, and he never stopped loving you, even after the night he died.

I hope this finds you well and doesn’t open old scars.

And I hope you and Carlos find each other in the end…

* * *

Coralie was in the side garden when she saw the delivery truck stop in front of her house. By the time she approached, the driver waved, hopped in his truck, and drove down the street.

The package was addressed to her and her mother.

She went inside and said, “This is for both of us.”

“Who is it from?” Yvette said.

“I don’t know. It doesn’t say.”

She went to her office and returned with a pair of scissors. When the box was open, she set a card aside and carefully unwrapped the contents.

Her mother gasped when she saw the music box.

“Mom, are you okay?”

Yvette reached out, and Coralie handed it to her. She opened the music box and cried.

“Mom?”

Coralie pulled the card from the envelope and read.

Yvette,

I never knew your mother, but I know she called you ma pivoine—my peony.

Coralie looked at the old blanket laid over her mother’s lap.

I am sorry for your loss, but I know you will one day meet again. I can’t say how, but this I know for certain.

“Is that the music box you told me about?” Coralie said.

“Yes. Your great-grandmother gave this to my mother. I loved listening to her play it when I was a little girl back in France. If I hadn’t grabbed my blanket, this is what I would have taken with me. Does the card say who it’s from?”

“No.”

Yvette smiled and said, “I suppose it doesn’t matter, ma lupine. What matters is that it’s here where it belongs. Would you like to hear it?”

“Yes!”

Yvette closed the lid and wound the music box. When she opened it, she and her daughter traveled together to another time…

* * *

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks.

And a BIG thank you to AJ Fidalgo and Cynthia Griffith for their narrating help this year! Check out the Show Notes or Talent Page for more info about them.

Theme music, as always, is by Ergo Phizmiz. Story music this time is 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. Also, for as little as a dollar a month—or even free—you can support the show at patreon.com/cgronlund.

After back-to-back monthly episodes comprising four new stories, it’s time for my annual break. In March, it’s finally that story about a quilting circle accidentally summoning Satan through a strange pattern in their latest group project.

[Quirky music fades out…]

[The sound of an axe chopping.]

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

[Listen]

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

Christopher Gronlund:

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

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

This time, it’s a sequel to the first November anniversary story I ever wrote: “The Art of the Lumberjack.” I figured, “What better way to mark the 10^th anniversary of Not About Lumberjacks than by revisiting the story that started the November tradition?” (In fact, you might want to check out The Quick List link on the site and jump back to that November, 2016 story if you’ve not heard it…or have forgotten what it was about.)

I started Not About Lumberjacks for two reasons. One: I was working toward shopping around a new novel and figured having an online repository of fiction would show that I understood being online as a writer (as well as showing off other writing to potential agents). And two: because I focused so much on novels at the time, I knew starting this show would get me back to writing short stories.

And man, has it ever!

If you factor in the annual Christmas episodes, which contain multiple stories, this story is the 85^th short story released on Not About Lumberjacks!

This has become the most satisfying creative thing I’ve ever done. From a podcast-must-equal-growth standpoint, it’s a failure of a show, not really growing much at all in the 10 years I’ve been doing it. (In fact, the best year for Not About Lumberjacks was a couple years ago, and still not having an audience most would consider worth continuing.)

But I’ve heard from people over these 10 years who’ve told me how much certain stories mean to them. I know people listen (and re-listen) to stories I’ve written on road trips. An so-called “good” audience is usually measured in numbers, but for me, it’s knowing people are taking the time in a hurried world to listen to stories I’ve written.

So, thank you all for sticking with me.

And thank you to everyone who’s been understanding about me skipping a story this year after my mom’s sudden and unexpected passing in August. We’re doing well. We miss her terribly, because she was such a badass and a blast to be around. But she had a good life that only got better in her final decades. So, when we think about her, we can’t help but smile.

All right, enough of all that…let’s get on to the 10^th anniversary story content advisory.

“The Art of the End” deals with the death of a parent, an argument with an estranged parent, and…that’s really about it. Oh, there is one bit of swearing. I always consider removing things when it’s just one of two instances, but it felt like an f-bomb was needed in a scene, so that’s there, too.

Really, though…it’s a nice, quiet story full of reflection. I’ll get back to fantastic and funny stuff soon…

All right, let’s get to work!

#

My father’s body sits in zazen in the next room, but he’s not there.

What remains is a shell, a vessel for a brain that sensed and experienced the world, a mass of fat and protein that allowed him to think and dream, to write novels and find a way to live a life true to himself. Muscles that pulled stones from the earth and hoisted his massive body to the tops of the highest trees just for fun. A heart that cared for all creatures and wrote stories and poetry that moved me to tears.

My father’s body sits in zazen in the next room, but he’s not there.

#

I listen to the wind from my front porch while waiting for the county medical examiner to arrive. It never gets old, sitting in an Adirondack chair my father helped me make when I first arrived after leaving a busier life behind to live in the Maine woods, looking into a forest that seems to never end. I know birds by their calls and can identify most of the trees and plants on our 45-acre plot of land.

My land, now, I suppose.

The stillness is interrupted by the sound of engines chugging along the dirt road leading to the camp. A patrol car leads the way, followed by the medical examiner’s Suburban. I stand up and wave.

Sheriff LaClair steps out of his car and says, “Erik.”

“Hey, Sheriff,” I say. “Lonnie.”

LaClair’s deputy nods and turns to the medical examiner and her assistant.

“You guys know Erik?”

We all shake our heads “No.”

I’m introduced to Stephanie Ambrose and Trevor Graves.

“Good to meet you,” she says. I’m sorry it’s not on better terms.”

“Thank you.”

“I take it he’s in his cabin?” Sheriff LaClair says.

“Nope. The zendō.”

“The what?”

“Zendō. He made a little meditation house years ago.”

We walk along a dirt path that gives way to a stone walkway and the one section of the property that doesn’t look like a lumberjack’s lair. The glass and concrete structure before us looks more like a modern spin on a Frank Lloyd Wright house than a traditional Japanese building, but the lineage of each influence is there. We walk along a reflection pool toward the building where my father died.

“That’s quite a thing right there,” Sheriff LaClair says. “He built it?”

“Yeah,” I say. “I didn’t know he was an architect before coming out here. Brought in all the supplies in that old truck a couple years before I arrived. Trip after trip.”

The sheriff nods and says, “That sounds like something he’d do. I saw him in town about a month or so ago. Told me he wasn’t feeling great.”

“Yeah. He thought it was cancer. Told me months ago that it felt like something was wearing him down from the inside. He didn’t want treatment. He really slowed down this past week, but kept meditating more than usual.”

“You do that, too?” the sheriff says.

“I’m more of a walk in the woods kind of guy, but I sat with him for a bit most days since moving here.”

“Gotcha.”

As we get closer, they see him: my father sitting on a cushion in the center of the three-room structure he built in the woods. In the fading light of the day, he seems to glow in a beam of sunlight that’s found its way through the trees. I slide the floor-to-ceiling glass door open and lead them in.

“That’s how I found him. He was always very still, but I just knew he was gone.”

“It looks like it was a peaceful passing,” Sheriff LaClair says.

“I think so, too.”

I excuse myself to the sitting area outside the zendō. I face away, wanting to remember my father’s final pose and not see him moved. I hear Stephanie and Trevor tell Sheriff LaClair they’ll be right back. I hear them wheeling a gurney along the path. Only when my father’s covered and they wheel him out do I get up and join them.

Trevor opens the back of the Suburban, and Stephanie says, “We’ll contact you after completing our examination.”

She gets my contact information and asks if I need anything.

“No, I’m good,” I say. But I’m not.

“You need anything, just call,” Sheriff LeClair says.

“Thank you.”

I watch them all leave and stand there well after the barred owls call out in the dark.

#

My favorite koan ends like this:

In spring, hundreds of flowers; in autumn, a harvest moon;

In summer, a refreshing breeze; in winter, snow will accompany you.

If useless things do not hang in your mind,

Any season is a good season for you.

Before coming to the woods to live with my father, Zen was—at best—a thing I knew through business books: Zen at Work, The Zen of Selling, The Zen of Business Acquisitions, and The Secrets of the Zen Business Warrior. It was a buzzword that had its time when ripping from Sun Tzu’s The Art of War seemed too sharp and people craved a more relaxed style of leadership where anyone finishing the books could act as though they, too, spent a lifetime sitting zazen, when all they did was read a bestseller.

The morning sky glows pink against washboard clouds that show through the canopy like a blurry kaleidoscope. My bare feet welcome the cold of the stone path my father laid with care. I expect to see him already sitting, even though I know where his body is. I clear my mind of him lying in a cold room, waiting for whatever it is the medical examiner needs to do.

I sit on my cushion and look at my father’s impression in his, as though an invisible version of him is seated in Lotus position before me. I pull my body into the pose with no effort, despite it taking several months of sitting with him for it to no longer be a struggle. I found the practice so difficult when I started, believing a stray thought meant I’d failed. Sitting for hours each day was an affront to everything I believed when I came to the camp. Time was money; life was a bone from which we were meant to savor the marrow.

One morning, after spending two hours thinking about what I was supposed to achieve through meditation instead of meditating, I asked my father if he was enlightened.

“That’s never been the goal,” he said. “I studied architecture in Japan after your mother told me to leave. There, I found this. I was taught to sit with no expectations—and because I did, I’ve had a great life.”

“So…does that mean you’re enlightened or not?”

He stood up and told me to follow him into the woods.

“Look out there,” he said.

I stared into the forest.

“It’s not all the same. Creatures move in different times. Some of these trees were here before Europeans, while many of the plants on the floor rise, live, and die each year…only to return in spring and do it all over again. Most insects live very brief lives, while there are turtles out there that live as long as us. I don’t know why it’s my nature to be so content with stillness, but my way is no better or worse than yours. You just need to find a way that works for you. Do you know what koans are?”

I nodded that I did.

My father smiled and said, “Joshu asked Nansen: ‘What is the path?’ Nansen said: ‘Everyday life is the path.’ Joshu asked: ‘Can it be studied?’ Nansen said: ‘If you try to study, you will be far from it.’ Joshu asked: ‘If I do not study, how can I know it is the path?’ Nansen said: ‘The path does not belong to the perception world, neither does it belong to the nonperception world. Cognition is a delusion, and noncognition is senseless. If you want to reach the true path beyond doubt, place yourself in the same freedom as the sky. You name it neither good nor not-good. At these words, Joshu was enlightened.”

My father smiled until I asked, “What does all that mean?”

“That is for you to discover…”

#

Before coming to the old lumber camp, my guilty pleasure was trashy TV, with a particular fascination for hoarding shows. I felt bad watching in ways, because I know producers and marketing teams knew people with their own issues watched and judged the people on screen as a way to not feel as bad about their shortcomings. But I watched to figure out how someone couldn’t see how much things were piling up, despite it seeming so obvious.

There was never a single answer: some people experienced a loss, and hoarding was their way of holding on. Others started collections that multiplied like bacteria. And some had simply become so exhausted by life that one day they said, “I’m too tired to put that fast food bag in the garbage,” and next came the carcasses of four years of rotisserie chickens.

My father was the opposite: everything had a place. Not that he was a staunch supporter of a minimalist lifestyle, he just never needed all the things most of us end up carrying through life and place to place. Why have 20 coffee mugs when 1 or 2 will do? Shelves full of things gather dust, so why have many shelves at all? Unless you host guests to your home, do you really need so much furniture?

Through friends and coworkers, I’d heard cleaning out a parent’s place following their death was one of the most difficult things they ever did. Where to start with a lifetime of acquired things? How can you throw anything away when everything is full of memories and imbued with a part of the person they lost?

Most of my father’s possessions are things he made. He was not a consumer, unless purchasing something allowed him to build. The only space in the camp that seems full is the woodworking shop, and there’s nothing there to go through. In a decade’s time, my father made me a decent woodworker—so it remains as he left it, a place where I will continue to ply the trade he shared with me.

His bedroom is meticulously appointed like other spaces touched by his hand. I’ve passed by the room, but never been in it. Part of me wants to leave it as it is—a little dimension I can look into as I wander by. Remember the man who slept there. But beyond that doorway likely offers a new glimpse into why he was who he was. 

I find nothing that changes me, a reminder that coming to things with expectations often results in disappointment. Much like my father coming to his practice of Zen with a beginner’s mind, and me hoping for answers I only found when I stopped seeking them, there is no grand discovery, no, “This! This is the life-changing thing you hoped to find!”

But I also don’t leave empty-handed.

Tucked away in the back of the top drawer of a dresser he made well before I moved here, I find a three-inch square box. On the lid, my father carved an oak leaf. I lift it off, appreciating the precision it took to both allow it to hold fast, but give way when provoked. Inside is a carved wooden heart the size of a walnut and a slip of paper reading:

Margot,

Only you know why

today, tomorrow, and more

I give you this heart.

It’s time to take a trip.

#

I knock on the door to my mother’s house, and I’m surprised when she answers. She’s always had staff for that. I barely recognize her. My mother was always concerned with holding onto her youth; the woman before me is old. Not in a worn-down-by-the-years old—she’s aged gracefully—but the last time I saw her, she still dyed her hair and never let it touch her shoulders. Now, long white hair reaches her lower back. It gives me hope that maybe she’s changed. 

“Erik,” she says. “What do you need?”

“I…”

What a thing to say after not seeing your only child for almost 20 years.

“I don’t need anything, Mother.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I came to tell you something.”

“A call wouldn’t suffice?”

“Can I come in?”

She takes a deep breath before saying, “Sure…”

We walk through a foyer bigger than some apartments, through a dining room that can comfortably seat two dozen people, even though I’d guess it’s never used. Her living room reminds me of a wedding cake with its Neoclassical symmetry and ornate plaster details. She carefully sits on a sofa that might have actually existed in the time of Louis XVI. I sit in one of its two matching chairs.

Dad’s dead,” I say.

“Yes. You’ve known that since you were a child.”

“No. He never shot himself like you told me. I found him.”

I study her face for surprise or remorse.

“And…?”

“I thought you’d like to know.”

“Why? He’s not a part of my life.”

“I don’t know, Mother. Maybe because I thought somewhere deep down you might still have a fucking heart?”

“I don’t know what I’ve done to anger you, but it’s very unbecoming.”

I stand up and look to the front door. I take a step and then turn back toward her. I don’t charge, but I move swiftly enough that she leans into the padding of her expensive couch.

“You know why I’m angry. You lied to me about Dad killing himself! I missed out on 43 years with him. I got four years as a kid that I don’t even remember, and then the last decade. How dare you rob me of that and act like I’m the one with an issue. Not only that, but you hit me the night you called the cops on him! If you have some fucked up reason for all you’ve done, I’m listening.”

She swallows and says, “Well, at least it’s good to know you’re not the timid little boy you once were.”

“How could I not be, Mother? First, you yelled at me if I called you Mom. You yelled at me if I made too much noise. You yelled at me if I was being too quiet and not doing something productive. No matter what I did, you bullied me.”

“There are therapists for this kind of thing, Erik. Let it go.”

This time, I do walk toward the door.

“You’re just like your father,” she shouts. “Running away!”

“There’s a big difference between running away and leaving, Margot. And you would know because you’ve been running from things as long as I can remember.”

I reach into my pocket and pull out the small wooden box. Run my thumb over the carved oak leaf on top before throwing it at my mother as hard as I can. It hits the back of her sofa and bounces to the floor.

“I missed on purpose,” I say, before showing myself out.

Instead of walking to my car, I wander to the side of the house and look through the living room window. My mother stands before her gilded coffee table, holding the box. She runs her thumbs over the carving my father made before I was born—removes the top and pulls out the wooden heart. She raises it to her lips, kisses the sculpture, and weeps.

I don’t know why it means what it does to her, but I know this: some people may never change, but they also never forget.

#

I’ve forgotten how stressful being out in the “normal” world can be. How did I endure hours stuck in traffic each week? At least a couple times each year, I ended up behind a wreck that took all morning to clear. Once: all day! But when it’s part of your everyday life, it’s a necessary inconvenience, a demand of suburbia.

I drive through my hometown, looking for fields that are now housing developments lacking craft or charm. It’s strange how we mourn for the loss of spaces that shaped us, when the houses we lived in were built in rolling fields or small forests I’m sure others once loved. My childhood home could have been a special place for someone who came before me, so why am I so disappointed that my places are gone?

Only now do I realize how crowded and noisy the suburbs are. We don’t build spaces for interactions with others. We drive everywhere because nothing is connected. We ache for our children because they don’t go outside as much as we did, but we’re the people telling them to stay in. We don’t give them sidewalks or bike lanes or other things encouraging them to explore. Why move to spaces strategically built between cities and open lands if you don’t believe they’re safe? 

I understood why my father moved away from it all, but now I feel why. My shoulders and neck are stiff after a couple days away from the lumber camp. Several close calls while driving—people paying more attention to their phones or in-dash screens than on the road. In the rental car’s rearview mirror, I see the grill of a massive pickup truck several feet off the bumper and know I’ve made the right choice.

#

I check email before boarding my flight back home. After deleting 17 spam messages, there are 2 I’ve waited for. The first is from the County Medical Examiner’s Office, stating my father was right about what was wrong with him: pancreatic cancer. Stephanie’s email also mentions that his body is now in the possession of the Biondi Funeral Home and Crematorium.

The other email is from Lonardo Biondi, the director of said funeral home. He’d like to meet in person, and I know it’s to sell me on additional services beyond my father’s cremation. I get it, it’s a job like any other, and there are quotas to be met and money to be made. He also includes a template for an obituary: discussing where the deceased was born, what they did for a living, and any significant relationships. Any military service. What they accomplished in life and did for fun. Who they left behind.

I’m somewhere over Ohio when I give it some thought.

How do I sum up the life of a man I’ve only known for a decade? I can cover all the things in the template that applied to my father, but a life is more than a set of talking points. Anything I write will not convey his spirit, all he carried and cherished in his heart. It would be strange to mention his deep voice that echoed in your chest when he spoke. The way his eyes crinkled up at the edges when he smiled. How gentle his massive, calloused hands were.

I look out the window, watching the hills of eastern Ohio pass by 34,000 feet below. When we begin our descent to my connecting flight in Philadelphia, I write the following in the notebook I carry with me:

“Torben Oscar Nilsson placed himself in the same freedom of the sky. He is survived by his son, Erik Viktor Nilsson of Camp Nowhere, Maine. His ashes will be returned to his path in a private ceremony.”

#

When he wasn’t meditating or reading, my father was building. I go to the woodshop and look through his sketchbooks for anything he was planning near his end, but never got around to making. That’s one of the things that amazed me after moving to the woods: even when time is mostly yours, there are still tasks and dreams never explored. I find no designs that seemed to speak to him, and nothing that calls to me. I go to one of his standby books: The Japanese Print, An Interpretation by Frank Lloyd Wright.

None of the art leaps off the page and demands my spin on what my father deemed perfection, but a bit of Wright’s writing about simplifying design stands out: “The process of elimination of the insignificant we find to be their first and most important consideration as artists, after the fundamental mathematics of structure.”

My father was a simple man in the truest spirit of the word. To call one a simple person is not a compliment in our world, but I hope I’m no longer the stressed, supposedly complex person I was over a decade ago. There is beauty and even strength in simplicity, a structure that strips away unnecessary things and allows us to focus on what’s most important.

I find six pieces of oak and spend the day in silence, making a box by hand. I scribe lines for the fingers of the joints that will hold it together. Remove material with a small hand saw and chisels. A fitted lid snug enough to not tumble off if knocked over. No hinge or nails or screws; no intricate carvings based on nature or artwork and designs my father loved. Just a simple box, finished with tung oil, to hold my father’s ashes when they are ready.

#

I wait for a sense of mourning to come, but it never does. I can hear my father in my head, reminding me how it’s best to go into things without prescribed expectations. We see people break down after deaths in movies, know people who carry grief with them decades after a loved one has passed. Why wouldn’t I shut down for some time and think about all I’ve lost?

But I was fortunate to have the time I had with my father. It would be easy to dwell on the decades with him stolen from me by my mother, but that is not the reality I’m dealing with. The time I had with my father was good, and in those years, we discussed so much. Nothing was left unresolved. I like to think, even had he been there my entire life and we butted heads when I was younger, that we’d have still ended where we did: two people who loved each other and accepted what we’d become.

I’ve shed tears for his loss, but I have not wept. I miss him, but I am not wounded by his absence. When I think about him, I don’t hurt; instead, I smile.

Maybe the day will come when I find myself curled up in a ball, grieving his passing, but that is another expectation I feel will never happen.

I loved my father dearly, and as long as I carry him in my heart, he is never gone.

#

Lonardo Biondi offers his condolences and little more when I pick up my father’s ashes from the funeral home. I wait for him to say, “Are you sure you don’t want a service for your father? We have packages for all budgets,” but he lets me leave without another sales pitch.

I take the black plastic box holding my father’s remains to the woodshop and pry the top open with a flathead screwdriver. Inside, a clear plastic bag holding what’s left of my father’s physical body. Such a massive man reduced to so little. I transfer the bag to the box I made and place the lid snug on top.

I started writing a eulogy because it seems like the end of one’s life is a big enough event to memorialize. Perhaps if my father had been closer to more people, I’d have taken Lonardo up on his offer for a funeral service. But it’s just me, and I don’t need anything more than the good memories of him I carry with me. So, the eulogy was tossed into a fire several nights ago. Instead of a grand sendoff, I do something I believe my father would have liked: I take his remains to the zendō and place him on his cushion.

I will sit zazen with him daily until, like him, I exist only in memories.

#

In the months that follow, my mind becomes more clear. I’ll never be as still as my father, but I’ve found my peace. I’ve waited for old urges to rise up: turning the property into a meditation retreat, writing business books capitalizing on a decade of living deep in the woods, seeing how far I can take the little furniture business my father did locally to make ends meet. Things to track on spreadsheets like I once craved. But those compulsions never come.

I suspect they never will.

The seasons turn, and I follow along. The winds of autumn arrive and the sun hangs lower in the sky. Leaves burn red and yellow and orange like fires in the treetops before breaking free and covering the earth in decay. Soon, the first snows will arrive and the world will slumber until spring, when green shoots force their way through soil and branch—and new life begins again.

#

[Quirky music fades in…]

Christopher Gronlund:

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks.

And thank you for everyone who’s been listening for 10 years! It means a lot to me.

Theme music, as always, is by Ergo Phizmiz. Story music this time is by me, using the Instruo Pocket Scion, with one background track licensed through Epidemic Sound.

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

In December, it’s the annual Christmas episode! 

[Quirky music fades out…]

[The sound of an axe chopping.]

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

[Listen]

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

Christopher Gronlund:

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

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

This time, it’s a story about a high school English teacher who comes to conclusions about life after recovering from a hit-and-run accident.

But first, the usual content advisory…

Were it a movie, “Instead of Dreaming” would be rated PG-13. It deals with a hit-and-run accident involving a bike, melancholy, nightmares, guilt trips, teen drug use, trespassing, the dark side of nostalgia, and a sorta-grisly crime scene. And if you’re listening to this while driving, there is the sound of an accident that is pretty apparent it’s coming, and the sound of an ambulance later in a scene looking back on an injury on a swingset. I always want to call these out because it’s never fun hearing squealing tires or an emergency vehicle while driving. And…there’s really not much swearing in this story, just one place with a word you’ve probably even heard on television.

A quick thing before getting to the story. This past year has been a weird one. I’ve talked in an intro or two about dealing with a health issue. It’s something that’s been a thing for 30-plus years with no answers. In March, I finally got a couple.

It turns out there was an issue deep in my heart at the end of a couple arteries. The surgeon who did the catheter procedure said things were so low—with no other issues—that it was almost not worth messing with. But…he suspected it was causing an electrical issue, and he placed two itty-bitty stents at the ends.

The moment the second stent went in, immediately, my heart went into normal rhythm for the first time in decades. The anxiety that comes with that is slowly disappearing, and I’m not afraid to lie on my back anymore. (That’s when it was always at its worst, feeling like a fish or something was flopping around in my chest.) 

Speaking of feelings in my chest…I can no longer feel my heart beating, unless I’m exercising…and even then, I have to really exert myself to feel it. That’s perhaps the weirdest thing through all this because, at any given time—much like tinnitus—if I thought about my heart, I could always feel it thudding away in my chest.

Now, though, I can’t.

It’s brought a strange stillness to my world.

There might be one other little thing needing to be fixed down the line, and I’m currently going through cardiac rehab, but this whole thing has been one of the weirdest changes in my entire life.

As I continue getting better, Not About Lumberjacks schedules and planned stories still might change at the last minute while healing, but things are already ridiculously snazzy, and there’s every reason to believe it will only get better.

All right: let’s get to work!

* * *

Instead of Dreaming

He’d been living in dreams instead of the waking world, his way of dealing with a months-long funk—days hovering in persistent idleness, despite having so much to do. Pick up a to-do list, even a small one written to take a tiny step forward, and he stagnated. “Clean Livingroom” eventually became “Clean  Coffee Table,” and then, “Put Mugs in Sink,” when he’d spent all day doing nothing but sitting.

Sleep was an escape, a place where some nights, everything seemed okay. Even a work dream was welcomed. On nights he dreamed about running, riding his bike, or hiking, he awakened with a distant hope that returning to those activities was not too far away.

Other nights, he was haunted by shadows or lost in dark forests. Dreams that someone was in his house or waiting for him on walks. Always ending the same way: a person shrouded in darkness coming his way. He still preferred nightmares to his waking hours.

The worst recurring dream ended with the roar of the engine.

* * *

Seven months before, while cresting a long hill climb on his bike, he heard someone behind him put their foot into the gas pedal of a Dodge 2500 pickup truck. As it overtook him, he saw the SUV coming the other way. Ditching the bike wasn’t an option. The truck came into his lane to avoid a head-on collision with the SUV, grinding him along a guardrail before speeding off.

The woman driving the SUV stopped and rushed over. He knew it was bad when she checked on him, apologized, and turned away while calling 911.

The doctor in the ER called it a comminuted fracture, explained that meant the bones were in pieces and that he was lucky to still have a leg. Three surgeries followed. He took short-term disability at work to focus on healing and suing the driver of the truck, who was caught on his bike’s rearview radar camera.

More surprising than the accident was his family’s reaction.

“That wouldn’t have happened if you didn’t ride on those back roads,” his mother said. Other relatives, and even some friends, were no different. It didn’t matter that he was struck 20 yards past a SHARE THE ROAD sign—or that the driver of the truck and not him was at fault—he was told it could have all been avoided by choosing a safer hobby. 

He stopped inviting people over, turned them away when they asked if he’d like a visit. Didn’t answer the door when they stopped by unannounced to check on him and remind him that he should never have been on the road. He retreated into one of his favorite things: sleeping.

Some people drink away their problems; he dreamed his away, blurring lucid dreaming and daydreams together as a way to spend his time in a meditative state when awake, and lost deeper in his mind when he slumbered.

Even how he’d return to his usual routine came to him in a dream.

* * *

April 7

7:24 p.m. 64 degrees Fahrenheit

He begins his walk a half hour before sunset, making his way to Comanche Bluff, a dead-end street overlooking a valley where his town gives way to unincorporated land to the west. In the summer, people pack into the tiny cul-de-sac to watch the sun go down, despite the protests of nearby residents tired of the crowds. This evening, he has the overlook to himself.

The little fluffy clouds of late morning seemed like they might rise into thunderheads by afternoon, but something higher aloft prevented their growth. They float like the clouds kids draw in school, with flat bases and bulbous curves—breaking just in time to let shafts of yellow light through in all directions. After the sunset rolls through all its colors and the stars sparkle in the darkened firmament, he stretches and turns back toward town.

He has roughly 11 hours to wander before the sun comes back up in the east.

* * *

8:31 p.m. 62 degrees Fahrenheit

As he approaches Cannon Park, the THWAK of pickleball serves and returns compete with the cacophony of skateboarders doing kick flips and grinding on rails. Teenagers roll along a course the city built to give kids something to do besides getting drunk and conquering boredom through vandalism. From his view, some kids drop from sight and shoot into the air on the far side of an in-ground bowl like a pool, lingering in the air before turning and shooting to the other side.

His neighborhood shines on the tennis-courts-turned-pickle-ball courts. Beneath the bright lights, Indian families chat with Kenyans; a guy from Oklahoma practices Spanish with a group of Mexicans. A British woman asks a Korean girl about school. Once, an older neighbor down the street flagged him over when he was on a walk. The man complained to him about all the people from other places moving into town, as though it were a bad thing.

“Why are you whispering?” he said said loudly enough to cause the old man to panic. “I like my neighbors.”

He looked the man up and down and added, “Well, most of them.”

How could anyone hate people coming together on such a lovely evening?

* * *

He makes his way to a swingset beside the playground and sits in the shadows just outside the stadium lighting. He grips the chains with his hands and pushes back with his feet in a short, backwards run. The swing hooks groan, but he’s seen heavier people playing with their children on the swingset during the day. He leans back and pumps his legs out and back, gaining height.

When he was a kid, his best friend, Matthew, was the kid in town who’d do anything on a dare. He once watched him shimmy up an exposed girder on the wall of his elementary school’s gym and leap from the rooftop into a pile of grass clippings. And when they were eight, at a different park, they dragged a picnic table over to the swingset so they could stand on the edge and leap off the tabletop like paratroopers. After swinging for a time, his friend instinctively leaned back with his legs high in the air on a backswing, forgetting the picnic table was there.

He can still hear the sound of the bridge of Matthew’s nose hitting the edge of the picnic table; can still see him flip high in the air and land on top in a pool of blood. It would not be the last time he’d watch an ambulance cart his best friend away.

He leans into the backswing like Matthew, letting his head almost reach the ground. Back and forth, higher and higher, until he lets go, hearing the chains rattle as he leaves the seat. Looking down, he regrets the hasty decision. How will his untested leg hold up when he hits the ground? As a kid, he’d swing so high that when he let go, he soared higher than the crossbar before crashing down to the ground. This leap is half of that, but could end in disaster.

He braces for impact, waits for the nerves in his repaired leg to flare and burn. Wonders if he’ll hear something break. But surgeons and therapists did their jobs; he comes down without issue. He rises on the balls of his feet, testing for any pain before resuming his nighttime walk.

* * *

8:54 p.m. 60 degrees Fahrenheit

As the sounds of Cannon Park fall away behind, two skateboarders race toward him, seemingly powered by some unseen force. There’s no hill in the direction they came, and no hum of a battery-powered motor pushing them along. 

“How are they moving so quickly?”

As they speed away, he notices the slight incline, a slope so subtle, he’s only aware of it because every step after such a long recovery is a measured action. Feeling the ground beneath his feet again is wonderful. He’s amazed how quickly the memory of movement’s become after seven months of limping and shuffling about.

The skateboarders disappear into the dark as he continues on his way.

* * *

9:27 p.m. 59 degrees Fahrenheit

He slows his pace about a mile down Mockingbird Lane, looks along the curb for the storm drain inlet. When he spots it, he crosses the street and makes his way down a hill into bushes and small trees. Most people driving the road each day—some likely driving its length a thousand times over—are unaware they cross a small bridge over a creek lost in the undergrowth. Growing up, he and his friends roamed most of the town, discovering secret places they never shared with others.

He’s always happy seeing kids splashing through the same creeks he and friends explored, watching them cross fields on their way to a golf course where a groundskeeper always chased them off, even in the coldest part of winter. Old treehouses still seem to get repaired just enough that most kids wouldn’t dare climb into the canopy, but those who know where to reach and pull on the way up are safe as long as they’ve had a tetanus shot. He wonders if any kids know about the drainage tunnels beneath Mockingbird Lane.

He pulls his phone from his pocket, opens the flashlight app so he can see where he’s going. He spots what he’s looking for where the storm drain dumps into the creek, a crude bit of graffiti reading DO NOT ENTER over the entrance to the storm drainage system.

When they were 14, Matthew spotted the opening and said, “Let’s see what’s in there.”

“No,” he said. “That just…that doesn’t seem like a good idea.”

“It’s not rained in like a month. It’ll be fine.”

“What if it’s full of wasps?” The thought of being trapped in a tunnel and being stung, maybe perishing in a place no one would even consider looking, horrified him.

“Only one way to find out!” his friend said as he entered. “Come on!”

He started up, quickly realizing there was no way to turn around. He shimmied out backwards when even Matthew agreed it was too dark.

Of course, his best friend wanted to go back. Matthew climbed Mount Hood with his dad and had a camping headlamp before they were common. It was definitely enough light to spot black widows, which Matthew smacked with the padded mountain bike gloves he wore. Up they climbed, to the junction where the drain at street level went—an opening too small for even his brave friend to enter. The tunnel leveled out, and they crawled along, until encountering accumulated dirt built up like hard plaque in an artery. When it was too much, Matthew started digging, forcing his way into a junction box full of rats.

Before him, a wall of eyes glowed in the light from his headlamp.

“Back up!” his best friend shouted. Back up!”

Their arrival, or perhaps the screaming of Matthew, startled the horde. The mass of rodents raced their way, shooting past them in tight quarters. He froze. Matthew crashed into him with his feet, kicked at him while shouting, “Go! Go!!!”

He felt the nails of the rats scraping across his arms and back, hopping off and landing on his legs before racing out of the tunnel. He crawled in reverse as quickly as he could, the shouts of Matthew and squealing of rats echoing in the small passageway.

They never went back into the tunnel, but they did return the next day to spray paint a cartoon rat with a knife and the words TUNNEL RATS on the far wall beside the creek.

He’s happy to see it’s still there.

* * *

10:43 p.m. 56 degrees Fahrenheit

He’s stretching his back when he hears something in the grass behind him. Too late for rabbits, he thinks. Probably an opossum. He turns around and spots an armadillo rooting for grubs.

“Hey, you,” he says.

The armadillo continues with its armadillo business. They’re one of the better things about living in Texas to him—armadillos and roadrunners. Damn-near blind and with few cares in the world beside being hit by cars, he loves how close he can get to them.

“Nice evening for a walk,” he says. “Or eating grubs. But I guess any time is good grub time, huh?”

The armadillo pauses and digs; puts its snout into the ground and comes up chewing.

“Wanna know a little secret? You have to promise not to tell anyone, even your armadillo buddies. I’ve really liked the past seven months. I mean, sure, much of it was spent in pain, but I finally got a break. I suppose armadillo life never slows down, either, eh? Always on the go, just like us. But it was nice having time to just sit and think. Or just sit for the sake of stillness.

“I feel bad about enjoying some of my time, lately. I’m told I have a noble job as a teacher, and I do take what I do seriously. But I can’t pretend having time off in the summers wasn’t a big reason for my career decision—months to do the things I most enjoy. I do care about my students, but I’m not particularly fond of them. I think a lot of them are shitty, and that makes sense because a lot of adults are shitty. And sooooooooo many shitty parents.

“Are there shitty armadillos? Like some hardback named Brad you all slag on when he’s not around? Rolls up in a ball and crashes into you when you’re just trying to relax a moment from busy armadillo tasks? Pisses everywhere and starts fights?”

The armadillo carries on, seemingly oblivious to his presence. It bumps his foot and sniffs the air before returning to its mission.

“I got a good little chunk of money from a guy who hurt me and ran. That’s the only way you can damage people like that: hit them in the pocketbook. Between years of saving and the payout, I really don’t want to go back. At least I don’t think I do.”

The armadillo looks up at him before heading the other way.

“I don’t want this time to end…”

* * *

11:13 p.m. 54 degrees Fahrenheit

It was once a cowpath cutting through a small forest when the town wasn’t even a town and ranchers transitioned their herds from winter forages to warm-season grasses. When corn took over, the old trail was used only by the toughest teenagers around. Classmates claimed that to enter the cowpath was to put oneself at risk for beatings on the best days, or disappearing at the hands of reputed gangs, serial killers, or Satanists lying in wait along the trail like highwaymen on the worst. But housing developments defeated all, even beating back crops. The trees surrounding the cowpath shrunk, until only enough remained to make a paved trail cutting through still seem remote.

He stops and sniffs the air, thinking he smells a skunk.

Keep an eye out.

He turns his head and listens, hearing distant muffled voices instead of another animal in the grass. As he gets closer to the chatter, he realizes what he smells.

The two teenage skateboarders from earlier sit on a bench sharing a joint. He’s only smoked marijuana once, when Matthew was getting high and he wanted to see what the big deal was. Even though he liked some of the effect, it just wasn’t his thing. He considers asking the skateboarders if they’ll share; see what effect a hit or two has on his walk. But that would be condoning what they’re doing—not a good move for a teacher.

They make no attempt to hide what they’re up to. Kids today are more bold than when he was young, when everything scared him. They remind him of yet another reason teaching is growing old. He doesn’t recognize them—assumes they’ve dropped out or attend another school. There’s not much he can do—so he nods, says, “Hey,” and continues walking.

* * *

Midnight. April 8.

53 degrees Fahrenheit

Ahead, he sees something moving in the darkness, an upright shadow coming his way on the sidewalk. The hairs on his arms rise up, the skin on the back of his neck tightens. The way the figure moves gives him pause; he considers turning and running. 

Shadow people only exist in dreams.

He’s never been one to believe in the supernatural. As he gets closer, it’s just a guy in a black track suit.

His gait is unsettling. Not like there’s anything physically off with the way he walks, but something doesn’t feel right. Now, if he turned and ran, he feels like the man in the black track suit would chase him down. He is in a track suit, after all—he’d surely catch him. He tells himself maybe the guy’s cooling down from a run and every bit as unsettled by him, two chickens in the night making everything worse in their heads.

At the point they almost meet, he considers what he’ll do if Track Suit makes any sudden moves. The other walker’s hands are buried deep in the pockets of his jacket. He keeps eye contact with Track Suit until looking down, watching his pockets for any sudden motion. He takes a deep breath. It comes with the scent of clean laundry and soap, neither masculine or feminine—just fresh.

Maybe Track Suit is on his way to work?

When they’ve passed each other, he turns around and walks backwards, ready to have the advantage if Track Suit turns and attacks, but he never looks back. Just keeps walking until he’s a shadow again and then swallowed by the night.

* * *

1:37 a.m. 52 degrees Fahrenheit

He hears music getting closer, Bon Jovi’s “Living on a Prayer.” It arrives and departs with a doppler effect, growing louder and then fading away as car headlights turn to tail lights—a 2018 Camaro passing by. It grounds him to a time and place, even though he never liked the song. Still doesn’t. But his mind is back in high school, on a spring break ski trip to Colorado where he cannot escape the grip of Jon Bon Jovi, his New Jersey buddies, and that damn song!

He’s never been nostalgic, but he understands the appeal. For some, high school days were a perfect time, even though he couldn’t wait to leave. The morning after graduation, he stared at his bedroom ceiling when he woke up, considering what it meant to be so free. Despite promising himself he’d leave that summer and never look back, he ultimately returned: teaching English, the only class he enjoyed, at his old high school.

Matthew did leave after graduation, drifting away and never heard from again. Sometimes, he wonders if the friendship was really that great, or if they were simply two outcasts bound by geography and a desire to make the most of an unfortunate situation. When he bumps into people he once knew around town, they assume those were his best days as well, like a Bryan Adams song. They talk about parties and events he never attended; football games and names he’s long forgotten. To them, time stopped in 1987.

How sad must it be to travel back almost 40 years to feel happy? How strange to wish you could trade in adulthood for the only time you felt like you mattered?

* * *

2:08 a.m. 50 degrees Fahrenheit

The trail widens on the backside of an affluent neighborhood, cobblestones meandering through trees and bushes from other places. Yards that look like fairways and putting greens. He’s heard one of his senators lives behind the gated entrances, along with a boy band, several professional athletes, and a podcaster making millions through misinformation and something techbros devour as philosophy.

Headlights illuminate the road beside him—he turns back to look because now he trusts nothing moving up fast from behind. The car slows and comes to a stop. A cop car. The window goes down, and a face illuminated by the dash and a mobile data computer seems to float before him.

“Evening,” the cop says.

“Hello.”

The cop continues. “Lovely night.”

He nods in agreement, wondering if he’s about to be screened for trouble.

“Have you seen a couple kids on skateboards this evening?”

“No,” he says. “What’s up?”

“Ah, we got a call about a couple kids smoking marijuana in the area.”

He’s happy he didn’t ask for a hit from the joint.

“Naw. I saw several kids skateboarding in Cannon Park, earlier. At the skatepark. But that’s it.”

The cop says, “Thanks,” and then sits there.

He doesn’t know if he should continue on his walk or ask if the cop needs anything else.

“So, you’re just out walking?”

“Yes,” he says. Before the cop can ask more questions, he says, “I know it’s late. Or early, depending how you look at it. I’m walking tonight from sundown the sunrise, so you’ll probably see me around. It’s a long story, but I’m the guy who got hit months back on Tubbs Road. On the bike. Wrecked leg guy. It seemed like the best thing I could do to make sure I’m healed is walk all night. Probably seems weird, but it’s what I’m up to.”

The cop nods. “Oh. Yeah, I remember. That doesn’t seem weird at all. You doing okay?”

“Yeah. I took some time, but I’m good.”

“All right,” the cop says. “Enjoy your walk, then.”

“You too. Your patrol, I mean…not walk. Be safe.”

“I will if you will.”

“Deal.”

* * *

3:22 a.m. 49 degrees Fahrenheit

The Camaro passes him again, this time blaring Bruce Springsteen’s “Glory Days.” So many happy-sounding tunes with sad lyrics back then he’s not sure some people ever listened to. He wonders if Camaro Guy drives around at night, listening to music from his youth and reminiscing about his glory days. Or maybe he works a night shift and it’s his day off, out running errands or just out and about because—to him—it’s the middle of his waking time. With a slide into looking back and wanting to stay there, he’s not much different than Camaro Guy.

Before Matthew left town for good, he begged him to follow. Even his parents wonder why he’s stuck around.

“Why do you stay there?” His father sometimes asks on their weekly phone call.

“Simple,” he says. “Everyone I know who boasts about all the places they’ve traveled say the same contradictory thing: ‘Always ask locals where they go if you want to really experience a place. Ask them where they eat, what they do for fun, and where they hang out that no tourist knows.’ Well, I’m that local.”

He believes there’s no shame in knowing a place very well. He’s had experiences on local hikes rivaling any trek he’s had in faraway places. A quiet morning on a local trail with his thoughts beats the crowded trek to Machu Picchu—a thing so packed with loud tourists that you try convincing yourself you had a magical experience with 500 other people. But he’s far from some yokel content to stay in a perceived bubble of safety in his hometown. Summers have found him packing up his bikes and heading abroad. He’s climbed the Alpe d’Huez and survived the Galibier descent. Bikepacked his way through Norway, Sweden, and Finland; chased the sun across southern England on the summer solstice. Cycled the length of the Andes and went tip-to-tip across New Zealand on the Aotearoa Route.

As strange as it seems to some that he’s not left the town where he was born, he finds it even stranger to work 60-plus hours a week, and when vacation comes around, still work on the go. Rush through seeing the sights, standing in crowds awaiting your turn to take a photo of the one place everyone knows, but knows little about—because if they did, they’d know meeting schedules and fighting crowds, all so you can return to work and say, “I saw the place!” isn’t much of a break.

The magical places he knows just outside his door are places few ever see. No crowds, noise, or expenses; no missed connections or lost luggage.

And that’s what makes them special.

* * *

4:07 a.m. 48 degrees Fahrenheit

Another figure heads his way; this time, a woman in a Whataburger uniform. Her face glows from the light of her phone, which she seems lost in as she plods along the sidewalk. He clears his throat, hoping to get Whataburger’s attention, but the screen holds her gaze. Earbuds silence the world around her. He steps to the side, into wet grass; says, “Hi,” but Whataburger doesn’t seem to notice.

Were he wired for thievery or violence, it would be easy to take anything he wanted with people lost in screens—in their own bubbles of sound—oblivious to their surroundings.

“We steal so much from ourselves,” he thinks, “fill every gap in time with distraction.”

Two minutes in line at a store is viewed as suffering that can only be soothed by checking social media or messages. He thinks about how often he’s been out riding or hiking, hearing music that doesn’t belong in the space getting closer. Louder. Someone with a wireless speaker attached to their bike or pack deciding anyone seeking the refuge of nature or a back road needs to hear music deemed better than the sound of birds, wind, or the cadence one’s breath. So much lost by fearing even a moment alone in our heads. Thinking about bigger things or facing what we ignore when giving into distractions instead of reflection.

* * *

4:35 a.m. 47 degrees Fahrenheit

The Hill House was a wreck of a place when he was young, and each year it’s gotten worse. Some call it the Psycho House because of its menacing posture on the edge of town, a dilapidated structure visible for miles. To others, it’s simply “the old haunted house.” He wonders what names kids today have for it today; he wonders if it will ever be restored or finally toppled for safety reasons.

In junior high, he accepted a dare to enter the Hill House at midnight during summer break between 7^th and 8^th grade. While camping out with a group of friends in Matthew’s backyard, his best friend—usually the one to accept all dares—encouraged him to enter. He looked at the attic window as he walked up the meandering drive, then told himself to look away. 

Do nothing to build up the tension of imagination.

He went around to the side and pulled back the boards nailed over a window meant to keep kids out, even though everyone under 18 in town knew it was the way in. He expected it to smell musty, but it was more like entering a crypt. The challenge was simple: make his way upstairs to the attic window— wave down to his friends outside to prove he made it. When his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he went to the staircase and listened.

The creaking he heard would have sent most of his friends back through the boarded-up window and back to their campsite in Matthew’s backyard, but he was logical. “There’s no such thing as ghosts. Monsters are only in movies.”

But transients looking for a dry place to sleep and serial killers were neither spirit or beast. Someone genuinely real and dangerous could be upstairs.

“It’s windy,” he told himself. “The house is just shifting.”

On the second floor landing, he thought he heard something in the attic above. A thud—maybe even footsteps. He looked around for a 2×4 or a broom handle—even a loose stone from the primary bedroom fireplace.

No luck.

A fist would have to do.

In a back hallway he opened the door he assumed led to the attic. Creaking hinges erased any stealthy efforts to that moment. Before him was the steepest staircase he’d ever seen. He climbed up, using hands and feet, pausing at the top before bursting up, ready to face anyone who might be there. He knew the most likely culprit would be a friend lying in wait to scare him, and he was prepared to go as far as breaking a nose to teach someone a lesson.

Nothing.

He went to the window and waved down to his friends.

* * *

The boarded-up window is still the way in. It’s a tighter fit, but he squeezes in.

Up the stairs and to the attic entrance. The door leading up is covered with graffiti: a crudely rendered naked woman, a stylized signature tag that looks like “Monster,” and “666” painted over an upside-down cross. There’s something reassuring about it—proof that kids still venture into places they shouldn’t be, like Matthew and him entering the storm drain tunnels beneath Mockingbird Lane.

He opens the door and heads up; goes to the window and looks down like it’s the early 80s and he’s waving to his friends. Of the four companions outside the Hill House that night, one is dead—an aortic dissection in his cubicle on the third day of a new job. Matthew and another have disappeared—never popping up in late-night online searches when they come to mind. The one person from that night who does show up has a Facebook page where he posts angry videos from the comfort of an eighty-thousand-dollar pickup truck that looks like it’s never seen a day of hard work. Not someone he’s interested in contacting.

When he turns away from the window, he sees a shadow expand on the far side of the attic, almost as wide as he is tall. His heart races as he calls out: “I’ll mess you up!” even though he’s never been in a fight.

“Appear strong—confident,” he thinks, even though a strong and confident person would stand readied in silence, not call out with a hollow threat. He’s given away that he’s an easy mark.

More movement, like the shadow from a dream. He squints, trying to make out what’s on the far side of the attic. He imagines Track Suit coming out of the darkness with a knife, but he sees no legs.

When he steps to the side to get a head start to the steep stairway leading down from the attic for escape, it sails toward him like a nightmare. No footfalls against the floor. He rushes to the stairs, feeling a blast of wind behind him on his neck. The sound of wings, and something large dropping to the floor: a turkey vulture, every bit as startled by his presence as he is of it. The bird cranes its head forward and scrutinizes him…maybe its way of saying, “What the hell, man? I was dreaming, and it was a good one! Just cracked into an armadillo, and I was about to feast…”

“Sorry,” he says, while slowly making his way to the stairs.

When he reaches the bottom of the steep staircase, he hears the vulture make its way back to its roost above.

“Sweet dreams,” he whispers—and then leaves the Hill House.

* * *

5:49 a.m. 47 degrees Fahrenheit

A feeling of ease settles into his shoulders as he crosses back into his neighborhood. He thinks about how many after-dinner and even late-night walks he’s taken on these streets. All the good evenings and hellos to people he’s seen for years, but knows nothing about. Good friends only visually.

He rounds a corner and sees the flickering of emergency lights against the brickwork of the houses on the right side of the street. Likely just a cop catching someone speeding, or rolling up on a couple kids like the weed-smoking skateboarders. Another turn, and the street flashes red and blue: too many cop cars and SUVs to count. One of the SUVs blocks the street.

He approaches, and a cop stops him.

“Sir? This area’s closed off.”

He points and says, “I live down there.”

The cop looks at another, who nods.

“Okay, go ahead. But you need to cross the street and stay on that side.”

He wants to ask what happened, but knows they won’t tell him. Keep asking questions, and he’ll be told to walk back around the block and over several streets. He wants to see why so many cops are in his neighborhood.

Between the cars, he spots it: a black barrier like a parade gate covered in fabric. Just outside the perimeter, a Bluetooth headset on the sidewalk. A crime scene investigator looks down and takes photos. The flash pops bright white in his eyes, even among all the emergency lights. During one of the flashes, he sees a pool of blood dripping out beneath the barrier.

Ahead, he spots the cop from earlier in the evening.

“Hey,” he says.

The cop stops talking to two others and says, “Oh, hi.”

“What’s going on?”

The cop looks at the others—looks across the street at the photographer and says, “An investigation.”

“What happened?”

“We’re piecing it together. That’s all I can say right now.”

The chill of the early morning finds its way into his bones. He shivers and thinks, “I’m the only one out here. What if they think it’s me?”

He looks beyond the barriers and notices people at two houses standing on their porches, watching. What if the cops decide to take him in for questioning, how quickly will it spread throughout the neighborhood that he had something to do with it?

“Do you at least know who did it?” he says?

“Yeah,” the cop says. “One of our guys came up on him as it was happening.”

The morning feels even colder. How could such a horrible thing happen so close to home? He always thought it was weird when something like this made the news and it cut to the obligatory quote of someone living nearby saying, “You never think it will happen in your neighborhood…”

“Well, y’all be safe,” he says and continues on his way.

He passes an SUV surrounded by more cops than others. He looks inside as he walks by. In the back, behind the driver’s side, is the man in the black track suit. Track Suit looks at him and nods; smiles, as if to say, “You got really lucky this evening.”

* * *

6:21 a.m. 48 degrees Fahrenheit

As he passes his house, he thinks about how close he might have come to his end; instead, it’s likely an early morning jogger crossed the wrong guy at the wrong time. Couldn’t hear their surroundings over the music.

“What was it,” he thinks, “that made Track Suit pass me by?”

Why someone else when it could have been him?

It could have been him when he was hit on his bike; could have been him on his sunset-to-sunrise walk. Could have been him so many times in his life: all the near-miss car wrecks, T cells destroying cancer before having a chance to take hold, that time as a kid when all the cheese slid off a slice of pizza and lodged in his throat. For all the comforts in life, it’s easy to forget we’re just as susceptible to the whims of circumstance as wild animals: here one moment, and gone the next.

The black sky gives way to deep blue as he heads east to Olander Park. Stars that guided him all night blink out, losing brilliance to an ever-glowing light on the horizon. He finds a spot in the center of a soccer field overlooking Griffith Lake. Just as the sun begins to break the horizon, a hissing sound startles him.

Sprinklers!

He laughs as the water instantly soaks him. Of course the moment he looked forward to all night didn’t work out as planned. Despite the chill in the air, he doesn’t move. The pain of the past seven months is washed clean, the shock from the surprise soaking clears his head. No longer is he thinking about the cops back in his neighborhood—he’ll find out what happened in time. No longer thinking about the accident.

Instead, he thinks about all before him.

To say the time since he was hit by the truck hasn’t had a profound effect on him would be an injustice to his healing. All that time to think while recovering, living with an absolute he always knew: anytime can be our time.

As the sun warms his face, it becomes clear: there’s no need for profound change—at least right now. His life is good, and sucking the marrow out of life is a desperate act that soon runs out. Thoughts of an early retirement fade away like an armadillo lumbering off into the night. Why turn away from teaching English to kids when he’s been there and can help them figure it all out? He’s happy to be the local who knows his hometown like few others, but also the guy who has summers free to travel and find his equivalent in other places, kindred spirits bound to a place like him. His body still works, despite it having been broken and getting older each day.

That’s not a bad way to live.

When the sprinklers stop, he lies on his back until the sun dries him. When its warmth turns to heat, he gets up and walks home—giving  no cares to what dreams await him on the other side of sleep.

* * *

[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 is by Joseph Beg, licensed through Epidemic Sound.

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

In July, it’s either going to be the thriller/mystery story featuring characters from “Godspeed, Crazy Mike” or a fantasy. Or even, as I mentioned up front, something else entirely. I’m still doing a little healing from the procedure in March, but there will be a July story!

[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…

* * *

The first thing I ever wrote for submission was also the first thing I ever had accepted by an editor: a 12-page comic book script. 

The two friends I hung out with the most in my very early adulthood were not only into reading comic books, but also writing and illustrating them. At a convention in 1989 or 1990, I met an editor looking for short scripts for a monster anthology he was putting together. While my story wasn’t quite a monster story, he liked it enough that he made an exception and accepted it for publication.

An artist friend and I immediately got to work on the story. (My friend Tim, who did the logo for Not About Lumberjacks…and convinced me to start a Patreon for the show.) We recruited other friends we met through indie comics to work on inks (William Traxtle) and lettering (the mighty Brad Thomte).

It was such a rush holding a finished copy of the book when it was published (MOJO Press’s CREATURE FEATURES), but the best part of it all was the collaboration with editor, Rick Klaw—and other people who became friends through comics.

* * *

Writing is a solitary act: hours alone at a keyboard or notebook, lost in worlds and situations and characters. If you’re lucky, maybe you have trusted readers helping you along the way. If you’re very lucky, you’ve chatted with an agent or editor about the story…and have support when finished through a publisher. But unless you’re working on a story with another writer, writing fiction is not the most collaborative effort.

* * *

The two creative things I’ve done that have made money—writing and juggling—were collaborative endeavors earlier in my life.

A friend and I used to street perform…not that we made a lot of money passing the hat. The fun came in the hours of practice together, honing our skills and coming up with routines. They were the stories that came with what we did: things like almost being set on fire by the lead singer of a punk band, or having a stranger on the street mess with us and our gear while we were strapped into straitjackets.

The fun with comics was hanging out with supportive friends who had a shared dream, spending most of our free time working on pitches, stories, and talking about this thing we loved. There was a time it consumed us.

(A quick side story: I met my wife, Cynthia, through a small comic book company—where she was an artist—in the spring of 1992. We started hanging out when she heard I juggled. She was taught how to juggle in elementary school and always wanted to learn more. So, I taught her—and we’ve been together since those days.)

* * *

I miss those early days of collaboration and absolute support. Not that I don’t feel supported with Not About Lumberjacks—I hear from people who love the show, and some even support it financially. What I’m talking about are those late nights staying up and working on something with friends; talking about the thing you love more than most other things every single day.

Letting a creative love wash over you and provide shelter, no matter how rough the world might become.

I sometimes talk with Cynthia about stories, but she’s usually there as a second set of eyes after I’ve finished things. And I regularly talk with my friend, Deacon, about writing, even about works in progress around during our annual long-weekend writing retreats.

But there’s nothing like the days when working with friends…when our heads—even at our day jobs—were always full of what was next in our shared efforts.

* * *

Most Not About Lumberjacks stories are lonely efforts—and I’m fine with that. I adore creating a thing that is wholly my own, from an idea, to the story…and then recording the narration, making sounds (or finding them), and choosing music tracks from a library I use. Loading it all online and promoting new stories.

It’s still a shelter I can rely on no matter how ugly the world outside may be.

When my mind turns toward stressful or even darker thoughts, a story is always there needing my attention—a switch that makes the worst of things disappear from my head. I find solace in this process that rewards my mental time and efforts, instead of making me feel even worse.

And the show is not entirely devoid of collaborative efforts…

* * *

In November, I released a tall tale called “The Legend of Mighty Missy Stewart,” that turned out to be one of my favorite stories on the Not About Lumberjacks website. It was written, in part, with a voice in mind: a professional voiceover artist and actor named Dave Pettitt.

Working with Dave was a blast! Along the way, we worked on how he’d read the story—in the more typical “podcast voice,” or treating it like an audiobook? Sample bits to approve and then the final track. The option for second takes, although none were required because it was perfect with the start!

I’ve worked with other narrators along the way, and have even done a couple one-shot audiodramas requiring multiple voices contributing to stories.

I’ve spent time in our closet recording booth with Cynthia as she’s recorded full stories, dialogue for background scenes, and even provided growls and snarls for a dragon in the story, “Rockbiters.”

Most recently, I collaborated with Clarke Jaxton Motorbike on a Not About Lumberjacks story called “Enemy Wanted.” Mr. Motorbike provided the recurring music used throughout the story.

* * *

Sometimes collaborations didn’t work out, even when I was younger. And sometimes collaborations ended as higher paying work was offered to people you once worked with in the hope of a shared something more.

But that’s a rarity. And when things don’t work out—even today—it’s no problem: we’re all busy with life. Sometimes schedules that once seemed open close for other things.

There are always more stories and opportunities for collaboration, even with a show like Not About Lumberjacks, which is mostly a thing all my own. (Or something with Cynthia’s assistance if a story is heavily from the point of view of a woman.

* * *

There’s another kind of collaboration many people don’t consider: the support of others who do something similar to what you’re doing, even if you don’t work together.

Most of the other narrators and voices I’ve used for Not About Lumberjacks are people I’ve met through podcasting…with many working on audio fiction themselves.

I can talk to other creative friends doing similar things about snags I might encounter along the way. If I mention my digital audio workstation seizing up in the middle of recording—or that I was set up to record, but was getting a buzz that took 20 minutes to find in my setup and eliminate before recording—those friends have been there themselves. (Or, if I encounter something I can’t figure out on my own, some are only a text message away!)

And then there are creative friends working in other fields I chat with about overlapping challenges and concerns about what we do: balancing life with creative schedules; overcoming those times of lower energy and personal challenges; even talking about being a creative person in a time when A.I. keeps affecting the industries we all work in.

* * *

I’m a very fortunate person to have begun my creative life in such a collaborative way. I still have that belief I had in my late teens and early 20s that if I want to do something, it’s just a bit of effort (or a lot) to make it exist.

I’m still in touch with most of the people I met through comics books in the late 80s and early 90s. I cherish these decades-long friendships and how we support each other even today.

Some of those friends still work in comics full time. Others went on to illustrating book covers and interiors for bestselling novels. A good friend who still occasionally works on comic books pays the bills as a voice actor, voicing cartoon characters you likely know…or maybe even grew up watching.

Through collaboration, I know screenwriters and animators; musicians, directors, and other creative people.

Outside of working with other narrators, Not About Lumberjacks is mostly a solitary effort.

But you’d be mistaken to believe I do it all on my own…

To all those who supported (and still support me), whether it’s working together on something in the past, working together on a Not About Lumberjacks story, or just rooting for me and this little thing I do: thank you so much!

(I may work in silence, but I’m never working alone…)

* * *

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—and actually even free—you can have access to a bigger behind-the-scenes look at Not About Lumberjacks on Patreon. Check out patreon.com/cgronlund if that sounds like your kinda thing.

In May, it’s a return to two detectives from an earlier Not About Lumberjacks story called “Godspeed, Crazy Mike.” This one’s more of a thriller than a full-blown whodunit mystery, but there will still be plenty for those who love to guess what’s going on before things are revealed.

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 what happens when a sleep study technician with insomnia answers a flyer ad found on a telephone pole looking for an enemy.

But first, the usual content advisory…

Were it a movie, “Enemy Wanted” would be rated PG. It deals with difficulty sleeping, blurring reality, crime, cartoonish violence, illness, a death, and wishing for an early end. That makes it sound dismal, but I assure you…it’s a blast of a story. Also, it’s one with no swearing. (I always want to swear in the intro when saying a story is without “mature language.”)

Before we get to the story, I want to talk about the music in this one. Some time ago, a friend getting into making synthesizer music stumbled upon a guy on YouTube named Clarke Jaxton Motorbike. Mr. Motorbike shares top-notch stories in text over electronic music he composes for the pieces. My friend knew it was my kinda thing and shared it.

I fell in love from the first story. You know how sometimes you hear a band and think, “Wow, this is an instant fave?” Clarke Jaxton Motorbike’s writing is like that for me. Sure, it’s not novel-length stuff, but what he packs into several minute stories is incredible—a total masterclass in brevity.

So, I was happy when he messaged me after commenting on his stories on YouTube and Instagram, letting me know he liked my writing…and that he’d LOVE to do the music score for a story.

The timing was perfect for “Enemy Wanted.” (I think you’ll agree.)

I’ll link to Clarke Jaxton Motorbike’s online accounts in the show notes and on the talent page. Seriously, his music and writing are wonderful things, so be sure to check them out!

All right, let’s get to work!

#

Enemy Wanted

Ferdinand Pérez stopped walking and read the flyer taped to the telephone pole a block from his house:

ENEMY WANTED

123-555-1212

It was the kind of thing someone would make, post, and take a photo of to share online, a meme-ready image waiting to go viral. Or a guerrilla marketing campaign: call the number and end up listening to a recording about whiter teeth, hot singles in your area, or the dreaded extended auto warranty. There was even the possibility of someone actually looking for an enemy, however that would work. Believing it was a scam, Ferdinand removed the flyer and threw it in the trash when he got home.

It was the beginning of four days off from long nights at the sleep lab where he ran studies. Ferdinand looked forward to—and dreaded—these days. Three nights on and four days off sounded great when he started. A life-long insomniac, it seemed like the ideal job, but now his days were spent trying to sleep instead of his nights.

As morning rolled into afternoon, exhaustion got the best of him. He pulled the flyer out of the kitchen garbage and called the number.

* * *

Someone masking their voice like a true crime TV show witness picked up.

“Yes?”

“Hi,” Ferdinand said. “Uhm…I saw a flyer on a telephone pole. Looking for an enemy? Now that I’m thinking about it, this is probably all a prank. Someone messing with you as much as me. I’m sorry.”

“Who is this?”

“Ferdinand. Ferd.”

“Ferdinand who?”

“Pérez.”

“No, Ferdinand Pérez…Ferd. I put the flyer there, and I am looking for an enemy.”

“Okay…so what’s next?”

“What do you do for a living, Ferd?”

“I’m a polysomnographic technician.”

“Sleep studies, correct?”

“Uh…yes. Most people don’t know what that is. Who are you?”

“It will be all be revealed, once I know you are a worthy opponent. Goodbye, Ferd.”

* * *

Ferd sat on his couch, debating with himself about calling the number again. His mind wasn’t completely scrambled in his 23rd hour of being awake—including a 13-hour shift in the lab—but he was slipping into a state of hazy focus. He knew better than calling again until his head was more clear.

An hour later, he shuffled off to his bedroom, where he finally dozed off two hours later.

* * *

Between his waking hours, constant exhaustion, and rough sleep in which Ferd’s mind seemed to fold over on itself—his dreams like nesting dolls—reality was a nebulous domain leaving him wondering what was real and what wasn’t.

A man in a gas mask stood at the foot of his bed.

“Are you really here?” Ferd said.

The man raised a pistol and pointed it at Ferd. The barrel flared out at the end, like a blunderbuss. A faint green light illuminated on its side. On top, a glass cylinder full of liquid.

The man in the gas mask took a step closer and pulled the trigger.

Fog rolled out from the barrel as the man said, “Sleeeeeeep,” in the voice from the phone call.

* * *

Ferd woke up and looked at the clock on the nightstand beside him: six-o’-clock in the evening. After a momentary panic, thinking it was time to begin a night in the sleep lab, he remembered he was done working for the week.

“Just two friggin’ hours,” he said while stretching in bed.

He tried dozing off again, but his stomach kept growling.

“Fine, fine, I’ll feed you.”

When he got up and flipped on the light, he saw a box atop a mound of laundry he needed to put up. He opened the bedroom door and checked every other space in the house before returning. He slowly entered, fully expecting to see the man in the gas mask by his bed.

Ferd looked at the box and noticed a piece of paper on the floor. He grabbed a pillow from his bed and tossed it at the note. He threw another pillow at the box, expecting it to explode. When he felt reasonably sure the items weren’t booby trapped, he picked up the pillow on the floor and read the note.

A GOOD ENEMY IS A WELL-PREPARED ENEMY. CARRY WITH YOU AT ALL TIMES THE ITEM IN THE BOX.

– D

Ferd removed the other pillow and tossed it back on his bed. He closed his eyes as he removed the box’s lid.

Inside, he saw the handle of what looked like a ray gun in a holster. He removed it from the box and carefully pulled out the gun.

It weighed less than expected. Ferd wondered what kind of metal it was made out of to be so light. A prong in the back lined up with a sight at the end of a barrel sporting a series of rings, like cooling fins. The gun had two triggers—one above the other. The top read BLAST and the bottom: STUN. On the side, an Art Deco font over a stylized lightning bolt read ELECTROCUTER.

Ferd searched his house again before popping a frozen pizza in the oven.

He put the gun in the holster and took it to his office.

When Ferd flipped open his laptop and checked the time, he was surprised to see Tue Mar 4 6:17 PM. He checked his phone to verify the date and time: same thing.

No wonder he was so hungry—he had slept 26 hours straight.

* * *

When he was 19 and started working regularly, Ferd took up jogging in the hope of making himself sleepy. Between odd construction jobs and running for miles, he thought he’d fall into a deep sleep each night, but the insomnia afflicting him since childhood kept its hold.

At 26, since he was up all night anyway, he considered moving to an overnight security position, but his uncle suggested studying to become a sleep technician at Thanksgiving. He’d seen something about it on the news and thought it was perfect for his nephew. After eleven years on the job, Ferd was glad he took his uncle’s advice.

His nightly runs took him a mile through his neighborhood, to a park across a quiet highway bordering one side of his development. The loop around baseball fields and a pond at the back of the park worked out to be a half mile—a perfect distance for speed drills or running all night.

He was wasn’t sure about jogging with the holster belt and gun, so he tied a long-sleeved shirt around his waist to conceal it. The night patrol officers in town were used to seeing him, waving as he ran through neighborhoods or on his way to his favorite running loop.

Ferd was at the back of the park when it happened: someone came rushing out from the tree line to his right. When he turned around to run away, another figure charged him. To his left, down a dock leading to an observation deck overlooking the pond, someone else approached—someone with a chainsaw! Trapped on three sides, instinct told him to run into the trees and lose them, but his hand went to the gun. As he put the person in front of him in the gun’s sights, Ferd realized they weren’t people at all.

He almost laughed at how ridiculous the robot looked as it passed beneath a light along the trail. It rolled along on a single wheel extending from a body that looked like a metal barrel. Its hands reminded Ferd of the claw game at arcades, three fingers on the ends of arms like ductwork. And its ridiculous head, an oval hunk of metal with glowing eyes and a speaker for a mouth. Antennae poked out on each side; a glass or plastic dome on top glowed a brighter blue the faster it moved.

The robot wasn’t so funny when its hands started whirling. Its arms extended and retracted as it tried striking Ferd, barely missing him. When Ferd pulled the BLAST trigger on the gun, a tiny lightning bolt struck the robot in the chest, frying its circuits and sending it to the ground. Ferd turned just in time to dodge an attack from the one behind. The BLAST effect sent that one down as well.

The final robot was like the others, only with chainsaw blades for hands instead of claws. Ferd charged into the trees, hoping it couldn’t pursue on its little wheel, but it gained on him. He turned to shoot it, but hit a tree instead, splintering it like a lightning strike. The robot raced down the trail toward him. He fired another blast, but missed when the robot extended and retracted a chainsaw hand. And then another. Ferd dropped to his knees as the robot closed on him.

When it reached him and came down with both bladed hands, Ferd shoved the gun into the wheel housing and pulled the STUN trigger. The maniacal robot fell back and down.  When Ferd stood up, he shot it with the BLAST setting to be sure it was immobilized.

It didn’t matter if he was on friendly terms with the police or not, there was no way to explain what had just happened. Ferd ran deeper into the trees until reaching railroad tracks, which he followed to the far side of his neighborhood, before doubling back and returning home.

* * *

When he finally settled down, Ferd called the number on the flyer.

“Yes,” said the altered voice.

“What the hell just happened?!”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. Those robots!”

“Think of them as a test. You did a stellar job defeating them, Ferd.”

“How do you know I did?”

“Cameras, dear boy.”

“What?”

During his run home along the railroad tracks, Ferd wondered if the noise of the attack had attracted attention. If not, would the robots be found in the morning? Now he worried they’d be discovered and he’d be on camera.

“Don’t worry, Ferd. I sent a clean-up crew to take care of the mess. You did well, all things considered.”

“I’m done!” Ferd said.

“No, you are not. You answered the flyer ad. We’re in this until one of us defeats the other.”

“You didn’t do a thing! You let robots do your dirty work!”

“A good enemy always sends henchmen, first. To test their foe.”

“I’m not your foe. I quit!

“You can quit, Ferd, but I will still come for you. Enjoy the rest of your evening.” 

* * *

Ferd went to his office and opened his laptop. He typed the flyer’s phone number into Google.

No results.

A search for “attacked by robots” resulted in a fake news story about a robot assaulting an autoworker on the assembly line after turning off other bots. “Captured by robots” resulted in a strange band with a human lead singer who performed with robot band members. On a scrap of paper, he jotted down the band name and added MAYBE? (IT’S STRANGE ENOUGH!)

Searching for “lightning gun” pulled up TV tropes and lists of video game weapons, but nothing that would make him say, “Ah-ha—that’s it!” “ELECTROCUTER” resulted in a song hit and a music compilation—as well as plenty about electrocution—but nothing about the gun.

Ferd thought about his enemy’s henchmen and typed “man in robot suit.”

The top searches were all costumes, articles about dancing and military robots, and something about a man on Russian TV who brought a robot on the news appearance. That sounded promising, but it ended up being a hoax. Digging deeper, though, Ferd found a 1974 newspaper article headline from The Akron Beacon Journal: “Man in Robot Suit Baffles Authorities.” The link sent him to a nationwide newspapers site through a genealogy service. He signed up for a free seven-day account and found the article.

MAN IN ROBOT SUIT BAFFLES AUTHORITIES – OCTOBER 28, 1974

Authorities are on the lookout for what witnesses describe as a “man in a robot suit.” Two sightings in the area have residents wondering what is going on.

“I was out walking my dog when I saw it,” said Thomas Berger. “At first, I thought it was a man on stilts dressed up for Halloween, but he was inside some kind of armor. He picked up a picnic bench with one hand and spotted me before running away faster than anyone I’ve ever seen.”

Another witness, Donald Sanke, said he was watching his two children playing on a park swingset when he spotted the man.

“I saw him by the trees in the back of the park and got up. I didn’t know if he meant us harm or not. When he noticed I spotted him, he ran away.”

Police said they have no leads, but Mr. Sanke has an idea.

“You remember that weird bank robbery up in Cleveland seven or eight years ago? I wonder if it’s the same person.”

Ferd searched for “Cleveland Bank Robberies 1960s,” and found a 1967 article in the Cleveland Plain Dealer about a robbery where a man used a “ray gun” to enter a vault and get away with 1.2 million dollars. The article claimed the gun made the vault door “disappear.” The only thing left behind was a calling card reading THE DECIMATOR.

Additional searches produced a 1976 article in the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette about a “man in flying boots,” and a Detroit Free Press article from 1979 about a costumed man in a gas mask stopping a robbery using a “sleep gas gun.” Ferd even stumbled upon a YouTube clip from a 1989 episode of Unsolved Mysteries about the Cleveland bank robbery. The segment claimed only D.B. Cooper’s mid-air plane heist and whereabouts eclipsed the strange crime in Cleveland.

* * *

On Wednesday afternoon, in his 25th hour of being awake, Ferd heard a noise at his front door. He went out through the back and snuck around to see who was there. Someone had placed a package on his doormat.

It was larger than the lightning gun box—and longer. He wondered if it was a trap, but was growing too tired to care. Ferd had reached a state of sleeplessness where he wondered if the box was even real.

He set it on his coffee table and opened it. Inside, he found a jumpsuit. It was covered in wires and round metal discs several inches wide. A belt with an ON/OFF switch looked like it hooked into the wire connections covering the garment.

“Why the hell not?” he said. Ferd pulled it on, hooked up the belt, and flipped the switch.

The suit hummed to life, surrounding him in a warm blue glow. He tapped his arm and felt nothing. Ran at a wall and bounced off with no bruising. A forcefield suit. After testing its strength in the garage (hammers, saws, and even a soldering iron had no effect), he returned to the living room. He looked at the box the suit arrived in and saw a note. It read:

IT WOULD BE WISE TO WEAR THIS BENEATH YOUR CLOTHES WHEN YOU GO OUT.

– D

* * *

Ferd stayed in Wednesday night, keeping an eye outside in the hope of spotting the person sworn to be his new enemy. He opened a window when the world was quiet and asleep, listening out for a drone. Somehow, he must have been tracked.

When he was convinced a drone wasn’t giving him away, he spent the next hour looking for a tracker. He pulled out the soles of his shoes; emptied his wallet and took his key fob apart. Finally figured out how to turn off all location tracking on his phone. After that, Ferd considered researching some more, but opted for watching TV instead. He kept the force field suit on, figuring if something happened, safety was an ON switch away.

When the sun came up, he watched his go-to comfort show: the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles cartoon. It was a favorite show as a kid, and it still kept him entertained years later—a thing he could watch for hours again and again. In one episode, the turtles found a card at the scene of a crime. It read “– S.” Every kid knew it was from the show’s main villain, The Shredder.

It made him think of the note included with the force field jumpsuit ending with “– D.”

He went to his laptop and continued searching for “The Decimator,” finding pages of table-top war game results, but nothing more than the article about the Cleveland robbery. When he eventually gave up, he crawled into bed, where he finally fell asleep three hours later.

* * *

Thursday evenings were Ferd’s Sundays. While he enjoyed his job and the focus that came with it, 13-hour shifts and trying to get back on schedule wrecked him even more. As his restlessness intensified, he put on the forcefield suit. Over that, his running clothes. Ferd finished by strapping on the lightning gun, and headed out for a run.

Each time he passed the back of the park, he expected another robot attack. He had considered driving to a more public park and running, but figured if something was going to happen, he’d not be able to avoid it by changing locations. His enemy knew where he lived. For all Ferd knew, they were waiting for him at home.

On his fourth mile, he paused and looked skyward, at what appeared to be a meteor breaking up as it entered the atmosphere. It continued flaring and turned his way, landing on the trail before him. Not a man in a robot suit, but a man in powered armor.

Gone were the ridiculous heads of the robots two nights before. A sleek helmet and visor replaced speaker mouths and antennae jutting out from the sides. No clunky barrel-shaped body; instead, a two-toned gray armor like a sci-fi version of motocross protective gear. The jetpack and stabilizers on the sides of its feet glowed orange from the flight.

Ferd flipped the forcefield suit’s ON button just in time. The man in the powered suit pulled a gun from a holster and fired a blue beam his way. Ferd felt its warmth radiate across his chest, a ripple of energy absorbed by the energy bubble surrounding him.

Ferd returned fire, but the crackle of the lightning gun had no effect. He turned to run, but the man in the armored suit leaped over him in a flip and blocked his way. Another shot from the lightning gun yielded no results—Ferd clicked it into its holster and took off across the grass toward a playground. Again, the man in the suit blocked his way.

The armor looked like it had exposed areas at its joints. Ferd threw a punch at his foe’s lower abdomen. He cut his fist on the bottom of an armored plate, but landed a blow. The man in the suit extended his arm and hit Ferd with a white blast emanating from his palm, knocking Ferd back across the grass and into the post of a swingset. No damage.

As Ferd stood up, the man in the armored suit let loose a blast from the jets on his feet, giving Ferd no time to react before closing the distance and crashing into him. Their forcefields canceled each other out—the blow blow Ferd as he was sent back into the post a second time. Blood dripped from his forehead. He looked up and saw the man inside the armor through a broken visor.

Ferd hadn’t given much time to considering what his enemy looked like. When he did, he imagined someone his age, possibly advised by an old spy. He didn’t expect a man in his 80s who looked familiar, even though he couldn’t place who the man was or where he’d seen him.

Ferd’s enemy raised his hand and covered the side of his face exposed by the collision. Ferd readied another punch as a car pulled into the parking lot. Bright lights flared as a police patrol spotted them.

“Hold onto me, Ferd!”

Ferd stood on the armored man’s feet and found handholds on his sides. The man in the armored suit wrapped his arms around Ferd—and with a WHOOSH—they were airborne.

The city fell away from view as they climbed, and then tilted east. They flew to the edge of town and landed in a field. The man in the armored suit let go of Ferd and said, “Head through those trees over there. You can catch a bus home.”

Then he reached down and removed the holster and lightning gun from Ferd’s waist.

He took off before Ferd could protest.

* * *

When he got home, Ferd plopped down in his favorite chair in front of a silent television. While reclusive by nature, he considered contacting a friend and talking about his strange week. But who would believe him?

“You answered a flyer ad, and now an old man you think is a 1960s bank robber is attacking you with robots and powered suits? I know we barely talk and that you have issues sleeping—are you okay?”

So he sat in his chair on edge, jumping at any creaking of the house settling at night. Wondering if a passing car was delivering a new message, or a distant plane some new construct coming his way for another fight. When the sun came up, Ferd went for a run in his neighborhood. He’d sworn off the park and figured he was safe on the waking streets. He spent a calm morning, thinking about what might happen next. Then he did something he’d not done in years: he crawled into bed and got six hours of sleep before waking up for work.

* * *

Ferd’s two favorite things about his job were helping people and—once a study was underway—having a little time for other things. As he monitored the evening’s study, a 38-year-old office manager who admitted at least some of her problem was an urge to check her phone for work messages all night, he looked through recent studies. The man in the flying suit looked old, so he searched for all males he recently monitored over 70.

When his current study stirred awake and settled back to sleep after remembering where she was and that she was not allowed to check her phone, he looked through videos from those he whittled down for his search. Eventually, he saw him: an 85-year-old man who looked exactly like the person behind the broken visor from the night before. How could he forget that name: Clarence Grossweiner!

He remembered, now. He was, perhaps, the most exhausted study Ferd conducted in at least a year. A man who told him he started having sleep issues for the first time in his life and didn’t know why. Ferd had everything he needed: his enemy’s address, phone number, and even some personal information about the man tormenting him all week.

When the night’s study was complete and he finished all his notes, Ferd went home to get the forcefield suit.

* * *

On his walk home, Ferd thought about what he’d do: monitor Clarence’s house and catch him out of his armor. Rush him, tie him up, and force him to reveal everything. When he got home, Ferd saw an envelope taped to the door.

He went around to his shed in the backyard and got a rake. He used its tines to pull the envelope out, checking to see if it was a trap. When he was convinced it was just another communication from Clarence, he set the rake down, removed the envelope from the door, and went inside.

The note read:

Ferd,

You have proven yourself to be a worthy adversary—an enemy beyond my expectations. I believe it best to skip to the end.

Meet me in the field where I dropped you off after our fight Thursday night. Midnight. This all ends in a duel.

– D

Ferd was not going to wait. He put on the forcefield suit and headed out.

* * *

Clarence Grossweiner lived on a tiny estate at the edge of town, a stout brick home built before shoddy McMansions crowded the area. The property was surrounded by an iron fence and manicured hedges; the driveway tucked behind a wrought iron gate and stone wall. Looking on Google Maps, the likelihood of sneaking across the grounds unseen was slim. Ferd pulled to the callbox, pressed the intercom’s button, and said, “I know you can hear me, Grossweiner. Probably see me, too! Open up and face me!”

From the intercom speaker came a frail voice. “Please don’t call me that, Ferdinand. My name is Clarence.”

“Fine. Clarence! Better?”

“Yes. Thank you. What do you want, Ferd? Our duel is scheduled for Monday.”

“I want all this to stop.”

“It will end Monday.”

“I’m not going to fight you anymore.”

“Okay.”

Ferd looked for the camera on the callbox—found the lens and stared into it.

“Okay? You’ve tormented me all week and now you’re just stopping? Forgive me if I don’t believe you.”

“You’re forgiven, and I’m sorry for all I’ve put you through. You’re relieved of your duty.”

“What?” Ferd said. “No!”

“You said you want this to stop. That you refuse to fight anymore. So, be on your way.”

He pointed at the camera. “You’ve got something planned. I know it.”

“I am a sincere person, Ferd. Or is there something more you want?”

“Uhm…”

“Uhm what?”

“I guess I want to know why you chose me?”

“You answered a random flyer taped to a telephone pole.”

“Sure. Yeah. But…it looked like it hadn’t been there that long. And few people pass by that way.”

“Fine, Ferd. I will tell you why I chose you if you accept my duel. Right now.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Then I can’t tell you why I chose you.”

“Fine!” Ferd said.

The gate separated in the middle and opened wide.

“Come to the house. I promise I have nothing planned until we speak.”

* * *

Ferd cautiously made his way up the long drive and parked before the stairway leading to the house. The entry double doors parted before Ferd could knock or ring the doorbell. Before him stood Clarence Grossweiner, the tired old man from a sleep study two months earlier.

“Welcome, Ferd. Please, come inside.”

He turned and disappeared into the shadows of the large foyer. Ferd followed, closing the doors behind him. He flipped the ON switch of the forcefield suit as he passed through. The dark interior of the house gave way to a bright solarium running the entire length of the back of the house. He hoped Clarence wouldn’t notice the suit’s glow in the light.

The black and white checkered floor opened to Mediterranean arched windows on three sides of the large sunroom. Potted plants and flowers were placed along the outside of the space and atop ornate pillars in the corners. Vines hung down from a glass roof held in place by intricate Art Nouveau ironwork. At one end of the space, a heavy wooden table with equally stout benches. On the other side, a sitting area composed of a long couch and two club chairs. In the center of it all, a small fountain.

“Would you like something to drink, Ferd? Some lemonade, perhaps?”

“No, thank you.”

“Well, I’d like some if you’d allow me a moment.”

Ferd expected Clarence to return in the biggest, most ridiculous robot suit of them all, but he came back with a glass pitcher on a tray with two glasses. He set it down on a table between the two chairs and poured himself a glass.

“I assume you figured out who I am?”

“Yes,” Ferd said. “But it doesn’t explain all this.”

Clarence Grossweiner admired his solarium and said, “I invested my sole criminal haul rather well. That’s the problem with most people: they get a taste of the adventure and riches and keep going until caught. I simply wanted to fund the things living in my imagination. I’m not proud of how I went about it, but what’s done is long done.

“But you don’t care at all about that. You’re here to find out why I chose you.”

Ferd nodded. “Yes.”

“If you recall, during my sleep study, we talked about how funny it is that you help people sleep better, but struggle with insomnia. You mentioned your days running together—how your job was the only thing that felt real. I figured your life could do well with a break from the monotonous trudging of blurred days and nights. I’m sure you were hoping for more, but that’s my motivation. I’m sorry you’re not some ‘Chosen One,’ or that all this culminates in some grand purpose.”

Clarence took a sip of his lemonade and opened a box on the coffee table in front of the couch. He pulled out two ray guns, handing one to Ferd.

* * *

“We’re going to do this like they do in the movies: back to back and ten paces. I’ll count them out, and then we turn and shoot. Understood?”

“Yes,” Ferd said. He followed Clarence to the middle of the solarium and took a step forward with each number called out.

“One…two…three…”

Ferd flipped the OFF switch of the forcefield suit beneath his clothes…

“Four…five…six…”

He scrutinized the heft of the ray gun in his hand. Carefully slid his finger into the trigger guard.

“Seven…Eight…Nine…Ten!”

Ferd turned and deliberately shot one of the plants on a stone column the corner. The column and everything in an eight-foot sphere around it, disappeared, leaving a deep divot in the checkered floor. He waited for the the shot coming his way. Instead, Clarence stood tall, his arms spread wide—eyes closed. When he opened them, he followed Ferd’s gaze to the crater in the floor.

“Perhaps 10 paces each was too much,” Clarence said. “Shall we try again with five?”

“No,” Ferd said. “You didn’t even shoot.”

“I must have missed as well.”

“No, you did nothing. Why?”

“Because I’m sick, Ferd. I found out about a week after the sleep study. I’m not going to get better, so I’ve chosen not to treat it at my age. But it’s caught up with me, and I just want the pain to end. We’re not kind to people in my state in this country.

“So, I figured I’d find someone I could bother—work them up to a point they’d gladly fire on me. POOF—gone! No evidence left behind. Leave The Decimator in the hands of someone I felt would not use it for nefarious reasons. You were so friendly and understanding during my sleep study.

“I know it’s a horrible thing to put upon another person, but I can’t bring myself to do it on my own. I didn’t count on you being such a terrible shot.”

Ferd placed The Decimator on the ground and said, “I missed on purpose.”

“Why would you do that?”

“I initially figured the suit would absorb anything you fired my way, and that if I missed you, we’d both live. But as we started pacing off, I changed my mind. I’m not sure this is real.”

“What do you mean?” Clarence said.

“This. My life. Does all this exist, or is it because I suck so much at sleeping? Are all the weird things I see in my periphery now standing right in front of me? I feel so locked in. I’m terrified that I’m wrapped up in two or three layers of dreaming and at home or even in a hospital bed. Or worse: dead…and this is my eternity. I don’t know. Nothing works: sleeping pills, meditation, none of it. It’s like I’m a ghost.

“So, I thought, ‘I’ll miss and he’ll hit and it will all be over. I’ll finally get to rest.’”

Clarence’s grin turned to laughter.

“Well, aren’t we both the proper mess.”

“Yeah, we are. So, what now?”

“I release you as my enemy. Go home, Ferd. I’m sorry I involved you in all this. Keep the forcefield suit as payment.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll figure something out. Goodbye, Ferd. You were a wonderful enemy.”

* * *

Saturday night’s sleep study was an eighteen-year-old college football prospect who slept well once settled. It wasn’t Ferd’s call, but with no disorder, he guessed it was simply anxiety that would go away once the kid decided where he’d sign. Sunday was an artist who stopped breathing 50 times an hour. She seemed happy something was caught and that a CPAP machine would help her finally get some rest.

On Monday morning, Ferd smiled as he passed the telephone pole where the week before, he spotted Clarence’s flyer. He thought about the week ahead of him, how he’d give Clarence a call and take him up on that glass of lemonade. At home, he warmed up some leftover Thai takeout and sat down on his couch.

Ferd turned on the local news to catch the weather—seeing if the forecast matched what the app on his phone predicted. Onscreen, a reporter stood in front of a familiar gate where a familiar house once stood. Police on the ground—and circling in a helicopter above—marveled at the massive divot where Clarence Grossweiner’s house once stood. No sign of an explosion—just like everything simply disappeared.

* * *

Epilogue

Wednesday afternoon, while catching up on a podcast from a guy in Florida who reviewed store-bought soups, Ferd got an alert from his camera doorbell. A FedEx delivery. He watched the courier set down a package and return to his truck. Ferd got up and opened the door.

It was the size of a shoe box. Ferd brought it inside and set it on his coffee table. When he went to the kitchen to get scissors to cut through the tape, he poured the last of the lemonade he made in honor of Clarence. He set the glass down on a coaster next to the box.

Inside, was a note and something beneath, wrapped in a towel.

Ferd,

I want to properly apologize for involving you in my ridiculous plan. By the time you read this, you’ll likely have heard what happened to me. While I cannot bring myself to pull the trigger on The Decimator, I’ve long speculated what would happen if its core were breached by a timed explosion while I was asleep. I guess I’ll find out. Or not if it works the way I hope.

It was terrible of me to expect you to do such a thing. I had written a confession for you, explaining to authorities how I manipulated you to fire on me in self defense. Fortunately, that was not needed. Everything was decimated with me, save what’s in this box. I hope it helps you.

Your enemy,

Clarence Grossweiner

(It really is quite a name, huh?)

Ferd lifted the item wrapped in the towel. Beneath it: six stacks of hundred dollar bills! Sixty-thousand in cash with a Post-it Note reading: CLEAN CASH—NOT FROM THE BANK HEIST.

He carefully unrolled the object wrapped in the towel, revealing the gas gun Clarence used the afternoon he entered Ferd’s bedroom. Another note included the formula for the sleep gas and a final message:

SWEET DREAMS, FERD. THANK YOU FOR MAKING AN OLD MAN’S FINAL DAYS SO MUCH FUN.

* * *

[Quirky music fades in…]

Christopher Gronlund:

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks.

And a HUGE thank you to Clarke Jaxton Motorbike for providing custom music for “Enemy Wanted.” Like I said up front, you can find links to his stories and music in the show notes for this episode…and on the Talent page.

Speaking of music…as always, theme music is provided by Ergo Phizmiz.

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

In May, it’s a return to two detectives from an earlier Not About Lumberjacks story—this time, more of a thriller than a full-blown mystery, but there will still be plenty for those who love to guess what’s going on before things are revealed.

[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…

* * *

If you write enough, it’s bound to happen: something you’ve finished or released is similar to (or even very much like) something else out there. And with the Internet being what it is, you’re likely to hear, “You swiped from that new story that’s out!”—or even something older. Something you’re not familiar with.

Thing is: it’s entirely possible to write a very similar story as someone else without knowing the other story exists.

It happens all the time…

* * *

My first novel, Hell Comes with Wood-Paneled Doors, is a humorous coming of age story about a family traveling cross-country in a possessed station wagon. And if I had a book published for every time I heard, “That’s just like National Lampoon’s Vacation,” I’d have a shelf full of books.

Hell Comes with Wood-Paneled Doors came about when I first started considering submitting fiction, when I was twenty. I had a copy of the Novel and Short Story Writer’s Market guide and was looking for places accepting short fiction. One place was a publication specializing in station wagons. It turned out to be a newsletter, so the story the publication inspired in me was too long for what amounted to a tri-fold pamphlet, but I had a story that would not leave my mind.

When I released it as a podcast and later as an e-book, I heard the comparisons to National Lampoon’s Vacation. But aside from a father and son buying a station wagon in the opening scene, they are very different stories!

(By the way, the story now lives on the Not About Lumberjacks site, under the Novels link.)

* * *

There’s an early-ish Not About Lumberjacks story called “Standstill.” It’s about a woman whose husband is dying, and she has a magical watch that can pause time for 24 hours. The watch breaks, and they are stuck in time together. She loves it, because it means her husband will not die, but he grows to hate it because she’s holding on to him and denying herself so many experiences.

I released the story about the time a coworker at an old job found out I have a fiction podcast. “Standstill” was the first story he listened to. He came in one morning and told me he listened…and loved the story. And then he said, “You totally got that idea from Futurama, didn’t you?”

I didn’t, but…maybe I did? Subconsciously? Because I loved Futurama when it was on, even though I’d forgotten there was an episode in which main characters, Fry and Leela, end up stuck in time and grow old together. [Spoiler alert: the characters in my story don’t grow old in their time stall, but maybe I did put my own spin on that Futurama episode without realizing it?] The episode, called “Meanwhile,” aired on September 4, 2013, and my story “Standstill” came out on July 3, 2016. (I probably shouldn’t have released a story with a dying husband on my 24th anniversary!)

It’s possible that Futurama story subconsciously stuck in my head for three years. (It was a great episode, although “The Luck of the Fryrish” episode about Fry’s brother is my fave.) Or it’s possible one of the many other time-bending stories involving a watch inspired it. (For all I know, the Futurama episode was inspired by another story.)

This type of thing is rather common with writing. You can almost always read, see, or listen to something that makes you think of something else. (I once had someone tell me my second completed novel reminded them of the TV shows Twin Peaks crossed with Northern Exposure, even though I didn’t set out to mimic either show. Mine was just a surreal story about a murder in a very quirky small town in the Northwoods of Wisconsin that reminded someone of those shows. If anything had an influence on that particular book, it was Robert Olmstead’s, A Trail of Heart’s Blood Wherever We Go, even though they are very different things.)

* * *

Another thing that can happen when you write: you release a story that suddenly becomes topical through some news-worthy event.

The final story of this year’s Christmas episode features the ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, and Future tormenting a corrupt pharmaceutical CEO. As that character defends his greed, he blames things on health insurance companies denying claims for people’s struggles and woes.

And…The week it was released, a gunman killed the CEO of UnitedHealthcare. Suddenly, that scene in the story—and a healthcare CEO being tormented throughout—was even more topical.

Because this sometimes happens, I still released the story…but I did put a disclaimer right up front that it was written before that murder.

But there’s another little twist in my writing and that recent news story.

The characters in my first novel are going to the Grand Canyon to spread the ashes of the protagonist’s grandmother, a woman named June Mangione. And a younger, alternate version of June Mangione is the protagonist of the last novel I finished.

I shook my head when they caught the killer of UnitedHealthcare’s CEO and heard his name: Luigi Mangione.

While I still released the Christmas episode, were I submitting the last novel I finished, I really do think I’d change June’s last name. (And I still have days where I think, “Shorten the novel, rewrite the query to make it clear the protagonist can do real magic, and see what happens…” If I did, I’d definitely change her last name.)

* * *

I can think of many other instances where this kind of thing happened to me. Or even times an opportunity was passed by because a company was interested in what I pitched, but doing something similar.

In the spring of 2005, I was sent to Atlanta for two months (with a new job that told me mere weeks before in my interview that there’d be no travel). It was the time Cartoon Network’s Adult Swim Sunday lineup was getting really big. And because nothing other than recording and releasing Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors happened, I thought, “Pitch it to Adult Swim as a summer mini-series for 2006!”

It was a long shot, but why not, right?!

I was surprised when I heard from the person heading up Adult Swim while I was still out there. He said my story sounded great and…if they didn’t have something similar in the works, he’d have me in to pitch the series in person. (Which I thought was really cool!)

The similar show turned out to be “Lucy, the Daughter of the Devil,” which came out in October of the same year. It had virtually no similarities to Hell Comes With Wood Paneled Doors, but when you’re putting together a lineup of shows, even vague similarities (having Hell-based things in common), is too much.

* * *

I expect things like this to happen as long as I write and release stories. It’s entirely possible—even likely—for a handful of people to come up with very similar things, especially if dealing with topical ideas.

For all I know, right as I press publish on this behind-the-scenes look at this year’s Christmas story, someone else is releasing a podcast making the exact same points, completely independent of this one…

* * *

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—and actually even free—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 March (but probably in February knowing me), it’s a story about a sleep technician who answers a random ad for somebody looking for an enemy.

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…

* * *

As a child, I had a favorite kind of story: tall tales!

There was something about the larger-than-life characters doing things defying reality that appealed to me. Of the many tall tales I loved, the Story of John Henry was—and still is—my fave. I love the story and the song.

On the subject of songs, my sister and I had some Pete Seeger albums for kids. Of those, his version of Abiyoyo was a thing I could listen to on repeat.

I loved the ridiculousness of Pecos ‘Friggin’ Bill using a dang snake to lasso—and ride—a tornado!

And, of course, I loved stories about the lumberjack of all lumberjacks: Paul Bunyan and his blue ox, Babe.

* * *

I’ve always wanted to write a tall tale, but only until recently, actually have. I’ve definitely leaned into ridiculous things with not about lumberjacks: stories about people visiting fantastic worlds on the other sides of portals, a couple stories involving time travel, and even a story that starts out 100% true and morphs into a tale that ends up with a demon singing “Happy Birthday” to the guy who convinced me to start the Not About Lumberjacks Patreon!

With the most recent story—“The Legend of Mighty Missy Stewart”—I finally have a tall tale to add to my writing collection.

Of course, a BIG story needs a BIG voice…

* * *

I’m terrible about asking for things. I’m terrible about accepting things as well. Once, a great-aunt who owned an art gallery in New York City offered to move me up from Texas, put me in an apartment she still had near Central Park (she and her sisters all lived on a farm in New Jersey after she shut down the gallery), and give me a free school ride.

When I told her, “I’m on academic probation,” she said, “Well, I’ve donated quite a bit to several schools on the coast…I’m sure if you promised to do well that they’d make an exception in your case…”

It was a huge, life-changing offer, to which I said, “Thank you, Aunt Catherine…but I can’t accept that…”

(And later, when people said I was nuts to turn down such an offer and to ask if it still stood, I didn’t ask. Because asking for things is my kryptonite, a thing I have a hard time doing, even though I’ll do anything for friends asking me for help where I can.)

So…”The Legend of Mighty Missy Stewart” almost didn’t have the incredible narration of Dave Pettitt behind it.

* * *

You’ve likely heard Dave Pettitt’s voice. He’s narrated several unscripted reality series for Discovery—and voiced commercials for car companies, professional sports, and so many other things. (Example: my wife knew his voice from an episode of My Little Pony.)

Dave is a friend of a good friend. When “The Legend of Mighty Missy Stewart” was taking shape, I heard his voice in my head. I even thought, “Hmm…I wonder if I can somehow afford Dave’s voice for this one,” told myself I couldn’t, and just kept writing…

* * *

There are two events in my life that make me a little better at asking for things: one is a decades-long friend and I chatting at lunch about how I have a hard time asking for help. This friend has a pile of the biggest art awards in his industries…it’s likely, if you’re into sci-fi or fantasy, that you’ve seen his work on book covers.

During our chat, he asked why I never asked him for any help. I said something to the effect of, “I wouldn’t want you to think I’m your friend only because you might help me.”

He laughed and said something along the lines of, “If that’s been your goal all along, you are terrible at playing the long game!” (We’ve been friends for over 30 years.)

The other event involved a person I knew through one of those corporate post-layoff, “Here’s a workshop to help you get through it,” things.

She wanted to do consulting work for her company where I was employed at the time, so she asked if I had some time to meet up and chat. She made it clear what she hoped would come of the conversation.

When our business was settled, we started chatting about other things. In the conversation, my seeming inability to ask for things came up.

She said: “When I asked you for help, what did you do?”

Me: “Helped you…”

Her: “Yes. And why did you help me?”

“Because you’re a cool person and I wanted to…”

Then she said, “Right. You—and so many others—are happy to help. And closer friends, even moreso! In fact, when you don’t ask for help, you’re actually denying others the chance to do something that feels good when they’re able to be the person helping another. You shouldn’t do that.”

And so: I asked a good friend if he knew how much Dave charged.

* * *

My friend had no idea, but said, “Hell, now I’m curious!Only one way to find out…”

I won’t disclose the rate we agreed on, but I’m glad I set aside Patreon money and that I finally asked.

I cannot imagine this story narrated by anyone but Dave!

* * *

Knowing all I know, I’m still terrible at asking for things.

It’s likely—were I more assertive—that more people would know my writing. (I have a fair amount of friends who are published writers whom I’ll likely never ask for help!)

So, in an effort at getting better at asking for help, I’m asking you: if you like Not About Lumberjacks, please share a favorite story or two this holiday season. It’s a great listen while traveling, cooking a big meal, or just getting away from crowds and relaxing.

Whatever your plans are over the next month or so, I hope they all go smoothly and leave you with fond memories…

As I always say at the end of these commentaries…

* * *

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—and actually even free—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.

Next up is the annual Christmas episode! This time around, you get:

• A story about a summer school friendship set in 1985…
• A tale about the first human Mars landing and…the surprising thing the crew discovers…
• A story about two people attending the strange funeral of a coworker no one knew much about…
• And it all wraps up with a Christmas tale about three famous ghosts who change the way they do their annual Christmas hauntings…

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.

It’s one of my favorite times of the year…time for the November anniversary episode of Not About Lumberjacks. And this year is extra special as the show enters its 10^th year! This time, it’s a tall tale about a girl raised on the frontier and coming of age in a time of lumberjacks. There might even be a legendary cameo in this one.

A couple things to get to before the story. First up: the usual content advisory…

Were “The Legend of Mighty Missy Stewart” a movie, it would be rated PG. There’s some good-natured teasing and a non-descriptive death. What might put it into the PG realm instead of General Audiences is the mention of some woodland monsters. But this one’s a really light-hearted and fun tale.

The other thing before we begin is a bit about our narrator this time around.

Dave Pettitt not only has a ridiculously wonderful voice, but he has a voice you’ve likely heard. He’s done a wide range of commercial work, including the National Hockey League and the National Football League. Cartoons and video games? Yep, Dave’s done both. But he’s best known for the unscripted reality series, Discovery’s Highway Thru Hell—and somewhere near the other end of the spectrum – GPS audio tours for an app called Guide Along.

Dave splits his time between his home on Vancouver Island and Puerto Vallarta, Mexico – where he and his wife, Mindi, not only enjoy warmer weather, but also dedicate time to rescuing dogs.

They’re dang-good people!

You can check out this episode’s show notes to learn more about Dave and what he’s up to.

All right, let’s get to work!

* * *

The Legend of Mighty Missy Stewart

No one knows how Mighty Missy Stewart came to exist in the world, only that one day she was there. Some say she sprung fully formed from a magical acorn, while others claimed she was found in the center of the greatest tree in the Northwoods, freed from a long slumber in its heart on the day it was felled. Others say she was brought down by the glaciers forming the Great Lakes, deposited like a seed that grew strong and tall when they retreated. And one other tale insisted she crawled out of a bear den stretching all the way to the center of the earth, where she was forged in its metal core. The only thing for certain is somewhere in her infancy, she ended up in the company of Emma and Benjamin Stewart.

* * *

When the Stewarts headed west in search of a better life, they found what they were looking for in the Northwoods of Wisconsin: a wild, quiet place where they could build a cabin and raise a family. The cabin went up in a green grove beside a bright brook, but starting a family proved to be a greater challenge than settling the land. When home remedies didn’t work, Emma and Benjamin turned to prayer. When prayer didn’t work, they accepted a large family was simply not meant to be. Their love for each other would have to be enough, even though both knew it would never fill the hole in their hearts.

Then came the day that changed everything…

* * *

On his final hunting trip before winter’s full arrival—hoping to top off reserves in his smokehouse—Benjamin Stewart heard a sound that piqued his curiosity, but also chilled him to his bones: the giggling of an infant.

It was deeper in tone than it should have been—and what was a newborn doing out this deep in the timber anyway? Their nearest neighbor was a five-mile trek through dense woods and over frigid streams, and their children were long past infancy. He crept over the frosty bed of crisp leaves on the forest floor for a better look, eventually finding a spot behind the cover of a juniper bush. There, in a small grove, was a newborn babe the size of a toddler, dancing and cooing to an equally content badger the size of a black bear.

Benjamin wondered if it was a trick of the light or a matter of strange perspective. No infant could be so large, let alone already walking and hopping about as though they’d been ambulatory for years. She wore not a stitch of fabric or a bit of fur; nothing on her feet or atop her head. All morning, Benjamin had struggled to warm up, despite his many layers, and here was a baby jumping about as though it were summer. He stepped out from behind the juniper bush and said, “Hello…”

The giant infant and badger stopped their merry waltz and faced him. The sun broke through the canopy, illuminating the girl’s face. Something about her eyes told Benjamin she’d been there longer than him.

She giggled and approached.

The badger followed.

“Where are your parents?” he said.

The giant baby cooed again.

“Hello?!” Benjamin called, but no one answered. “Is anybody here?”

He took off his coat and draped it over the child’s wide shoulders.

“We need to get you somewhere warm. Do you want to come home with me?”

She nodded.

“Okay, then…”

Benjamin Stewart turned toward home, hoping the food he had in storage would be enough for Emma, him, and a new, hungry mouth. As he walked along with the child and her badger buddy, she reached up, took his hand in hers, and said, “Papa…”

* * *

Emma Stewart welcomed the child into their home with an open heart but was not as keen on the badger that arrived with her.

“Benjamin, we can’t allow a wild animal live in the cabin with us!”

“It’s not hurting anything,” he said, “and she seems attached to it.”

To Emma’s delight, the badger didn’t seem thrilled about sharing the tiny space with three humans. It dug a den beneath a tamarack tree at the side of the cabin in what seemed like a fair compromise to both the furry creature and the cabin’s main keeper.

* * *

Before long, the child’s curiosity and mobility became a curse. Her ability to climb was remarkable. She was often found perched on the ridge of the rooftop, or even higher up in the tallest of trees, where she would sway in the breeze, much to her parents’ horror.

When she wasn’t running about, swimming in rivers, or wrestling with Tamarack the badger, everything in the Stewart’s home was a source of interest.

“Me see! Me see!” she’d say any time Benjamin or Emma picked something up. “Me see! Me see!” and they would call out what it was that attracted her attention: “Spoon…Plate…Candle.”

“Me see! Me see!” all day long’ so frequently that they finally decided on a name for her: Missy.

It didn’t take long for Missy to leap from a constant barrage of “Me sees!” to speaking in full sentences. By the time she was five, she was already taller than her adoptive parents.

And oh, what an appetite she had, eating stacks of flapjacks and dozens of eggs for breakfast, and never slowing throughout the day.

“Benjamin,” Emma said, “I can’t keep up with her!”

“Nor I,” he said. “My days are spent just making sure she’s fed.”

* * *

As more people settled in the area, it was not uncommon for someone to appear at the door, stating they knew Missy meant no harm, but hurt their children while playing. Those who didn’t know her often mistook her for an adult—and Tamarack for a grizzly bear!

Between the efforts to keep her fed and the damage she seemed to cause to people and home, the 12-year-old left a letter for her parents one morning before they woke up.

Dear Mama and Papa,

I know I am a problem, and I am sorry for the harm I have caused. Just as you came to the Northwoods to find your own way, I must leave to find mine.

Thank you for everything you’ve done for me. I love you both.

Missy

P.S. This is not goodbye.

* * *

Not even Missy knew how long she’d been around, no matter how hard she tried remembering. She believed it was the Stewart’s love that helped her grow and give her awareness, like a dandelion seed floating until finding a place to settle and sprout.

She and Tamarack traveled far and wide, hoping to find something triggering a memory of, “This is it! This is where I began!”

But years of wandering left her with more questions than answers.

Some evenings, she and Tamarack spent the night on the edges of new settlements, where Missy eavesdropped on elders sharing ancient stories around fires. In time, a new story found its footing: a tale about a wild woman of the woods and her pet bear. It was not until hearing another settlement share the story—with a giant badger instead of a bear as the woman’s companion—that she realized the stories were about her and Tamarack.

None of the things shared in the tales had happened: they never fought off monsters or had even seen one. Heck, Missy didn’t even know what a monster was until hearing about them in stories. It took several evenings for Tamarack to ease her nerves about that. And she definitely wielded no magic. Tamarack couldn’t shape-shift into other creatures like he did in stories. Why would they share such lies?

Missy came to understand that was how people warned each other to be cautious. “Do be careful, young ones,” would not suffice. “Go where you do not belong, or you are likely to be eaten by a luferlang,” carried more weight.

It tickled Missy to think that she and Tamarack were legends in their own time, more mysterious than genuinely threatening in the eyes of settlers.

* * *

As Missy neared adulthood, the biggest change yet came to the Northwoods: lumberjacks! Hearty men risking life and limb to stake a claim in the forests. Where they roamed, timbers fell; where they slept, trouble often followed. Brutish and brash, Missy’s encounters with them often left her stomach soured.

“I was taught to see the best in people, Tamarack, but these men thrive on fighting and harassment. I do wish there was something I could do to set them straight.”

She found what she was looking for one summer afternoon outside a new settlement. The sign read:

LUMBERJACK CONTEST
“WHO WILL WIN THE GOLDEN AXE?”
MIRROR LAKE CAMP
SATURDAY
SUN UP TO SUN DOWN

* * *

Missy and Tamarack followed the scent of campfire coffee to the lumber camp before sunrise on the day of the event. Competitors and spectators huddled around the cook tent, finishing towering plates of flapjacks, sausages, and eggs—and washing it all down with swigs of the bitter bean. As she made her way toward the group, the previous year’s Golden Axe winner—Big Bill Bagley—said, “What can we help you with, miss?”

“I’m here to sign up for the competition.”

“I’m sorry, but we don’t have a woman’s contest,” the big man said.

“I’m not looking to compete against other women,” Missy said. “I’m here to win the Golden Axe.”

The other competitors laughed, and Big Bill said, “How about that, fellas. She thinks she can keep up with us! Should we let her have a go?”

“Aww, what’s the harm?” a lithe, but sinewy jack said. “She’ll give up before finishing the first event!”

They all stopped laughing after Missy defeated them in the underhand cut.

Next, the seasoned lumbermen paired up for the sawing event. Missy’s only ally was Tamarack, and he would be no help on the other side of a crosscut saw.

“Looks like you’re out, miss,” Big Bill Bagley said.

“No, I’ll just have to do it on my own.”

The goal was simple: be the fastest team to cut two rounds out of a 4-foot white pine.

Big Bill sawed so rapidly that his partner, Emmett Sanders, could barely keep up. Down fell the first round, and when the Golden Axe legend looked up after racing through the second, he reveled in the applause. His excitement deflated when he realized the crowd was actually cheering for Missy, who’d cut four rounds on her own in the time it took the best team in the Northwoods to cut two.

Next up was the most dangerous contest: tree climbing. Surely, she stood no chance of topping a tree, but up she went—without as much as a rope or spurs. When she reached the 100-foot mark, she undid her belt, threw it around the trunk, and held onto both ends with her left hand. Her right hand was a blur as she cut loose the top of the tree and slid back down just as the others began chopping.

Finally came the settlers’ favorite event: the log-rolling competition. Missy and Big Bill Bagley breezed through the ranks with only the soles of their boots getting wet. Bill’s sure-footed skills were known all the way to Maine on one end of the country and out to the Pacific Northwest on the other. Even Canadians knew his name.

After Missy and Big Bill conquered all challengers, it was time to face off. They stepped onto the log and slowly walked it out.

“ONE…TWO…THREE, ROLL!” cried the camp foreman—and they were off.

Big Bill Bagley rolled this way and that, hoping to get a jump on Missy, who was as sure-footed as a mountain goat. He kicked water in her face and rocked her end up and down, but her balance was unshaken. Big Bill worked himself into a frenzy, doing every trick he knew…even coming up with some in the moment. He looked ready to cry foul when Missy began hopping on one foot and smiling. No matter what he tried, he could not break her.

When Big Bill neared exhaustion, Missy said, “How do you want to end this? Keep going until you can stand no more, or shall I show you mercy and put you in the drink?”

His anger became a second wind. He tried everything he’d already tried, but faster. When his face grew redder than his flannel and he could barely hold a breath, Big Bill Bagley stood on the far end of the log and smiled. He spread his arms wide and fell back into the cool waters of Mirror Lake, admitting defeat.

Missy did a backflip off the log, shook Big Bill Bagley’s hand, and helped the exhausted lumberjack to the shore.

“This ain’t easy for me,” he said before the amazed crowd. “Nobody’s ever bested me at one task, let alone them all. You have my respect, ma’am.”

He stepped to the stump holding the Golden Axe, pulled it free, and handed it to Missy.

“You take care of that, now, ‘cause I plan to reclaim it next year…”

* * *

In the years that followed, the Northwoods remained a wild and mysterious place—but as more settlements sprang up, nature and man frequently clashed. As more timber was cut, animals that once fled deeper into the timber could hide no more. Where paths crossed, injuries—and even deaths—occurred. And when men took more, they unearthed creatures of legend.

Lumberjacks went missing, the victims of hidebehinds and river serpents. Some said woodland spirits drove a lumber camp so mad that when the spring thaw came and trade resumed, there was nothing left but bones. Something needed to be done, and Missy and Tamarack took it upon themselves to help the region find common ground.

She went to the heads of lumber companies and mills, explaining the problems would worsen if they didn’t cut and harvest with care. If Missy was waved off, she knew how to play to those in charge.

“You have more than enough already,” she’d say. “Can you not set aside some of your land to remain protected? Do that, and your name will live on forever. But cut it all down, and you will be forgotten—or hated. Think about your name associated with parks people will come from coasts to see…”

Tamarack did his part, too, speaking the common language all forest creatures share. Letting his furry, feathered, and even scaled brethren know Missy was doing all she could to convince the intruders to care more for their homes.

Their efforts paid off, and where they did not, they let nature have her final say through violent storms, extreme temperatures, and raging fires.

* * *

On what Missy estimated to be her eighteenth birthday, she finally returned home. While she still frolicked and wrestled with Tamarack to keep her strength up, she had shed the clumsiness of her youth as she grew into her full eight feet of height. She could be poised and proper when the need arose, but always preferred a more rough and tumble way of living.

She barely recognized the area she left six years prior—the tiny grove had become a full settlement. She smiled when she saw the sign where the Big Bates River split off into the Little Bates River:

STEWARTSVILLE
POPULATION: 378
(AND GROWING)

Emma Stewart saw her daughter first. Her mouth opened wide in surprise. Without looking away, she reached back and tugged on her husband’s shirt.

“Missy…” he whispered.

The Stewarts crossed the distance between them faster than Missy, who scooped them both up in a grand hug.

“I told you it wasn’t goodbye…”

* * *

Missy shared six years of adventures with Emma and Benjamin, and they shared how the settlement grew until needing a name. Stewartsville was the unanimous winner, with Benjamin their reluctant leader.

In the years that followed, Missy and Tamarack continued being ambassadors of the Northwoods—and helping the township grow responsibly. It was nice being a fixture in one place again, with a loving family and plenty of friends.

All was well in the Northwoods, until that fateful day…

* * *

The residents of Stewartsville gathered on the north side of the village with picnic lunches to watch the spring log run. It was quite the spectacle, watching men racing down the Big Bates River on cut and cleaned timber, making their way south to the mills below the Northwoods. Such a grand time, until a run of logs broke free from the control of the seasoned lumbermen, toppling the temporary dam on the Little Bates River used to divert additional flow its bigger brother’s way.

When the Little Bates River couldn’t carry the load of timber rushing down, a log jam formed south of Stewartsville and quickly backed up. Despite the best efforts of the skilled river pigs running the logs, the area where the rivers split was overrun. As water diverted to the sides of the jam, more logs came rushing down. By early evening, Stewartsville was surrounded by a growing pile of logs—and ever-deepening waters too dangerous to cross.

Missy’s best efforts with the old heave-ho bore no results—there were just too many logs. Not even dynamite could break things free. As the jam grew wider, Benjamin predicted they had a week before the snow melt up north brought even more and they’d all be taken by flood waters or crushed among the shifting logs.

That’s when Missy had an idea…

* * *

The legend of Paul Bunyan was known coast to coast—a man so colossal that his reputation spanned oceans. Some said he was seven feet tall with a seven-foot stride, while others claimed he was a bona fide giant, with a chest rising high above the canopy of the tallest trees in the Northwoods. Missy speculated the truth lied somewhere in between. She also believed, if anyone could help clear the log jam, it was Mr. Bunyan and his mighty blue ox, Babe.

She told her parents the plan.

“Do be careful,” Emma Stewart said. “I worry about you.”

Missy bent down and hugged her mother. Benjamin was more practical.

“You should find him if you go straight on to Duluth and hang a right.”

“I will, Papa,” she said while kissing him on his forehead. “This is not goodbye.”

She hopped onto Tamarack’s back and held tight. The badger’s claws found purchase on the teetering timbers, and they raced off into the dark.

* * *

Between running alongside Tamarack—and sometimes riding on his back when she needed rest—they made it to Duluth in two days. It took another day to reach Paul Bunyan.

She saw him from a distance, standing on a bluff overlooking Lake Superior where the Big Onion River emptied into a body of water that may as well have been an ocean. Standing at his side, his massive blue ox, Babe. Missy tried guessing his height as she and Tamarack approached, eventually catching his attention as they climbed a hill on the backside of the bluff.

“Good eve to thee, friend! And…badger.”

“Hello!” Missy said. By the time she reached him, she guessed Paul Bunyan was 20-feet tall, with Babe standing at his shoulders.

“What can I do for you, ma’am?” the giant man said.

Missy shared the tale of Stewartsville’s troubles.

“I see.” Paul Bunyan looked across the lake below them and said, “Sounds like some got greedy and have cut more than they should. So, yes: I will help you. We’ll leave at first light.”

* * *

Cheers went up in Stewartsville when Bunyan’s head rose above the pile of logs and rising waters threatening to consume the settlement in a day’s time. Bunyan’s and Babe’s thundering footsteps echoed through the Northwoods. When he reached the log jam, Bunyan crossed as though it were level terrain. Tamarack skittered across timbers behind him, carrying Missy home. Not as sure-footed as the legendary giant or the massive badger, Babe waited on solid ground.

“You’re right—this is a fine mess,” Paul Bunyan said to Missy when they reached the settlement.

He filled his lungs and stretched to his full height.

“Good people of Stewartsville, your friend traveled far and put herself at great risk to find me. First, I must apologize for the eagerness of my fellow loggers. We should never cut more than we can manage. What’s been done cannot be changed, but I believe in my big heart that we can make things right again. Missy told me what happened, and we had plenty of time on our journey to come up with a plan.

“I’ll need the strongest among you to help Missy build a wedge of timbers north of town. When this all breaks, it’s going to be a monumental force you’ll remember for all your days. The wedge will keep Stewartsville safe. I’ll need a crew to dig a slope along the eastern edge of this island to make sure the water flows down the Big Bates River. And I’ll need the bravest among you to loosen the jam where the Big Bates splits. There will be plenty of time to manually remove what’s backed up on the little side, but to save the town, we need to drive the flow south. Babe will pull on the jam downstream and I will push from the north.”

Crews jumped to work, and by late afternoon, it was time to see how the plan worked out.

Bunyan’s mighty voice echoed through the Northwoods as he gave a hearty, “Push…pull! Push…pull!”

It sounded like a forest being dropped from the heavens when the log jam budged and finally broke loose from its own tangle. Water rushed south like a raging waterfall. Over the roar and cheering, Bunyan’s calls and Babe’s bellows echoed in Missy’s chest. The plan had worked!

Too well…

The entire jam broke free all at once, rather than in stages as planned. It ricocheted off the wedge Missy and others built on the north end of Stewartsville with such ferocity that it began to give.

“Hurry!” Missy shouted. The strongest of the lumbermen raced to the wall to help her hold the river’s fury back, but it was too much. They sought shelter with others on the south end of town.

With each surge of water and wood, Missy pushed back with equal force…until she could no longer hold back the barrage. Her legs trembled and her arms and shoulders burned. With her final effort, she gave all she had left, saving Stewartsville in the process. But the wedge—and Missy—tumbled into the Big Bates River. She tried leaping timber to timber but lost her footing. It didn’t matter how strong a swimmer she was against such an onslaught—it was a losing battle.

Just before being pulled under by the tail-end of the log jam, she looked to her parents on the shore and shouted, “This is not goodbye!”

She was never seen again…

* * *

No one knows for certain what happened to Mighty Missy Stewart following that fateful afternoon. Some say she was placed here by divine hands to save the people she loved and then called home. Others say her spirit roams the Northwoods, protecting all beasts, plants, and people. And still, others say she crawled back into the bear den from which she arrived, returning to the earth’s core to slumber until needed again.

The timbers from the Little Bates River still heat homes a century later—and will likely continue for centuries more. And late at night, on the coldest nights of winter, the old ones share stories about Mighty Missy Stewart, Tamarack, and their adventures by the glow of those fires.

One thing is for certain: as long as there are storytellers and willing ears, this is not goodbye…

[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, Horna Spelmän, and traditional tunes, all licensed through Epidemic Sound.

Sound effects are made in-house or from Epidemic Sound and freesound.org. And this time around, I even used some woody sounds from Bluezone Corporation, who make some great noises when I don’t have time to do so myself. Visit nolumberjacks.com for information about the show, the voice talent, and the music. Also, for as little as a dollar a month (or even free), you can support the show at patreon.com/cgronlund.

In December, it’s the annual Christmas episode. Santa’s bringing you four stories this year:

The first takes us back to summer school in the 1980s. After that, we go to Mars and attend a very strange funeral. And it’s all anchored by a Christmas tale featuring three famous ghosts who have grown tougher—and meaner—over the years.

[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…

* * *

“Overwinter” was the right story at the right time for me…and, it seems, others as well.

I’ve been dealing with a health issue, and I just didn’t feel up to working on a story requiring a lot more thought and sound design. But I also didn’t want to skip two stories in a row. (I’m skipping September’s story this year to focus on health. [And, just so you know, the health thing is looking better than expected, so that’s great!]) I decided on a quiet story I knew I could finish during all I’ve been dealing with.

“Overwinter” has been a story I’ve thought about for some time. Initially, it was about a lighthouse keeper, but then I saw a 14-minute video about Alexandra de Steiguer, the winter keeper of The Oceanic Hotel on Star Island off the New Hampshire coast. It touched on the story I saw in my head.

So, the switch from a lighthouse to a hotel was inspired by her. What was going to be a celebration of solitude in a lighthouse changed to a bigger celebration of solitude on a larger island and bigger space.

(I also follow a firewatch who goes by FollowMyLeap on YouTube, and he often talks about the joy of being isolated and alone as well.)

* * *

I expected “Overwinter” to be between three and four thousand words, but once I had a timeline and started writing, focusing on each month meant it would be a longer story. None of it was particularly planned. I had some notes jotted down about an artist in a lighthouse, but much of this tale was created in the moment.

It’s no secret that I like solitude, but it would be a big mistake to take all of Daniel’s feelings about being alone as mine. Still, many of my feelings about social interactions (for example: going quiet around four or more people)—that’s totally me. Also: I did write much of this story with specific people in mind.

First, my wife Cynthia…who prefers not being social because of all the expectations and stresses that come with it. My wife is an introvert’s introvert, someone who doesn’t have the social battery most introverts seem to have, where they do go out, but only have so much to give. Even that’s too much for her.

There are also thoughts about art—again, written for my wife, our friend Julia Lundman, and soooooooo many artists who are expected to perform for attention, made worse by things like Internet trolls, AI images, and other struggles that come with creating art in such a connected world.

My friends Deacon and Erin are in this one as well, people who are content pondering things more than always just being on the go. And there’s a part about the “ghost” of an old boxer, totally written for my friend John. John just comes up with the greatest creative tangents on social media, sometimes creating personas and thoughts on the fly that seem so real. So that’s a nod to him.

But mostly, I wanted a story in which the introverts had their silent say—something for people who find even the company of other introverts absolutely exhausting.

* * *

There are also a lot of things I didn’t do with “Overwinter.” I still wanted that lighthouse—I even considered, “Well, maybe there’s a lighthouse in Daniel’s view, and he can paddle out to it in a kayak found on the property. Would he find someone there? Or…would he end up stranded for days, caught in a storm without proper preparations and realize he was lucky to survive?”

I even thought about someone coming out to the hotel and being surprised by Daniel’s presence—and Daniel by theirs. What would happen with such an encounter? Would they occupy the space together, or would Daniel send them off?”

And, of course, I thought about making it creepy. Maybe something otherworldly was out there, something always on the outside of Daniel’s senses that left him constantly on edge. Or just some straight up horror he had to overcome to survive.

There was even a scene I started, but quickly dropped: a bit in March in which Daniel went to the small cemetery on the island—on the anniversary of his twin brother’s death when they were in their late teens/early 20s—and talked to an unmarked stone.

That’s what I liked most about writing this story: while I usually do just write what comes to mind, most of my stories develop more of a plot than simply existing on an island for five months. I might begin with little idea where I’m going, but plotting and structure usually becomes clear and demands attention pretty early in the process.

With “Overwinter,” there was nothing I had to do, other than to get Daniel on and off an island in the Atlantic Ocean.

* * *

I see “Overwinter” as a bit of a companion piece to another Not About Lumberjacks story: “Revisions.” In that one, a woman struggles to write her second novel while also trying to finish construction on her dead mother’s house that was not completed before her passing.

I love quiet stories, things where structure doesn’t dictate progress. My favorite book is Robert Olmstead’s A Trail of Heart’s Blood Wherever We Go, and I tell most people, “You probably won’t like it,” if they say they plan to read it. Things do happen in the book, but it’s largely about a small town in New Hampshire and a friendship between two very different people. No hitting expected beats—just damn good writing and a strange coziness to me.

Nothing big needed to happen in “Overwinter,” and that’s what I love about the story.

* * *

I like stories that don’t follow typical formulas or always conform to expected beats and shapes.

In his 2021 Book, Craft in the Real World, Matthew Salesses makes a great argument about the Western literary canon shunning so many great works that don’t meet certain expectations.

He says: “We still talk about plot the way Aristotle wrote about it over two thousand years ago, when he argued that plot should be driven by character.”

But in Japan, stories deemed “plotless” by some are not uncommon, tales in which a person exists in a moment of time, just going through life with no huge goals or revelations. In other parts of Asia, a 4-act structure is more typical than the Western 3 or 5 act so-called “rules.” And African literature has often been criticized as not having well-rounded characters because sometimes the focus deviates from the protagonist’s journey, which is usually centered in Western literature: one man against the world!

Not everything needs to conform to expected standards—especially when those standards are often created by those with far more agency than others.

* * *

The world is a noisy place, and I’d argue we’d all do well to embrace slower stories. It’s clear we crave a slower pace, with people talking about getting out and touching grass or just stopping to catch their breath; the need for self-care or cozy time inside instead of social obligations.

The expectation to always be connected and on the go is reflected in much of our entertainment. People apologize for writing long posts on social media, even though “long” to them is a short paragraph instead of one of two quick lines. It’s people seeking “quick reads,” and fast content. People half-reading short articles and then rushing off to have a quick say.

At the same time, there’s a huge market for slow video games, things far more soothing than thrilling. A return to curating a play list or even buying vinyl albums again and losing oneself in music for the sake of music. And even the occasional bigger, slower novel pulling people in.

* * *

Right now, I needed to write a story like “Overwinter.”

I needed something slow and quiet in my life.

And from the feedback I’ve received from others, it seems I was not alone…

* * *

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—and actually even free—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, the show enters its 10^th season with the most not Not About Lumberjacks story of the year!

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 an overwinter watch alone in a hotel on a small island off the Maine coast. That might sound like a familiar horror story, but it’s actually a quiet celebration of solitude. I’ll mention why my plans changed in a moment, but first, onto the usual content advisory…

“Overwinter” deals with a job change, longing, solitude vs. loneliness, and does contain a couple words you’ve probably heard on TV or at work this week. There are also a couple scenes with moderate consumption of alcohol.

So, why the change from the planned story that was scheduled for July?

Right now, I’m dealing with a little health issue. It’s not too serious (at least there’s no indication it’s really serious), but I’m dealing with tests, resting, and other stuff as we figure things out. It’s something that’s likely been happening for decades but gotten worse.

Working on a very involved story with detailed sound design was quite an undertaking right now—and I don’t want the story to suffer, just to get it out.

My plan right now is to skip September’s story and focus on my health, November’s anniversary story, and this calendar year’s Christmas story. I already have a couple of the shorter short stories ready for the Christmas episode (and one of them, I love soooooooo much!), and November’s anniversary tale is shaping up to be a lot of fun.

All right—enough of that! Let’s get to work!

OVERWINTER

NOVEMBER

I wake with the sun and fall to sleep shortly after dark, lulled by the hammering of waves against ancient stones. The flickering of a coal-burning stove turns from an orange to red glow against the wall in the room where I sleep. I’m usually deep into dreams by the time it all goes dark.

It was a well-timed proposition from my friend, David: “Do you want five months alone to focus on art?”

Recently laid off from a 15-year run at a video game company designing characters and environments for games you’ve likely played (or seen your kids or nieces or nephews play), I planned to leave soon anyway. It was a good job, but not the art I most wanted to create. So, David—the overwinter caretaker of Valmorne Hotel and Conference Center off the Maine coast—recommended me as the ideal replacement for him as he stepped away to care for his ailing father.

“What would I do?” I said.

“They drop you off on November first and pick you up on April Fool’s Day. There’s some maintenance checklists and other little tasks, but it’s nothing major. You’re basically out there making sure no one messes with the property—not that someone’s likely to head out in winter seas to vandalize the place.”

“Is it safe?”

“Safer than the mainland. No one’s gonna be distracted by a text message while driving and plow into you with their SUV. No crime or all the other ways to get hurt, here. Granted, if something happens, you’re probably screwed if you can’t send an alert. But I feel far safer out there than here.”

I always thought about what I’d do with nothing but time, all the drawing and painting I could get to and finish. A life where I woke up each day with one simple goal: make the things I most want to make. What it would be like to step away from the constant rush of days and slow down. This was the chance to give it a try with an end date if it turned out to not be all I imagined and hoped.

“Sure, I’ll do it,” I said.

* * *

Thirteen-Mile Island sounds like the title of a horror movie—some Shining knockoff, but in the Atlantic Ocean. That’s where I was going for five months, 36 acres of rocky land 13 miles out from the Maine coastline.

I arrived at the dock early, looking for the lobster boat that would take me to the island. The captain, a sea-weathered man in his 60s named Einar, waved and called to me: “Daniel! Here!”

I wondered how he knew it was me, but I was the only one struggling to drag a folding hand cart full of clothing, art supplies, and other items I felt I needed to get through the next five months with any semblance of sanity. Food was provided, but I still packed a box full of camping meals, jerky, and other compact, shelf-stable foods—just in case. When I reached the boat, I shook Einar’s coarse hand and waited to be invited aboard. He helped me with my gear and said, “Ready?”

“As much as I’ll ever be, I suppose.”

“Eh, if Davy can make it out here, you can, too.”

I thought about how much David hated being called Davy, but Einar was big enough that I’d let “Danny” slide if that’s what he decided to call me. I stood on the closed side of the cabin in the small boat, watching the Maine coast fade away behind us. Several miles out, we turned southeast. I expected lighthouses and summer mansions on small islands, but it was one rugged chunk of rock after another until reaching open water. It settled in how alone I would be. With no reliable cell service, a radio and emergency satellite beacon would be my only line to others. I struck up a conversation with Einar, just to enjoy my last hours of companionship.

“Have you ever spent much time on the island?” I said.

“Naw. My sister runs the hotel and conference center. I just take people back and forth. Got a 65-foot ferry that holds 149 passengers. My summers are all about sightseeing tours and shuttling people around the islands. I started out fishing, though. I kept this old boat ‘cause I love it.”

“Do you still fish?”

“A bit in late summer and into fall. Mostly just for me and friends. Not so easy to make a living that way today.”

I kept asking questions, and Einar continued answering them until an island came into view.

“There you are,” he said.

I waited for it to get bigger. Surely, that wasn’t all there was? For some reason, I thought 36 acres would be more sizable. But that was it: a classic, sprawling New England hotel taking up most of the rocky island, overlooking the ocean from the edge of a high cliff. I was relieved to see more land behind the building as we circled around. The eastern side had been eroded to sea level over millennia, where Einar moored his lobster boat to the dock and helped me drag my gear up the walkway to the back of the regal building.

He gave me a crash course in the island’s solar panels, diesel generator, coal-burning stoves, water systems, personal emergency beacon, and the radio.

“You’ve got books you’ll need to read so you can learn more about everything, but that’s the gist of it all.”

Among the books was a checklist of tasks: daily chores, weekly maintenance, and monthly schedules.

And then Einar said it: “If you need me or have to call for help, you’ve got the radio and beacon. I’ll see you at the end of the month with a resupply.”

I walked him to his lobster boat and ran along the edges of the island as he headed back toward the mainland, being careful not to trip and fall as the west side of the island climbed higher. At the edge of the cliff, I watched the boat get smaller as it neared the horizon. When it disappeared, I realized just how alone I was.

* * *

I settled into a routine quickly, my schedule dictated by nature and not the clock. Time was morning, afternoon, evening, and night. Now, as I near the end of my third week, I’ve come to appreciate the solitude that, at first, I found unsettling. Every noise had me calling, “Hello?” expecting to see a person hiding in the building, or some creature summoned by my imagination. Had David somehow come to the island to mess with me? But I quickly came to know all the creaking, popping, and shifting of the old keeper’s house. How wind pushing against the hotel as I made my rounds ricocheted through empty hallways, sounding like a small group of intruders. I’ve come to find this life in shadows soothing, the way gray light from outside gets in, but not deep enough to fully illuminate rooms and show me everything inside.

That’s become my favorite aspect of the job, no longer fearing those things just beyond my senses. It’s like standing on the rocks as the sea rolls in, watching roiling waters receding into the fog and mist 50 yards out. Beyond that dreary veil, anything can be happening, but I know whatever it brings comes with no malice or threat to me.

Other days, the gray cannot contain the sunlight above, breaking through clouds like fingers trying to scoop up the ocean. Grey and foamy water turns a brilliant blue where the beams of light hit; seagulls flit about like papers on a breeze. I love the way the low sun, blocked by rocks in the late afternoon, breaks above stone walls and illuminates the old white buildings up high. The ever-present sound of the Atlantic Ocean slamming like a heartbeat against ancient stones.

I understand why David chose me of all his friends to fill in. Even when the winds blow hard and bang against windows and shutters like a venerable god demanding entry, I’ve found a sense of solace. And there, in that stillness, I spend my days.

* * *

I wasted no time setting up a makeshift art studio in a north-facing conference room in the hotel. Tall windows let in diffused light, even on the murkiest of days. On sunny days, a consistent glow fills the space, but it’s never too bright. David didn’t lie: despite my daily tasks, time is mostly mine. I spend my days sketching and taking reference photos of the island, thankful for digital cameras. Were I to do this again, though, I’d set up a space to develop film and leave the island not only with full sketchbooks and finished paintings, but a portfolio packed with black and white photos capturing this monochrome realm.

This has been the dream for as long as I can remember: time in my hands, dedicated to the art I most want to do. It’s not that I hated designing characters and environments for video games, but as the industry grew, so did the weight of deadlines. Rough sketches were handed to the next artist on what became an assembly line. I watched younger people coming in, their eyes wide, having finally attained their dream, only to discover an industry had stripped it of joy and made it a stressful job like any other.

On the island, I bring old sketches to life on canvases and panel board. I find scrap lumber, savoring the time and effort to sand, seal, and prime it for painting. There’s something about painting views of 13-Mile Island on pieces of wood that have been here longer than I’ve been alive. The canvases I brought with me are reserved for the bigger ideas I’ve carried with me for years, but never had time to get to. Already, I’m thinking about how I can convince David he’s done tending to the island and these old buildings—or wondering which other island properties are in need an overwinter caretaker.

* * *

It’s Thanksgiving today—almost one full month on the island. I’ve never been the biggest fan of holidays, with their many expectations often growing more stressful than enjoyable. No relaxing time away from work, just hurried schedules and so many people to see, some of whom you’d rather avoid. All made worse if you have to travel. I’ve never needed others around me to be happy. I find crowds aggravating. The rush of November through the new year is an utterly exhausting time.

Here, there’s no bevy of dinner sides to be arranged, no giant bird to be cooked all day. No lengthy cleanup or racist uncles all-but-shitting on the table as they force politics into the discussion, despite everyone agreeing to get along and keep those topics to themselves. Not even the occasional courteous acceptance to friends inviting me to their feasts, where if I’m not the first to bow out, I’m quick to react and follow when another loner announces their departure. This Thanksgiving, it’s a turkey chili camping dinner, eaten directly from the package while looking out the kitchen window at the murky Atlantic.

It’s the best holiday I’ve ever celebrated.

* * *

Einar arrives on the last day of the month, right on schedule. I expected to overwhelm him with chatter—the first person I’d seen in a month—but we say little during our exchange. I give him finished paintings he promises to keep safe, and he gives me more supplies. He helps me bring food and other essentials into the keeper’s house. Before he leaves, I take a photo of him in the standing cabin of his lobster boat. He asks why, and I tell him he’ll see during the next resupply.

This time, when he leaves, I don’t run to the cliffs and watch his boat disappear. This time, I stand on the rocks and watch the waves advance and retreat against old stones.

DECEMBER

In the first week of December, the kind of storm David warned me about arrives. November was not without its gales, but this storm is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. Even with windows shuttered, I can feel air rushing across the cold floor. It sounds like the winds got a running start in Europe and gained speed with each westward mile. Oddly, I’m not as frightened as I thought I’d be.

These old buildings were here before I existed, and they’ll be here long after I’m gone. I spend the night amazed by how safe I feel on the island, instead of considering how dangerous the storm outside might be. There’s nothing to fear out here—no ghosts or other imaginary things. No archaic horrors rising from deep waters to wrap me in tentacles, no shape-shifting creatures or ghouls that only come out at night. The only thing to fear is an accident of my own devising: getting too close to the edge of a cliff and falling or being foolish enough to leap into strong waters and be carried away.

In the days following the storm, I spend my time boarding up broken windows. I log them in my book of tasks for the spring maintenance crew to fix when they arrive in April. I mop up water to ensure nothing turns to mold on my watch. I have survived the worst nature is likely to throw at the island during my stay. As long as I have food, water, and warmth, I am protected and safe.

* * *

The next big storm brings with it snow. As a child, I struggled to stay awake in anticipation of the first flakes of the season. I still do that today. I turn the radio up, hoping its volume and reports about the storm’s progress keeps me awake, but I’m lulled to sleep by a growing wind. When I awake, the island is a different place.

The ever-sound of the ocean is a thing I can never escape, here—even when I’ve ventured into the hotel’s cellars. This morning, I realize just how much this rocky chunk of land amplifies every sound thrown against it. Usually, bird calls echo off stone; winds whirl in crevices, sounding like demons climbing up from hell. Now, these sounds are muted. The island glows white against the gloom of the gray skies. I bundle up, grab my camera and sketchbook, and head out.

It’s a wet snow, the kind that sticks to everything. Gulls and Canada geese huddle among their flocks on the leeward side of drifts, seemingly immune to the cold wind. It’s like walking through a black and white movie. Here, the beauty is lasting, immune from the mainland’s unsightly turn where a pristine layer of snow becomes hard and blackened by car exhaust and the dirt of society. It remains pristine for weeks.

Back inside, I drag my space heater to my make-shift studio in the hotel, standing in a bubble of warmth as I look out the window and spend the day working on a painting of the island’s first snow of the season.

* * *

I thought the hardest thing about being the overwinter caretaker of this property would be not having reliable cell service or an Internet connection. It was a difficult habit to break that first week, instinctively grabbing my phone and opening apps that did nothing. When I would get the rare single bar on my phone, checking social media or email took so long—and often dropped before the connection faded—that it wasn’t worth my time. It struck me how sad that initial desperation was, like huddling beside a burning piece of paper to get warm. How quickly it was out, and I was left cold.

While I had friends as a child, I spent more time playing alone. My parents let me do what I wanted, content to not have to spend their energy on me after days at work or during restful weekends. As long as they knew where I was, I could stay out as late as I wanted. Perhaps that’s why this job doesn’t bother me—I’ve been wiring myself for this all my life. I enjoy my time among friends, but I’m often overwhelmed by the energy of it all once a crowd grows beyond a couple people. More than four others, and I become an observer—content to be among people I’ve chosen to love, but not taking an active part in conversations and actions.

Here on the island, my phone serves as a tiny library full of books I’ve meant to read, but never made time for. Gone is my urge to jump online and see what friends are eating and doing. There are no people posting opposing news articles on social media like chess pieces in efforts to prove their points to people unlikely to listen. And I definitely don’t miss the desperation of sharing my art online and being ignored.

David once said right now is the best time in history to be creative, but the worst time to be seen. So much competition—and each year, it gets worse. Today, it’s not enough to stand out among other great artists, but also those who are loud and know how to pull attention their way. It’s days and weeks put into my paintings against people typing a couple sentences into an AI application and letting it churn out images based on the art of others. Today, some media savvy person with no actual skills or talent can generate fake images of their “studio,” churn out images they didn’t really create, and come up with a persona that gets more attention than me and my best efforts.

Everything today seems to be fabricated for show and views. People share sketchbooks online that are anything but—conceptualized works full of completed paintings with not a sketch among the pages. Perfect, clean workspaces where paint has never been splattered or spilled. Canvas reveals on mountaintops or in meadows during the golden hour, with a daylight-balanced spotlight on the art so it stands out like a sunbeam. It’s not enough to be good at what you do; you have to be a one-person marketing team more focused on attention than craft. I understand those who quit or step away from it all to do art only for themselves.

On 13-Mile Island, none of that matters. Out here, it’s just me, nature, time—and what I do with it all.

* * *

Another impressive snow arrives on Christmas Eve; this time, covering the island in powdery mounds I wasn’t sure the moisture of the ocean would allow. On Christmas morning, I cook a large breakfast and think about how peaceful the holidays have been: a Thanksgiving with no air travel, noise, or hours of cleanup. No Christmas gifts I don’t need or have room for. No rush of shopping and all that waste.

How did we get from a time when receiving something as simple as an orange in the dead of winter seemed like a miracle to where we are now? An explosion of oils as you peel away the skin and savor a taste of sweet sunlight as the season turns to ice. Instead, we show our love to others by overspending and overeating.

In the evening, after finishing leftovers from breakfast, I pull a packaged Christmas pudding I brought along from a cabinet. I unwrap it and flip it over, onto a plate. In a small saucepan, I combine a little butter with a splash of brandy from a small bottle I’ve left unopened in anticipation of this night. I drizzle it over the dessert and cut a slice, savoring candied fruit and citrus mixed with spices. I understand why some people don’t enjoy fruitcakes and puddings, but when prepared well, they are sublime.

This gift to myself will last for days.

* * *

On New Year’s Eve day, Einar arrives with my resupply. After helping me get everything inside, he hands me a wrapped box.

“A belated Christmas gift,” he says.

I peel away the paper, revealing a bottle of scotch—Ardbeg 10 year.

“It’s a good drink for life out here,” Einar says. “You may hate it. Hell, I don’t even know if you drink.”

“Not a lot,”I say, “but I brought some brandy with me for Christmas. I’ve never had this, though, so thank you.”

“You’re welcome. You’ll either love it or hate it.”

I laugh and say, “I have something for you as well.”

“I don’t need anything,” he says.

“I know. But I think you’ll like it.”

I retreat to the bedroom and come back to the kitchen of the keeper’s house with a flat gift wrapped in butcher paper from the hotel kitchen. Einar shakes it in jest and says, “Sounds like a painting.”

He unwraps it and sets it on a chair, stepping back for a better look. I expected a solemn, “Well how ‘bout that?” but he stares at the canvas and says nothing. I wonder if I’ve offended him, until his eyes get glassy as he looks at a painting of himself in the cabin of his lobster boat.

He smiles and nods. “I have a photo from the year I bought that boat. I’m a young man, with no idea about all before me: a career on the water, a wife who’s stood by me for decades. Two children, a daughter and a son. Some days when the fishing is bad and I’m alone on the water, I wonder about other lives I might have lived. Some mornings, I stand before the mirror and see an old man with a face as craggy as these rocky islands.

“My wife blew up the old photo of me and my boat for our 40th anniversary. I have a little room in the house now that the kids are on their own, a place where I can scheme and read. The photo hangs in that room. And now, directly across from it, I’ll hang this painting so I can always remember that the life I’ve chosen is the right one for me.”

Einar gives me a hug and says, “I can’t thank you enough, my friend.”

* * *

On New Year’s Eve, I open the bottle of scotch Einar gave me. I see what he meant by, “It’s a good drink for life out here.” It smells like the island, briny and pungent. Then comes a smell of smoke over its seaweedy aroma. Just as I begin considering this is a drink best taken on a dare, a sweet scent that’s almost bread-like fills the room. Buttery. I pour the oily liquid into a coffee mug and swirl it around. It’s not as overbearing as my initial whiff, although the first sip makes itself known all the way down to my toes. I give it a moment and take another…and then another. Einar was also right about this being a drink you either love or hate. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever tasted, and I love it.

I’ve never been much of a drinker and, because of that, it doesn’t take much for me to feel the results. My cheeks and ears get warm, knowing if I looked at myself in a mirror, they’d be pink. I consider for a moment how dangerous it is to be out here not at my full faculties, but then I remember how concerned I was at first—and how those fears were unfounded. I’ll be fine.

As the scotch takes a bigger hold, I step outside to let the cold wind cool down my ears and face. I go the hotel and wander the hallways.

I don’t believe in ghosts, but I talk to them out here. I created names and stories for all the people in photos and paintings on the walls in the hotel, a way to not feel so lonely shortly after I arrived. Bartholomew Wainwright is a man with a cookie-duster mustache who crushed his competition in business, before realizing how hollow his life was. He turned to writing after a retreat on the island, publishing a handful of novels before eventually becoming a literary agent. Victoria Robinson did everything her family and society asked of her, only to find out her husband had a mistress, and her children grew into wicked adults. She turned to painting and found her own love in the form of James Morgan, a younger bohemian from Greenwich Village also retreating to the island one summer. Ernie Mitchell was a washed-up boxer. In his photo, his hands look like knotted clubs at the end of his massive arms. But here on 13-Mile-Island, he found a use for them: casting and painting delicate porcelain. Anyone who laughed at the giant of a man pursuing his passion was given one warning. After that, they found themselves on the floor.

I look at my watch, following the minute hand on its final loop of the year. When all hands point to midnight, I sing “Auld Lang Syne” for those who came before me—and then make my way back to the keeper’s house where I fall asleep almost as soon as my head rests on my pillow.

JANUARY

David warned me January and February would be rough. Not so much the storms, but the frequency. Sprays of water turn to ice, coating everything slick and cold. I was told I’d hate these two months, but the novelty of tending to this island and its buildings hasn’t waned.

The bitterness and sting of ocean squalls does keep me inside more than usual, but I don’t mind. It’s an even more reflective time, a life stripped down to essentials. To survive each day is a gift of plenty. I move from the keeper’s house to my studio in the hotel, avoiding too much time in the elements. But when I do bundle up and explore, it’s like waking up to a new island each day. The wind shapes ice and snow into natural works of art, things I circle and ponder as though wandering a museum. There are moments I try capturing in photos and paintings that leave me stifled. To most, they become wonderful works, but I know I missed the connection of what I saw and felt and what existed for a short time before nature shaped it into something else.

It’s also shaped me into a different thing as well.

I always told myself, “If only I had the time…the things I would do.”

Some people get what they believe they want and do nothing with those days. These moments are what I want more than anything, and I will make sure they matter.

FEBRUARY

On the last day of January, and again on the first day of February, Einar calls me on the radio. The harbor’s locked in ice and he cannot get out. Three months ago, I would have panicked, even with enough camping meals to keep me going for weeks. I’m disappointed that it only takes four days before Einar arrives. He apologizes profusely, as though it was his job to turn back the ice pack at the mainland.

The rest of February is a repeat of January: storms and ice and sheltering inside where it’s warm. When it becomes too monotonous, I change my routine. The grand ballroom of the hotel becomes a bocce ball court, where I play for hours and never get bored. Character designs in old sketchbooks are given personalities, and I begin something I’ve always said I’d do if I ever had the time: work on a graphic novel. When the weather is bleaker than usual, I paint scenes from the island as I imagine them at the height of summer.

February is my reminder that there’s power in boredom—as long as you don’t give in to distraction. When the normal routine leaves you feeling flat, and there’s nothing else to do, new ideas bubble up from places left dormant for years. One afternoon, just because I feel like doing so, I strip down to the suit I wore when I came into the world and I run naked from one end of the hotel to the other. I zip up stairways and race along its upper floors, laughing at the freedom in such a strange act. After exposing myself to all the Valmorne Hotel has to offer, I charge out into the cold, doing a frigid lap of the 36-acre rock.

I understand there’s a time and a place to be reserved. Social mores exist for good reason. But somewhere along the way from childhood to adulthood, most of us shove a stick up our backsides and—only at the waning days of our lives—wish we’d removed it years before. Why do so many of us rob ourselves of things we want to do, for no other reason than we deemed them worthy or to satisfy our curiosity?

I’m not saying I’m going to run naked through the streets of town when I’m back on the mainland, but I’m sure as hell not going to be so uptight about what others think of me and the things I do.

MARCH

I wake up on March 1st already missing this place. It’s my last month out here, and for the first time since the beginning of November, a mainland feeling creeps in: there is so much I need to do. There really isn’t, but time these past four months has been dictated by nature—the seasons and the sun rising and setting—not clocks and calendars. But today I’m very aware that my time on 13-Mile Island is coming to an end. While there’s nothing I need to do outside my normal tasks for most of the month, I feel a strange urge to make the most of this last bit of time out here.

I think about all the paintings I planned to do, but never worked on. I should have made more progress in the evenings on the graphic novel. Sketching and even writing. So many things left undone. But then I stop and breathe, thinking about all the things I did do that were not planned. Things I’d never have done on the mainland. And I think about how I’ve felt these past several months. I feel great because I wasn’t viewing creative efforts as just another item on a checklist. I allowed myself times to be productive and times to be still. Time outside enjoying changes of scenery, or inside with the warmth and glow of a coal stove on the coldest of nights. I’ve seen storms and warm days—animals coming and going. I’ve come to know the island better than any place I’ve ever been because I have time to consider any curiosity crossing my mind. When I pull myself back to what I’ve known since November, the tension falls from my shoulders.

I don’t need to make the most of my time out here, at least in the productive sense most of us think about. Life here isn’t to be optimized. And that’s when it hits me like a rogue wave slamming into the side of the island and covering me in spray: I don’t have to live like that when I return to the mainland.

March will be a good month like the others on 13-Mile Island. And May and all the months that follow will be good, too…if I just slow down and remember these lessons.

* * *

I make a cross with two dowels and lash them together with butcher’s string. I run more string through the notches cut at each end, and then carefully stretch and tape butcher paper over the frame. I attach a tail, and I have a kite.

When I was twelve, my brother and I learned how to make kites from an old newspaper article our dad saved from when he was young. My kite was terrible, but Trevor’s was light and strong. Where mine bounced along on the ground like an injured albatross trying to gain lift, his soared like a falcon. I gave up on my kite and helped him keep his creation aloft.

Two times on its maiden flight, I ran back into the house for more string, tying it to what was already airborne. The kite climbed until it was just a spec in the sky. When there was no more string to be had, my brother let go!

I was appalled; how could he release such a perfect thing? Trevor waited a couple minutes before smiling and saying, “Let’s go find it.”

The adventure took us through fields and trees we’d never fully explored. Along a creek we knew existed, but never wandered because we had others closer to home. We passed outside our familiar territory and into the unknown, all with a simple goal: to find that kite.

“There it is!” Trevor said.

At the top of the highest tree in a small cluster ahead, it fluttered in the breeze like a gigantic butterfly wing.

As we made our way through the small forest, I thought about how we’d get it down. The trees were all tall oaks, not made for easy climbing. I searched for rocks, but they were all too large to throw into the canopy. Besides, I didn’t want to risk ruining such a wonderful creation. When we reached the tree where Trevor’s kite landed, we were in luck—at the top was an old tree house. The wooden boards hammered into the tree as a ladder had seen better days but supported our climb without falling. Trevor  crawled through one of the cut-out windows and shimmied up a branch to grab his kite.

That old tree house became our secret. It was there I came to appreciate solitude. When my brother began spending more time with his friends instead of me, it was a place I visited regularly on my own. Much like being here, I could scan the horizons in all directions from the tree house and feel for a moment like I was the only person on Earth. I still love that feeling.

I look at the kite above me, wondering what 13-Mile looks like from its perspective. I’ve only seen it on maps, even though I’ve been over the rocks and know this terrain so well. At its height, I wonder if other islands can be seen—or if it’s still like that old tree house: up above it all with no signs of life for miles.

* * *

The final week of the month is busier—not from rushing to squeeze the last bit of solitude out of my stay, but from doing my final checks of all the buildings before maintenance comes to prepare the hotel and conference center for summer months. I check and clean buildings that have mostly sat ignored for my stay. I never felt the need to spend time in every space, even though I investigated them all. For all my initial wondering about if I’d be afraid on the island, my only genuine startle comes when I check the maintenance barn and a barred owl shoots out from its secure space, almost knocking me to the ground in shock. I feel bad for disturbing it, like if someone stumbled upon the island not knowing about its overwinter keeper and startled me where I sleep during their exploration.

I do more cleaning than what’s expected of me, my way of thanking these old buildings for being accommodating shelters. Is it weird to like a cluster of buildings more than many people you’ve met? It’s a comfortable relationship.

When all my tasks are complete, and I can do no more additional work, I double and triple check all my gear. I still have a few camping meals left. My brushes are all bundled and stowed, my oils and acrylics and watercolors carefully packed away. I try remembering how many paintings I’ve given to Einar to hold, wondering if they will all fit in my car when retrieved.

I once read that chronic loneliness is more harmful than smoking cigarettes. Of course, I looked it up—and it wasn’t nearly as bad as the headline made it sound. For most, though, it’s still not good. I feel for genuinely lonely people, but I’d argue—at least for me—that the kind of life I’ve lived these past five months is my key to longevity. I am not one who needs other people to keep me busy or entertained. I don’t put my self-worth into a busy social schedule, and I definitely prefer not being on the go all the time. Loneliness is damaging for some, but so is keeping yourself busy all the time because you’re afraid of being alone. But it’s an extrovert’s world, full of many things to see and do so you never have to be alone with your thoughts.

My time on 13-Mile Island is coming to an end. I’m not nervous about returning to the mainland, and it’s not like there aren’t people I look forward to seeing. But I do prefer being alone and still.

I need to figure out how to get more of that when I get back to shore.

* * *

The old buildings seem different today, like they know their silent keeper will be gone in two days. Soon, they’ll rise from their overwinter slumber and shine for summer visitors. Were they alive, I like to imagine they’d want this quiet way of life to go on as much as I do—maybe even become the way things always are. I don’t want this to end.

It’s amazing how well you can come to know a 36-acre cluster of rock standing as one against the ocean. The nooks and shelter and life provided in an otherwise inhospitable place. When I wander these stones and think about how long they’ve been here, I can’t help but feel insignificant. But there are worse things in life than knowing your place among this island and the ocean—the sky above going on forever. All we do to nature, and how it laughs at our folly.

I’ve heard people say, “Live each day as though it were your last!” I understand the meaning, but it’s still a concept I find odd. Why would I go to a day job if it were my last day? Why would I take care of any of life’s tedious demands, like paying bills, if it were all about to end? Some believe if we’re not sucking the marrow out of our lives—every second of every day—that we’ve somehow failed ourselves and our purpose.

“Buy the ticket, take the ride.”

I understand the intent, but they don’t seem to know the rest of that saying is, “Tune in, freak out, get beaten.”

For me, calm hours like most I’ve spent on 13-Mile Island are how I’d choose to close out my time. A perfect day before giving myself to these rocks and the eons they’ve witnessed.

APRIL

On the first day of April, I expect Einar to not show up. I wait for the radio call that his boat’s broken down in a terrible way and he has no idea how long it will take to fix things. Then, when he hears the apprehension in my voice, he shouts, “April Fools!” and says he’s on his way. Instead, he arrives right on time.

I wish his boat had broken down and that I’d get a few more days of early spring on 13-Mile Island. In the days leading up to now, I’d begun missing the place right beneath my feet. The anticipation of leaving has twisted my stomach into knots even more than they were in late October, as I considered what I was about to do. Einar must sense all this.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Just gonna miss this.”

“I understand.”

He lets me stay quiet as we load up all my gear on the boat and make our way back toward the mainland. I watch the island shrink behind me and disappear beneath the horizon.

In the harbor, Einar helps me load my car.

“Thanks for keeping it over the winter,” I say.

“You’re welcome. I drove it, here and there, to keep it running. Did a little work on it yesterday before Annie and I brought it out here for ya. Should be good to go for some time.”

I want to give him a hug, like the bear hug he gave me when he saw the painting I did of him on his boat. I’m not sure what more I can do to thank him for all he’s done. He holds up a finger and says, “One sec.”

He trots to his old truck and comes back with a bottle of scotch: a 10-year-old Laphroaig.

“I think you’re ready for this one, now.”

I take it and give him that hug. He returns it and says, “I hope to see you again, Daniel.”

* * *

Portsmouth, New Hampshire is not a bustling place, but it feels like New York City after months mostly alone in the Atlantic. I moved here after leaving North Carolina on David’s recommendation.

“Come on up. It’s not as busy as Raleigh, but there’s enough going on that you won’t be bored. Take a break, do some art, and figure things out.”

Now, it seems so loud and crowded.

Being an overwinter keeper didn’t pay much, but I have enough money to last several months without financial worry while figuring out what to do next. I don’t want to ever see the inside of a corporate office again, and I don’t know enough about coding to make my own video games. I’m not sure I ever want to be a part of that industry again, but it’s the thing I know best that’s also paid the bills. There are always new ways, though.

That’s the best thing about my months on 13-Mile Island, how you can just do something new with your life. We put so much into what we do for a living and not who we are. Jobs are our identity—and that’s fine if it’s what one wants to do. But most of us are only working the jobs we have to survive. Maybe that’s what changed on the island: I survived in a much different way.

Living on the coast, I thought I knew rough storms, but you don’t know how strong nature can be until you face it alone with no backup. You reach a point that you view existence differently. Out there, it’s not about making enough to pay bills and keeping up with others. Out there, it’s discovering you’ve always had more in you than you ever knew—because on the mainland, there’ s rarely any reason to go deeper and find out what was always inside.

I don’t believe this feeling will wear off. Something changed out on that rock: I’m through being something others and society demand. I’m not sure what I’ll do next, but I know I can never go back to who I was and what I did before.

* * *

I meet up with David over a $12 beer in a trendy gastropub designed to lure in people like pre-island me. He tells me that his father isn’t doing better or worse, that he plans to change his life around to care for him on a long-term basis. I tell him I don’t know what I want to do with my life anymore.

“That’s bullshit,” he says.

“What do you mean?”

“How’d you like 13-Mile Island?”

“I loved it.”

“Get a lot of stuff you always talked about doing done out there? The stuff you said you never had time for?”

“Yeah.”

“Exactly. I figured you’d come off that rock with a plan…or at least some ideas.”

“That’s what I loved about it,” I say. “I didn’t plan anything.”

“Maybe. But now you have a pile of art and a bit of time. The pressure of a world full of expensive beer and places like this leaning on you. Some comfort, but not enough to become complacent. That’s the motivation to decide what you really want to do.”

“It changes you, doesn’t it?”

“Huh?”

“Being out there. Did it change you?”

“Yeah,” David says, “but not like you. I was running from things. I knew my dad was slipping. It was more a way to avoid the reality of that for a couple years. I can always head into the woods for a long weekend when I need to get away, but I don’t do things requiring that kind of solitude. It kind of drove me nuts if I’m being honest—at least January and February. I hated those months.”

“I loved them,” I say.

“Of course you did. What changed for you?”

“Everything,” I say—and I mean it. Looking around the pub, at all the pretty people, it’s not for me. This place is someone’s dream, and that’s great. As for the others? There are worse things than living on the New Hampshire coast with maybe a job in advertising or design. A gig that lets your cover your body in hip tattoos and find others like yourself and feed off that energy. Sometimes I wish I were wired like that, but I do better making things on my own. I once craved that camaraderie, but I ended up talked over by more ambitious people. This pub is full of ambitious people in their 30s who will eventually have places of their own in the country in their 40s and 50s. They’ll look back on their carefree years as their children and grandchildren charge across fields on working farms turned to pick-your-own orchards and creative retreats. It’s not a bad life, but it’s not the life for me.

I look up from my expensive beer and say, “Yeah, everything changed for me out there. Now, I just need to figure out what to do.”

* * *

I often think about the cost of dreams: those who went all-out early in their pursuits, believing if they worked harder and smarter than most that they’d be rewarded with what they hoped for. And why would they think otherwise? It’s the American mantra, even though it’s often not reality. It’s possible to do everything right (and more) and still not find success. In my case, I walked the other path: feeling like a sellout because I found—at the right place and time—my artistic abilities could make me money fast. Born a bit sooner or later, and I’d not have fallen into the job I had for years. My plan was to work in game design to pay the bills and then having time to do the art I wanted to do, the stuff I knew might not be enough to earn a living. It was a good plan, except work took over in the form of deadlines requiring long hours. The art I wanted to do more than anything always sat behind other work.

I’m not sure which plan is better. We don’t like talking about the role luck plays in success—we like making it sound like it’s one person against the odds, doing more than all others combined, even though that’s rarely the case. I suppose what matters is doing something—making that choice, even if it doesn’t work out the way you hoped. The world is still full of people who find a dream realized later in life, no matter the choices they made earlier in youth.

With David tending to his father, the overwinter watch on 13-Mile island is mine for as long as I want. It’s a good balance: roughly half the year alone, and some time around others if I want that. Mainland months to plan and scheme, pitching ideas while hoping for the best, but not needing them to pay off in big ways. Then, time back on that rock in the Atlantic. No planning, just letting the island decide for me.

* * *

NEXT NOVEMBER

I arrive at the dock early, looking for Einar’s lobster boat that will take me to 13-Mile Island for another 5-month overwinter stay. He waves and calls to me: “Daniel! Here!”

After he helps me get my clothing, supplies, and backup food aboard, I hand him a gift.

“What’s this?” he says, knowing it’s a bottle of scotch. His eyes go wide when he sees it’s a 16-year-old Lagavulin.

“You didn’t have to.”

“I know,” I say. “But I wanted to. You introduced me to Islay malts, and that’s my way of saying thank you.”

“Well, hell—I need to figure out what else I like to introduce you to, then.” Einar laughs at his own joke and asks me if I’m ready to head out.

“Yep!”

I take my place at the closed side of the boat’s cabin and watch the Maine coast fade away behind us. I don’t feel the urge to talk with Einar to fill the time before I’m alone again, and I think he knows that. Last year, he let me ask questions because he knew how nervous I was. This year, I’m excited. And calm.

I don’t worry about what the next five months hold for me—that’s for the days to decide. I have a couple things I’d like to finish, but it’s not vital if I don’t. There are no last days to live, tickets to buy, or marrow to extract from my life. Instead, I turn to the front of Einar’s lobster boat and wait for 13-Mile Island—and another overwinter stay—to come into view.

* * *

[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 licensed through Epidemic Sound.

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

In November, it’s the show’s anniversary episode, which always features the most not Not About Lumberjacks story of the year!

[Quirky music fades out…]

[The sound of an axe chopping.]

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