[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!

[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…

* * *

I’ll begin with a confession: I went with the easier storyline with “Mudlarking,” instead of things I initially considered.

Originally, I thought Eva would find a message in a bottle and finish the business of someone long gone, resulting in closure for someone still alive. Or…go with a whimsical, touching thing, like the movie Amélie.

Instead, I went with straight-up fun.

There’s nothing wrong with fun. One of my favorite Not About Lumberjacks stories is “Gerald’s Grail,” a story about teenagers who come into possession of items granting them low-grade powers. But I know the last handful of stories meant something more than entertainment to listeners—and I felt like I should have continued that trend. Looking back at those stories…

“The Song of the Stone” reached several people going through changes where they work.

“Firing the Muse” surprised me, because while I went into it wanting to tell a more light-hearted tale, some saw a deeper statement about what it is to create art in a time when creativity has become such a commodity. Others saw it as a story about accepting inevitable change (without changing who you are).

“Lakeview Estates” addressed small-town politics and the housing crisis in the U.S., while “Old Growth” is a tale about humans destroying the environment.

The last story, “It’s Never Too Late,” really meant something to listeners—in many big ways. And even this year’s Christmas episode had its serious stories and moments.

So, I felt an almost responsibility to the audience to write another meaningful story.

* * *

People tell me to write the stories I want to write, with no regard to an audience. But even writers who say they don’t write for an audience usually have an ideal reader (or listener) in mind.

I do write the stories I want to write, which is likely one of the reasons I don’t write fiction full time. (I always choose stories that interest me, more than crafting tales that are likely to have greater commercial appeal.) But by releasing stories on Not About Lumberjacks, I can’t pretend I never think about how readers and listeners might react to things.

If audience didn’t matter to me on some level, I’d keep my stories to myself.

So, I went into the latest story with recent feedback about more serious things in mind.

* * *

It’s funny when I talk about writing for Not About Lumberjacks and how I take into consideration that there are people waiting for stories. No one ever pressures me to produce like a machine, and I know if something came up that people would be understanding if I didn’t release a story at a specific time. But I like that I have a bit of a schedule that I mostly stick to.

Others have told me they couldn’t write like that (as if I asked for their opinion). If I know a story needs more time, I change things and take that time…or work on a story I’m more confident I can complete, while working on the other for a later date. I won’t put out a story just to put out a story. But It’s unlikely I’d write as much without Not About Lumberjacks, and I enjoy getting more stories out there instead of fretting over one story forever that’s still going to have its issues.

* * *

Having a body of work is a neat thing. When I reach a point like I did with “Mudlarking,” I remind myself that another action-adventure story, “Gerald’s Grail,” is some people’s favorite story on the site. I suppose I can argue “The Other Side” has some action and adventure in it, although it’s a bit more serious. “Rockbiters” takes place in space, but it’s also written to be more entertaining than meaningful. And if I should ever think, “Is this too much?” I just need to remind myself that I’m the guy who wrote a story called “Booger,” about a kid making an oozing, vile monster in his bathtub.

I’m not one to chase trends, but I cannot deny seeing the show’s popularity grow in the last year has been a bit of a thrill. Of course, the show is still very small, but by its miniscule numbers—in the last three months—it’s received as many listens as I usually get in a year. (And that’s with the bit of growth earlier in this season.)

* * *

So, I suppose it’s natural to think, “Should I write another story with more emotion?”

That’s not a stretch for me, because it’s kind of what I do. Most stories I’ve written—even something as ridiculous as “Milkboy”—have heart. They mean something to me, and I hope they mean something to listeners and readers.

But I started Not About Lumberjacks to have an online spot for my writing…and to write whatever I wanted to do…whenever. Serious one month—ridiculous the next. Each year, looking back and seeing that body of work grow.

* * *

“Mudlarking” is a lot of fun. It was nice writing something during a busy time of the year that didn’t require as much planning and shouldering the emotional weight and effort that lingers with more “serious” stories. A woman finds an item in the mud that does strange things and, for a handful of days, her life is filled with adventure.

* * *

The life of a technical writer who writes, records, and releases short fiction on the side is not a life of adventure. I’m fine with that. Adventure for me is, “Hey, there are a lot of flooded areas in Texas right now…and we can get to a lot of neat places in the canoe others never see!”—not, “I have people chasing me because I found an ancient relic in the mud!”

If you’ve listened to “Rockbiters,” you know I love dwarves…but when it comes to classic fantasy races, I am much more of a Hobbit—content with sticking around closer to home than hanging from the edge of a cliff in the Dolemites or Andes Mountains.

When it comes to more ridiculous adventures, I tend to find them in stories—not my everyday life. In the latest tale, Eva Barrett is established as a bit of a thrill-seeker, so sending her through a handful of frenzied days was fun.

Were she real, I suspect she’d be fine with what I’ve written, but ask me to not do it again.

* * *

I’ve not looked ahead to next year’s writing like I did this past year—even going as far as asking Patreon patrons for feedback.

I liked having the stories I’d be writing lined up, but it’s not a thing I intend to do again.

Because people had a say in which stories I’d write this year (granted, they were things I was going to write anyway…I simply asked patrons, “Do you want this one or that one?” and went with the winners), I didn’t want to deviate from the plan. But next year, I’ll return to my usual swirling chaos of a process.

I think another reason I was apprehensive about “Mudlarking” being an action-adventure story was I saw that people gravitated toward more “serious” stories when asked.

But then…I never quite established to patrons what “Mudlarking” was, other than someone finding something weird in the mud.

* * *

I’ll always wonder what the message-in-a-bottle version of “Mudlarking” might have been like, or the Amélie-esque version. But because I tend to find a story’s truth in its telling, that wondering happens frequently. (I could write at least two other versions of “It’s Never Too Late,” including the bonkers original version called “Not Again!” [Hell, I could probably write five other versions of that tale…])

For me, writing is an adventure, and I’m always happy to see where it takes me.

I’m happy with where “Mudlarking” ended up…

* * *

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

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

In July, we head back to the 90s and follow an indie band on the cusp of bigger things…until it all comes apart.

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 would-be mudlark who finds something very strange during low tide on the Thames River foreshore. And because this story is set in London, I apologize to my English listeners for my terrible British accents in this one.

Now, onto the usual content advisory…

“Mudlarking” is pretty tame. Were it a movie, it would be rated PG. I suppose the only real warning is violence in the form of fighting, and even then: it’s not brutal fighting—more like light action movie fighting.

And when it comes to swearing, it’s pretty non-existent. (You’re likely to hear worse on television.) I think about as bad as it gets is another word for “poop” that begins with S.

Oh, and one more thing…longtime listeners might remember some characters mentioned in this story. If a little bit near the end is jarring for new listeners, I did my best to not leave you completely lost…

All right, let’s get to work!

* * *

Mudlarking

Eva Barrett loved being places that were off limits: high-rise construction sites, abandoned factories, and office buildings after hours. Once, while visiting an aunt in northern Illinois, she and her sister discovered a series of steam tunnels beneath a seminary, a remnant of times past, used today to get around without going outside—especially in winter. It wasn’t about the rush of breaking rules, although there was an element of suspense and even danger that appealed to something deep down. For Eva, it was about seeing how massive structures grew or decayed, what held them together as industries grew and crumbled. It was also about the strange community breaching the sites: other urban explorers, occasional ghost hunters, and photographers obsessed with seeing how nature’s green hand reclaims our lofty ambitions—a reminder that, while we may reach for the sky, time topples all.

She carefully descended the algae-slicked ladder leading down to the Thames River foreshore. She’d seen people rummaging about during low tide; asked about it at work.

“Those are mudlarks,” her boss told her. “They muck about for artifacts. I suppose it’s as much a thing to do as any…”

When Eva accepted a transfer from Globotek’s Detroit office to London, she had dreams of exploring structures older than the United States. Her work visa kept her out of potential trouble. Climbing down to the foreshore wasn’t the exciting foray into Medieval ruins she imagined, but she figured if she were caught, she could say she didn’t know climbing down was off limits—and hopefully get a pass.

It smelled like she expected: grease, decomposing algae, dead fish, and an underlying eggy odor she couldn’t identify. She walked down to a slight bend in the river, figuring anything flowing downstream from other places would end up trapped in the corner. It was a gathering place for garbage, mostly plastic bottles. Eva shook her head, acknowledging the irony of people seeking clean drinking water constantly polluting their sources.

She found a stick and used it to poke around in the mud and rocks, occasionally spotting something she thought was a find, but turning out to be more garbage that found its way into the river. She hoped to at least find a coin—not even something old—just an item passed hand to hand for a couple decades and the things it had seen. An old piece of pottery or a clay pipe would have been amazing. But all she found was more garbage.

Eva was about to make her way back to the ladder, clean up, and find a bite to eat when she saw a bit of grimy metal poking up from the mud. She wandered over and dug around the edges with her stick. It looked like a small handle. She reached down, worked her fingers around it, and gave a little tug.

The soggy earth released its grip, surprising her. Eva thought it was the handle to an old, hammered pot, something big enough that it would need to be dug out. She came up with a bracelet. She wandered to a tidal pool, where she rinsed it off, revealing coils of what couldn’t be gold—but seemed to be—with boars fastened to the ends where the bracelet almost met.

Eva did her best to dry it off with the bottom of her shirt, before placing it in her backpack and making her way back to the ladder.

* * *

In her flat, Eva brought the bracelet to the bathroom and rinsed it in the sink. As the grime from the Thames River bed fell away from the woven strands of metal, it looked more gold than bronze or copper. The small boars on opposing sides at the ends looked like they were charging each other.

An hour of searching online convinced her she’d found a small Celtic relic on the foreshore. Was it a replica, she wondered—a souvenir that found its way into the river along with coins and plastic bottles? Or was it truly one of the earlier examples of gold work done during the Iron Age?

Pulling up The British Museum’s website, a jump from the Departments link brought her to the Britain, Europe, and Prehistory page. A bit more digging, and she found the name of the curator of the European Iron Age and Roman Conquest Period: Simon Richardson. Additional searching revealed an email address at the museum Eva wasn’t sure was his. Still, it was worth a try.

Dear Mr. Richardson,

I was mudlarking (is that even a word?) on the Thames foreshore, and I found what I think might be an old bracelet (maybe Iron Age?). It could be a replica, but I figured you’d be the person who’d know. (Please see the attached photo.)

I can obviously be reached at this email address, or at this number: 555-555-1212. (I’m an American in London. There’s a werewolf joke in there, somewhere, but…well, I should just stop typing before reinforcing stereotypes about us being prone to babbling instead of getting straight to the point.)

Sincerely,

Eva Barrett

After sending the email, she looked at the bracelet sitting on the desk next to her laptop. Eva picked it up and rubbed the gold wires between the thumb and forefinger on her right hand. She looked at the boars at each end, appreciating the detailed work that went into the piece. It had to be a souvenir, she thought—there was no way they could have made something so intricate that long ago. She placed one of the boars against her arm and twisted the bracelet onto her wrist.

* * *

Eva’s body surged with energy, a force from her core radiating out, stopping just below her skin. She inhaled and got her first deep, smooth breath since spring hit and pollen soared. It wasn’t a trick of the mind: the echo of traffic outside was amplified and sorted in her head—engines humming and grinding, footsteps on pavement and people talking. She smelled the remnants of onion skin and the top of a green pepper cooked with eggs for breakfast in her compost bin. Words and images on her laptop monitor displayed in crisp resolution.

Eva looked at the bracelet on her left wrist and whispered, “No way…”

She took it off, and the world seemed dim again. When she put it back on, focus—and that feeling she was closer to everything around her—returned.

Eva stood up and walked to her couch. She bent down and placed her off hand beneath its end and lifted. It rose with no effort. She spent the next several minutes testing the weight of items in her flat, ending with a chest-high bookcase packed full. She squatted, wrapped her arms around it, and stood up. It was easier than lifting a laundry basket. As she placed the bookshelf down, a copy of Lonely Planet’s London travel guide slid off a shelf. Without a thought, she grabbed the bookcase tighter with one arm and snatched the falling book with her other hand.

Maybe Eva couldn’t pick up a car and throw it like the Incredible Hulk, but she guessed she could likely flip one over without assistance. She might not be able to run as fast as The Flash, but her reflexes were beyond explanation.

* * *

Eva spent the rest of the day testing the limits of the bracelet’s effects from the safety of her flat. She only grew fatigued after removing the bracelet, and even then, only felt nappish at best—a remarkable state given her exertion. Were she home in the U.S., she’d test her strength by lifting the refrigerator or washing machine, but in her flat, both appliances were mounted into the cabinetry and not free-standing. She’d have to wait until dark.

* * *

A little before eleven that evening, Eva headed out in search of an alley. She thought about how bad superhero movies began like that: the obligatory person-with-new-powers encounters bad guys, defeats them, and decides to fight crime. Eva was in search of a dumpster, figuring they weighed roughly as much as a large car or SUV. Were something to go wrong, better it to be a chunk of steel full of garbage—a thing constructed to be tough enough to be lifted and put down by trucks—than a stranger’s vehicle.

Eva entered an alley a few blocks from her flat. She looked around to ensure she was alone, and then approached a dumpster. She squatted and grabbed an end at the bottom, much like her couch test earlier. It took far more effort than hoisting things in her flat, but she dead-lifted the dumpster and set it back down. Twice.

After checking her surroundings again, Eva looked at the alley in front of her, making sure nothing was in her way. It was a clear shot to a quiet side street, the perfect place for the next test. She took a deep breath and ran.

Eva moved faster than she anticipated, her body reacting as though this were a thing she did daily since learning how to walk. The difficult part was controlling the speed of a lion. She stumbled as she tried gliding to a stop, eventually falling into the street. A passing black cab stopped Eva when they collided, sending her to the pavement.

Hard.

She looked at the dent in the front of the vehicle, but didn’t feel a tinge of pain.

She bounced up and trotted away, moving away from her flat, before slowing to a walk. Eventually, she doubled back on different streets and returned home.

* * *

The following morning, Eva expected to wake up in pain, but there wasn’t even a bruise from where she was hit by the taxi. During breakfast, she did her usual online sweep of social media, news, and email. A peek at Facebook and Instagram was a reminder that she was wise to take the Globotek position in London. Her friends back in the U.S. still spent their Saturday nights drinking like college students almost a decade after graduating. The news was…well, the news. She opened Gmail and saw a reply from Simon Richardson at the British Museum.

Dear Ms. Barrett,

Thank you for contacting me about your find along the Thames foreshore. From the photo, it would appear you have found a genuine Bronze Age Celtic bracelet, or a very accurate facsimile. At your convenience, I would love to see the piece in person to determine its origin. While the museum’s identification service is open on Wednesdays between 14:00 – 16:00 hours by appointment, I am available Monday through Friday during normal business hours.

I can obviously be reached via this email address, or at the number included below.

Sincerely,

Simon Richardson

Curator: European Iron Age and Roman Conquest Period

Eva wished she could return to Saturday morning and not have sent her email to Simon about the bracelet. At the time, she wanted to know if it was real or fake. Now, with so much more she wanted to discover about her find, she feared it would be taken from her. She clicked reply and began typing.

Mr. Richardson,

I was premature in sending my email yesterday. I suppose finding something so exciting during my first time mudlarking got the best of me. I took the bracelet to a jewelry shop, where I learned it was an ornamental bracelet and not an actual artifact.

I apologize for wasting your time and wish you a good week ahead.

Sincerely,

Eva Barrett

* * *

Eva spent the rest of Sunday morning preparing for the workweek. The following morning, as she got dressed to head into the office, she put on the bracelet and pulled on a thin, long-sleeved sweater to cover it. When she opened to door to leave, she was greeted by an old man with a long beard. She stepped back, startled.

“Eva Barrett, I presume?”

She caught her breath and said, “Who wants to know?”

“I am called Cassius Arkwright, and I am here at your service.”

The old man bowed deeply and stood back up. He looked like a wizard from the Lord of the Rings movies. Put the man before her in the right robes, and he could pass as Gandalf or Saruman. Instead, he wore a tailored suit cut perfectly to his lithe frame. Eva noticed a pin on his lapel: a gold boar similar to the one on the bracelet.

“Well, Cassius Arkwright,” Eva said. “How are you at my service?”

He pointed to the pin on his suit.

“You are in possession of a relic my order seeks to protect.” He gestured to Eva’s left wrist. “I assume you are hiding it beneath your sleeve?”

“Who are you, really?”

“I told you, madam. I am called Cassius Arkwright, a member of unparalleled standing in the Benevolent Order of the Boar.”

Eva rolled the name around in her head and laughed.

“Is something funny?” Cassius said.

“Benevolent Order of the Boar? BOOB? BOOB!”

“There is a T in the name, madam.”

“Yeah, but still. You’d think your order would have thought that through a bit better.”

“The order was founded in 400 BCE—almost twenty-five hundred years ago. Boob was not yet a word.”

“Oh. Strange question, then: are you that old?”

“No, I am not. People are not that long lived.”

“Yeah, but…”

“But what?” Cassius said.

“Nothing.”

“By ‘nothing,’ I assume you’ve discovered what the bracelet can do?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But it is what you mean?”

“Are you here to take it from me?” Eva said.

“No, I am not. I am here to ask you to give it to me of your own free will. We will not take it by force.”

“What happens if I give it to you?”

“We will place it in safe keeping.”

“And if I don’t?”

“We will ensure it does not fall into the wrong hands.”

“How do you know I’m not the wrong hands?”

“Watching you last night gave us an indication you have no idea what you are wearing. I do not know how you have come by the bracelet, but we suspect you are not going to use it for nefarious means. Should you decide to, be warned: that is the point at which we will retrieve it by force.”

“Watching me?” Eva said. “How?”

“You seem to have forgotten this city is full of closed-circuit television cameras. Some make a hobby out of watching the feeds. A member of the order saw it shared on Reddit. You paused after setting the skip down a second time and looked at the bracelet.”

“The what?”

“The skip. Dumpster. You adjusted the bracelet on your wrist before you took off running.”

“Oh, shit!”

“Yes. Shit, indeed. Can I point out this would be a good time to hand the bracelet over to us? We will ensure your safety should anyone else track you down like we did and try to take it.”

The words sat in Eva’s stomach: “Should anyone else track you down like we did…”

It was supposed to be a fun morning on the Thames foreshore, digging around in the mud and maybe finding a coin or two—not some ancient relic that granted its wearer powers. Eva wondered what else the bracelet might do. She was not successful in trying to read Cassius’s mind or levitating from the floor before him.

“Are you okay, madam?” Cassius said.

“Yeah, why?”

“You suddenly got quiet and had a pained look on your face.”

“I was just thinking. Let’s say everything you just told me is true. How do I know you are good? How do I know you aren’t the wrong hands and planning to use for—as you put it—nefarious means?”

“I suppose there is no way to know, but to trust me.”

Cassius reached into an inside pocket from his suit and handed Eva a business card.

“In time, I am confident you will come to a rational decision. Good day, Ms. Barrett.”

* * *

Eli Husk put great effort into cultivating a personal history where he came into his riches on his own. His billions were not the result of a family diamond mine and half a billion dollars given to him by his father upon graduating college with a degree in economics—in Eli’s version, he started every business from scratch and turned them into powerful companies. Why say, “I bought out existing companies and claimed them as my own brilliant ideas,” when you could convince millions of fans on the social media platform you owned that you have always been the nation’s chosen genius? Despite his reckless breeding habits and penchant for destroying the stock values of the companies he owned, Eli’s life was good…at least until the day he mocked the robot man-child who owned a rival social media company.

It was a stupid thing to do during the boredom of another lonely night, joking online that he couldn’t determine if Mort Zucker was a reptile or an android. Zucker responded about how Husk’s face looked like a half-deflated sourdough starter on a humid day, puffy and oozing. Following a barrage of posts that would make the worst of eighth-grade boys sound mature, Zucker got in a blow that hurt. He called out Husk’s drug use, which resulted in Eli—high on the drug he was accused of abusing—challenging Zucker to a steel cage grudge match. Before he could back out the following morning, his legion of followers had escalated things to a point of no turning back without damaging his brittle ego. Husk figured it would blow over—a spat between two sad men never satisfied with having more than enough—but contracts for a charity fight were signed, and a date was set.

With five days to go, things were looking grim.

Eli was sitting at his messy desk in Texas, watching self-defense videos on YouTube, when he got the news.

“Sir, I think I figured out a way for you to survive Saturday’s fight,” his main bodyguard said.

He looked up at the towering man before him. “How so?”

The bodyguard airdropped a video to his boss and said, “This happened not too far from Testa’s London office. Most people online think it’s fake, but we verified the video’s not been altered.”

Eli watched various closed-circuit television views of Eva testing the bracelet’s powers.

When he was done watching, Eli Husk said, “Where did you get this?”

“It was originally on a subreddit. Then it made its way to TikTok. Eventually—finally—to your site.”

Eli shook his head. “I don’t understand why people use those sites. I still don’t know what I’m looking at, other than something that looks like a found footage clip from a bad superhero movie.”

Husk’s bodyguard pulled his phone from his pocket and showed his boss a screen grab from the video: a blurry closeup of the bracelet.

“It seems like that’s what’s letting her lift the dumpsters and run fast.”

“Okay,” Husk said. “Assuming this is all real, how does it help me?”

“We were able to track down where the person in the video lives. We could send someone from the London office and offer to buy the bracelet. It would give you an advantage in the fight.”

“And…she could tell everyone we bought it, making matters worse.”

“Okay. We can send a security detail to take it from her. Make it look like a robbery.”

“And if they’re caught?”

“They won’t be.”

“I still don’t understand how this helps me in Saturday’s fight.”

“The gloves cover your wrist and are taped. It’s not an officially sanctioned fight, so they aren’t doing weigh ins and checking your gear. You could hide the bracelet under the glove and be assured a win.”

Eli sighed and said, “This has to be the most ridiculous plan I’ve ever heard. But the alternative right now is to roll over on Zucker like a walrus Saturday night and hope for the best, so what the hell? Call Gordon in the London office and see what he can do. It’s as good a shot as any…”

* * *

Eva’s workday was like any other, with the exception of the magic bracelet hidden on her wrist and a member from a secret order greeting her at the start of the day. Data still needed to be crunched, reports needed to be run, and there were always meetings to be had. So many meetings.

She spent the day in her head, wondering how the bracelet could grant its wearer powers. What else might it be able to do, and what to ultimately do with it? It’s not like she was going to head out at night and fight crimes, but it would come in handy when moving and doing other tasks requiring a bit of effort. It seemed a shame, though, to reserve such a thing for everyday frivolities.

* * *

As Eva walked home, she thought again about the words Cassius said at her front door that morning: “Should anyone else track you down like we did…”

She had paid more attention to her surroundings than usual on the way into work, and walking home after a day of thinking more about the bracelet than what she was paid to do, she felt exposed. Anyone around her could suddenly leap out and try taking it from her, even though she knew it wouldn’t be so easy given the abilities it granted her.

Paranoia set in, and within a couple blocks of walking, she suspected everyone around her of knowing what she wore on her wrist. She took a different route home, keeping an eye out as people approached and passed; listened for the turning bottom of a shoe on the sidewalk as someone pivoted, preparing to grab her from behind.

After altering her route, Eva noticed a man in a suit she saw a block from work. She stepped into a kebab house, figuring eating something wouldn’t hurt—and if the man was a random stranger walking the same way, he’d move on.

When she finished her falafel wrap and paid the bill, she asked her server if they had a back entrance.

“I am sorry. We do not.”

“Not even a back door for garbage? Err…rubbish? I think a man is following me.”

The server looked out the front window. When she returned to Eva’s table, she said, “Come with me.”

She directed Eva through the kitchen and to a back door leading into an alley.”

“Thank you,” Eva said.

“You’re welcome. Do be careful.”

“I will.”

From the alley, Eva surveyed the street behind the shop. The streets were teeming with foot and motor traffic. Picking out one person in all the commotion was difficult, but she saw no signs of the man she noticed near work and along the way. She doubled back several streets and cut across five blocks, figuring a big loop back home was the safest route.

* * *

On Tuesday morning, after making a mug of coffee and grabbing a jar of overnight oats, Eva sat down and opened her laptop. She was greeted by email from Simon Richardson at the British Museum.

Dear Ms. Barrett,

Thank you for your response on Sunday. I am concerned if you sold the bracelet you originally contacted me about on the 18th, that the jeweler you mentioned might have misled you regarding its value. If possible, can you please provide the name of the shop? And if you did not sell the piece, I would still love to see it. I am available during the normal business hours shared in my previous email.

Sincerely,

Simon Richardson

Curator: European Iron Age and Roman Conquest Period

Eva knew the easiest—even right thing—to do would be giving the bracelet to Simon. The British Museum may have housed artifacts that should have been returned to the countries in which they were found, but the bracelet on her wrist belonged to the island. She wondered, though, what Simon might do were he to put it on his wrist and discover its powers. Hell, that might be why he’s so interested in it, Eva thought. She considered calling Cassius Arkwright and asking him about the Order of the Boar’s intentions should she hand over the piece, but she was behind at work and knew, with so much on her mind, that it was likely to be another non-productive day.

* * *

Eva kept an eye out for the man in the suit she noticed the night before, but didn’t spot him. He might have been there, lost in the morning surge, but noticing him among so many people was difficult. Something about heading into work didn’t bother her quite as much as walking home after the day; perhaps because she was in a crowded building all day and alone in the flat at night. By mid-morning, she stopped thinking about the bracelet and had a productive day—even catching up on tasks from the day before.

* * *

Eva was walking home from work when a man in a ratty t-shirt and torn jeans approached her. She recognized his face—the man in the suit who’d followed her the night before, now dressed down and looking determined. He flashed a knife and gestured for her to enter an alley she was passing. When Eva turned to move away, she collided with a tall man who guided her where they wanted her to go.

Eva took off running down the alley, knowing there was no way they could keep up with her. As it opened into a junction where several alleys met, she was tripped by another member of the crew waiting for her. Three others moved in.

Eva leaped to her feet and punched the guy who tripped her in the face. Her stomach turned as his nose shattered and a cheekbone caved in. He turned, took a step, and fell to the ground.

She heard the two men from the street running down the alley and calling to the others. With little effort, Eva leaped over a dumpster and shoved it into one of the three bearing down on her. She cringed as it hit him in the shin, breaking his leg. She kept pushing, feeling the dumpster roll over him, further destroying his tibia and fibula. She kept pushing, despite the screaming, working to ram the massive chunk of steel and garbage into the alley she’d come down, hoping it would impede the two men she encountered on the street.

The two men left standing grabbed Eva by each arm, while the other two climbed over the dumpster in their way. As she broke the hold the two behind her had on her arms, their partners leaped off the dumpster and hit her in the chest. It didn’t hurt as much as she expected, but it was enough to take her off her feet. Three of them held down her arm while the guy who flashed the knife went for the bracelet. With her free hand, she punched one of the men holding her arm down. She felt his jaw shift and pop against her fist. Somehow, despite the blow, he held on with his two friends.

Eva felt the bracelet being jostled on her wrist as the leader of the group worked to pull it free. Right before it was sure to slide off, she heard charging footsteps coming over the dumpster—and more from the closest alley.

At first, she wondered if it was the Benevolent Order of the Boar, but they looked more like the thugs pinning her down looked the night before: more like corporate security or agents.

Eva was able to pull her pinned arm free and shove the bracelet back onto her wrist.

As the two groups fought, she got up and ran down the closest alleyway. She didn’t stop when she hit the street.

Eva always wondered what it would be like seeing a chase in a city, like something from a movie or a helicopter on the news. She looked over her shoulder, expecting to see the entrance to the alley erupt with the competing factions bearing down on her, but there was no pursuit. It didn’t stop Eva from running, though—eventually slowing to a jog and then a fast walk before hailing a cab.

* * *

Instead of going home where she was certain people would be waiting, Eva checked into a hotel for the night. Despite the relative safety of the room, she was still on edge—half expecting the door to be kicked down and people rushing in to take the bracelet. Each moment since finding the relic grew more strange and stressful, and she knew it wouldn’t stop as long as she had it in her possession. She opened her purse and pulled out Cassius Arkwright’s business card.

It would be so easy to call and tell him she was prepared to hand it over, not caring what The Benevolent Order of the Boar would do with it. It’s not like the bracelet was that powerful, unless she was unaware of its full potential. “Really, what am I going to do with it?” she thought. “Put on a costume and fight crime? Wear it when rearranging heavy furniture or moving?”

She dialed the number.

“This is Cassius Arkwright. To whom am I speaking?”

“Hi. Yeah. This is Eva Barrett. You came to my apartment on Monday.”

“Yes, Miss Barrett. Of course.”

“I have a couple questions about the bracelet.”

“Certainly.”

“First, you said you would not allow it to fall into the wrong hands, but I was just attacked, and it was almost taken from me.”

“It is still in your possession?”

“Yes.”

“Then it did not fall into the wrong hands.”

“Okay, sure. But what if it did?”

“Then we would have shown up and taken it by force.”

“What if you couldn’t?”

“I assure you, Miss Barrett, despite the age of some members of the order—myself included—we are more than capable.”

“All right. Time for the biggie, then. What the hell even is this thing on my wrist?”

“Are you familiar with the Iceni?”

“No…”

“Have you ever heard of Boudica?”

“She was a Celtic queen, right? Like a warrior badass?”

“Indeed.”

“Was this hers?”

“Some believe it was in her possession for a time, but it is much older than her. I have seen evidence that some of the almost super-human feats attributed to the ancient Celts were the result of certain relics. The one you wear included. I can only speak for my order and our beliefs, but there was a time we were much closer to unseen forces that have always been around us. That still are if you know where to look. Most people have simply lost their way and forgotten how to imbue items with energy. Is it a safe assumption that you are considering parting ways with the bracelet?”

“I’m thinking about it, yeah.”

“I would be happy to meet you now, or at your earliest convenience.”

“Thanks. But there’s one thing I need to do before getting back in touch…”

* * *

Eva opened the email app on her phone and began typing.

Mr. Richardson,

I didn’t sell the bracelet to the jeweler. In fact, I never took it to a jeweler. I have reasons for saying I did in my last email. This thing has become quite the problem in recent days. I’d love to talk.

Sincerely,

Eva Barrett

Eva plopped down on the bed and closed her eyes. She trusted Cassius, but wondered on some level if the wizened old man thing was all an act to get her to hand over the bracelet. That was the worst thing about recent days: all the thinking and doubting. She thought about tossing the bracelet back into the Thames River or just stop wearing it and telling anyone coming for it that it was taken by a rival group of strangers. But she knew they’d keep coming. She was on the verge of dozing off when she got an email notification on her phone. It was Simon Richardson asking her to give him a call at his personal number—yet another thing to make her question people’s intentions and what the hell to do. She eventually called.

“Hello, Simon? Yes, it’s Eva Barrett. How soon can you meet to talk about the bracelet? Really? Okay. I’m currently staying at the Holiday Inn near Regent’s Park. Yeah. How soon can you get here? Yeah, I guess the museum isn’t too far away. Does meeting in the lobby in half an hour work? Okay, cool. I’ll see you soon.”

* * *

After throwing some water on her face and cleaning up her clothes as best she could after the scrum in the alley, Eva opened the door to her hotel room to head downstairs.

She was greeted by a man in a suit.

Before she could think, she reeled back with her hand and noticed other men in the hallway. The person before her put his hands up in front of him and said, “We mean you no harm. We saved you in the alley. We’re here to make you an offer.”

He had an American accent. Eva kept her fist raised.

“Who the hell are you?” Eva said. “And who the hell were the others?”

“We have no idea who they are, but we’re not here to hurt you.” He slowly brought his hands down.

“How the hell did you find me?” Before the man could answer, Eva said, “These friggin’ cameras!”

“What cameras?”

“The cameras on all the streets!”

“That’s not how we found you,” he said.

“Then how?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

“You know what? Then I’m not talking. I’ll give you three seconds, and then I’m screaming for help and ruining your day.”

He put his hands back up in a defensive position. “Okay. Let’s just say some objects give off a certain energy. And we have ways of tracking that. We want to take that off your hands—well, your wrist. My employer is prepared to purchase that bracelet for a very fair price.”

“Who’s your employer?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

“Well, then, guess what? I’m not at liberty to answer. Do you not see how ridiculous this seems to me: a group of strange men show up at my door, offer me money, but refuse to tell me who’s offering.”

“Fine,” the man said. “We work for a man named Cory Bradford. He owns a company called Bradford Industries.” He pointed at Eva’s wrist. “He collects things like that—has for a long time. It’s kind of a family thing. He’s prepared to pay a million dollars for it.”

Eva brought her arm down. The man before her kept his arms up.

“Why should I believe you?”

“I’ll give you his card and you can call. Arrange things on your terms. We’re just sending the message.”

“Can I think about this?” she said.

“Absolutely.” He pointed to his chest. ”I’m gonna reach into my jacket for a card. I’m not doing anything funny, okay?”

“Okay.”

He handed Eva Cory Bradford’s business card and said, “Just give us a call when you’ve decided what you want to do.”

* * *

In the lobby, Eva took a seat at a small table that allowed her to sit with her back to a wall and spot people coming into the hotel. She looked at others in the lobby and lounge, men and women—most dressed for business—talking amongst themselves. She didn’t spot the one face she could recognize, the guy who followed for days and worked to steer her into the alley with a knife. But she suspected everyone before her as a potential problem.

Eva recognized Simon Richardson from her online research. She was surprised when she discovered he was someone roughly her age—not an old man in charge of relics seemingly as old as him. When he entered the hotel, Eva signaled him over, but didn’t stand to greet him. He extended his hand.

“Eva?”

She nodded, and he took a seat at the small table on the opposite side.

Eva began the conversation with, “I want to preface this by saying if you do anything I don’t like, I’ll scream.”

“Are you okay?” Simon said.

“Sort of. Not really. It’s been a strange few days.”

“If it would help to meet tomorrow at the museum, I understand.”

“No,” Eva said. “The way things have been going, the sooner the better. Before I show you the bracelet, I want you to know some things. And they’re gonna sound like I’m making it up.”

“Okay…”

“What would you say if I told you this bracelet has given me powers? And what would you say if I told you I’ve been followed—and even attacked—in recent days since finding it? And…what would you say if I told you an old man from an ancient order contacted me about turning it over to them, but then some businessman just offered me a million dollars for it on my way to the lobby? And what would you say if I told you I don’t know who the hell I can trust—even you?”

Simon composed himself before speaking. “I would say the British Islands have always been a place of legends—but in all my years study, working in the field, and curating—I’ve never had reason to believe the validity of those kinds of stories. I’d say there are thieves who only see a relic’s worth who will sometimes resort to force to take something they believe has great monetary value. And yes, there are even people who step forward and offer to buy certain things. But this old man you mentioned. Was he tall and bearded? Talks about an ancient order of the boar?”

“Yes! Do you know him?”

“I’ve met him,” Simon said. “I don’t believe his wilder claims, but he has given the museum several pieces. And the provenance on them indicates he and the group to which he claims to belong are honest if nothing else.”

“And what about you? Are you honest?”

“Were I not, would I tell you otherwise?”

“Good point,” Eva said.

“I can say with confidence that one does not reach the position I’ve reached in my career by being dishonest. May I see the bracelet please?”

Eva extended her arm and pulled back her sleeve. She looked for any sign on Simon’s face that he had other intentions; that he, too, wanted the relic for his own desires. He leaned forward and took a look; a slight grin appeared on his face.

“It never gets old,” he said.

“So, it’s real?”

“From a cursory glance, yes. I need a closer look at the entire piece.”

“I don’t want to take it off,” Eva said.

“I understand. If you’d like, we can go to the museum. But I will say, were I to take it and run—if you are having the problems you say you’ve been having—you’d at least be free of it. But I promise, I am not here to take it.”

When Eva took the bracelet off her wrist and handed it to Simon, the lobby erupted into a frenzy.

* * *

A man at a far table stood up and shouted, “Now!”

Before Eva and Simon could react, the man who’d been following her for days rushed around a wall near the table and pulled the bracelet from Simon’s hand. As he made his way toward the door with his colleagues, three middle-aged men in suits sitting around a low-set table drinking tea leaped up and tackled him. The bracelet broke free from his grip and bounced along the floor. Cassius Arkwright appeared from around a corner, signaling to the three to form a wall. Before Cassius reached the bracelet, the man who’d offered to buy it ten minutes prior at her hotel room door rushed out from the lobby and grabbed it. He put it on his wrist and shoved Cassius to the side.

“Oh, hell no!” Eva said.

She bolted from her seat in pursuit.

The rest of the Bradford Industries crew rushed out from the lobby. They moved like a football team, blocking others, all in an effort to get their leader to the front doors. The Benevolent Order of the Boar’s and Husk’s men worked together, trying to hold them back, while Eva closed the gap. She had no idea what she would do if she caught up to the man wearing the bracelet. If the two groups doing all they could to stop him were being tossed about, what chance did she have? Eva was caught in the scrum between the opposing forces as Bradford’s leader pushed through the crowd and ran toward the doors.

He was stopped by a middle-aged man holding a blue stone in his left hand.

Eva had worn the bracelet and knew what it felt like to run full speed under its effect. When she ran into the black cab on the night she tested its abilities, it was like the vehicle was barely there. A little more speed, and she would have knocked it sideways across the street. So how could the man with the stone stand like a mountain as the bracelet-wearer bounced off his chest and to the floor?

“Friggin’ Healy!” he said while getting back up.

The distraction gave Eva just enough time to rush up and yank the bracelet from his wrist. She slid it on and shouted, “I’m really tired of all y’all messing with me! You’ve got two choices: get absolutely wrecked by someone so tired of your shit, or leave. I’m sure the cops have been called, and I’m guessing none of you can afford to explain to them why you’ve been messing with me. So, what’s it gonna be, guys?”

The man who offered her money looked at her wrist and turned away. As he passed the man he ran into, he said, “This isn’t over…Gerald!”

The other factions wandered out behind the others and the man with the blue stone, all heading off in different directions once they made it to the street.

Eva looked at Simon standing in the middle of the sitting area of the lobby and wandered his way.

“I’m keeping this thing on until the cops get here, and then it’s all yours. I don’t care about money or attention or anything at this point, all I want right now is a good night’s sleep!”

* * *

Epilogue

Mort Zucker toyed with Eli Husk for two and a half rounds before ending their charity fight with a righteous pummeling and painful submission. Husk’s followers took to social media, making excuses for their hero and demanding a rematch. Zucker accepted, but Husk never responded.

Cassius Arkwright visited Eva’s front door one more time, thanking her for ensuring the bracelet at least found a safe home in the British Museum’s collection. He told her, should she ever find herself in need of the order’s services, to give him a call.

Simon Richardson explained to the authorities what happened in the hotel, but left out any mention of the bracelet’s purported powers. He resisted trying it on before placing it in a case with other items in the Britain and European collection room at the museum.

Cory Bradford’s crew reported back to their boss that they almost secured the bracelet for his collection, but were thwarted by Gerald Healy and a rivalry that began in 1986.

Eva Barrett’s sole mudlarking foray to the Thames River foreshore was enough to never do it again. She finally opted for exploring off-limits places, figuring the risk to her work visa if caught was far better than finding another ancient relic in the mud during low tide.

* * *

[Quirky music fades in…]

Christopher Gronlund:

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks.

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

Sound effects are made in-house or from Epidemic Sound and freesound.org. Visit nolumberjacks.com for information about the show, the voice talent, and the music. Also, for as little as a dollar a month, you can support the show at patreon.com/cgronlund. And technically, I’ve even opened it up to free subscription.

In July, we travel back to the 90s and follow an indie band’s rise to near success…

[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…

* * *

Clearly, I have a thing for time travel stories.

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

Why the obsession?

* * *

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

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

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

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

* * *

I think it’s two things:

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

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

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

* * *

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

But that’s a bit overdone…

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

* * *

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

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

But…would it really?

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

That will always blow my mind!

* * *

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

A time machine would only ruin a guaranteed good thing…

* * *

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

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

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

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

[Listen]

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

Christopher Gronlund:

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

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

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

But first, the usual content advisory…

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

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

All right, let’s get to work!

* * *

IT’S NEVER TOO LATE

October 13, 1983

3:47 p.m.

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

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

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

* * *

October 13, 2024

3:13 p.m.

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

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

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

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

* * *

October 13, 1983

3:58 p.m.

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

* * *

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

* * *

October 14, 1983

10:57 a.m.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

October 14, 1983

12:17 p.m.

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

* * *

December 16, 1983

3:42 p.m.

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

“Albert! Albert Gladstone!”

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

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

“I’m sorry!”

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

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

“No, why?”

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

* * *

December 25, 1983

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

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

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

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

* * *

March 26, 1985

10:18 a.m.

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

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

There was no answer.

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

March 26, 1985

9:45 p.m.

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

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

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

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

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

“You, too.”

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

March 27 – 29, 1985

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

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

* * *

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

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

“Hey, how ya going?” Albert said.

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

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

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

“How’s the leg?”

“Good…good. How have you been?”

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

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

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

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

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

“You, too.”

* * *

March 30, 1985

10:37 a.m.

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

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

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

“Stanley, I know you’re in there!”

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

He opened the door.

“What do you want, Ben?”

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

“What’s wrong?” Albert said.

“I want you to leave Albert alone.”

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

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

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

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

Albert looked past his father and took a deep breath.

“Are you okay?” his father said.

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

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

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

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

“Shut up and listen to me for once!”

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

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

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

* * *

March 30, 1985

3:42 p.m.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

July 22, 1985 – January 4, 1986

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

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

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

* * *

January 6, 1986

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

1986 – 2024

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

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

This is how it went for decades…

* * *

October 13, 2024

3:08 p.m.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

October 13, 2024

4:30 p.m.

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

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

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

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

His younger self scrutinized the man before him.

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

“Me?”

Old Albert nodded.

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

* * *

October 13, 2024

4:36 p.m.

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

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

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

“The machine broke, and I was stuck.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Will you help me?”

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

Older Albert stood up.

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

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

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

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

* * *

October 15, 2024

7:00 a.m.

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

“Albert?” he said.

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

“Black is fine.”

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

 “Do you mind if I play a song?”

“Sure, go ahead.”

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

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

* * *

October 15, 2024

5:52 p.m.

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

October 18, 2024

10:57 a.m.

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

“Have a great day.”

“Thank you,” Albert said. “You, too.”

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

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

Albert,

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

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

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

All that’s guaranteed is right now.

Make the most of it!

The Other You

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

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

[Quirky music fades in…]

Christopher Gronlund:

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks.

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

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

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

[Quirky music fades out…]

[The sound of an axe chopping.]

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

[Listen]

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

Christopher Gronlund:

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

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

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

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

But first, the usual content advisory…

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

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

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

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

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

And Patreon supporters get an instant third entry.

This also applies internationally.

Check the episode show notes for more info.

All right, let’s get to work!

The World Beneath Her Brush

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

* * *

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

* * *

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

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

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

* * *

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

* * *

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

Three months later, she arrived.

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

One day, she finally asked about the unfinished globe.

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

“What if I finished it?”

“We need to focus on work that pays.”

“What if I did it in my spare time?”

Vicente shrugged. “Up to you…”

* * *

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

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

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

Vicente shrugged. “Up to you…”

* * *

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

A phone call changed everything.

“Hello?” she said.

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

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

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

* * *

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

This is how it went for years.

* * *

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

* * *

The King of French Fries

[Music and Singing…]

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

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

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

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

It could be worse—we could be seagulls…

* * *

[Music and Singing…]

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

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

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

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

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

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

Except French fries!

(I’ll fight to the end for those…)

* * *

[Music and Singing…]

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

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

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

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

If we’re noticed at all…

* * *

[Music and Singing…]

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

[Music and Singing…]

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

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

For I am the King of French Fries!

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

* * *

Suburban Home

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

“Hello?” I said.

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

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

“What did they do this time?” I said.

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

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

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

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

“So, what did you do?” I said.

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

“How’s mom doing?”

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

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

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

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

“All right. Bye, Dad.”

“Bye. Love you!”

“Love you, too.”

* * *

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

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

Nancy stormed away and into her house.

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You can’t be serious!”

“Oh, but I am.”

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

His reply?

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

Not a single person said no.

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

“We can’t even turn them on.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She responded with a scream.

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

There was no response.

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sorry we scared you.”

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

“You did all this for me?” she said.

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

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

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

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“For what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you.”

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

(Hell, maybe even more…)

[Quirky music fades in…]

Christopher Gronlund:

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Quirky music fades out…]

[The sound of an axe chopping.]

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

[Listen]

[Intro music plays]

[Woman’s Voice]

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

[Music fades out]

Christopher Gronlund:

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The longer answer is this…

* * *

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

* * *

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

Well…

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the annual Christmas episode is committing to a bit.

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

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

I likely have enough Christmas stories for a collection.

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Merry Christmas!

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

[Listen]

[Intro music plays]

[Woman’s Voice]

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

[Music fades out]

Christopher Gronlund:

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

* * *

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

* * *

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

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

* * *

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

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

She was not the only one to mention the departure.

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

I hope YOU enjoyed it…

* * *

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

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

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

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

[Listen]

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

Christopher Gronlund:

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

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

This time, it’s a second-person point of view tale in which YOU are a lumberjack!

But first, the usual content advisory…

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

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

Yep, the big 50!

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

Anyway…

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

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

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

That’s it!

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

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

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

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

All right, let’s get to work!

Old Growth

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

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

* * *

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

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

Not in many lifetimes.

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Instead, you retreat into the forest.

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

“Follow me!”

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

Pulled apart by a living forest never made the list.

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

The vines loosen their grip.

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

“What do you want from me?” you say.

“I believe you know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Remember this, little one…”

* * *

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

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

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

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

You step into the light.

* * *

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

“You okay?”

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

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

“I thought I saw something in the trees.”

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

“Sure.”

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

* * *

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

“What about it?” Nash Anderson says.

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

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

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

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

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

“No. I just think…”

“Think what?”

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

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

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

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

“Leave what?”

“The mountain.”

“Not happening,” Nash Anderson says.

“Then I need to leave…”

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

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

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

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

[Quirky music fades in…]

Christopher Gronlund:

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

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

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

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

[Quirky music fades out…]

[The sound of an axe chopping.]

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