[Listen]

[Intro music plays]

[Woman’s Voice]

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

[Music fades out]

Christopher Gronlund:

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

* * *

Before I had teenage dreams about becoming a wildlife biologist, a professional juggler, or joining the Peace Corps after high school, I wanted to be a novelist.

Fame didn’t matter to me as much as making a living doing this thing I knew I wanted to do, even though I was too young to wrap my head around how to get there. I just knew the writers I read about seemed to live neat lives in which they got to do something they loved—and that sounded like a great life to me.

* * *

My Peace Corps dream was shattered when I discovered you had to have a degree to join. College chemistry classes thwarted my dreams of studying bears or wolves in Canada or Alaska. And my dream of being a professional juggler dissipated when my juggling partner moved three hours south. So, when I was twenty years old, I made writing the thing within my control that I would do.

At the time, the path to publication was clear: even if you didn’t graduate college with a degree in English literature (I dropped out of school because I couldn’t afford it), there was still a way to publication through literary journals and then querying agents with novels. Once you had a pile of short stories in publications, you could point to them and say, “See? I’ve done my work!”

Oh, sure…you could also self-publish, but that was deemed—at the time—as something only reserved for those who didn’t have what it took to be a “real” author.

* * *

I did everything I was supposed to do: I submitted stories to literary journals and researched agents. I learned everything I could about the industry. And when the time came to submit my first novel…nothing happened.

I’d grabbed the attention of agents and publishers—even the alternate weekly papers I hit up as a last-ditch effort to see something happen with that first book. But in the end, it was rejected by everyone I showed it to.

* * *

In 2005, my good friend Larry told me about some fiction podcasts he’d been listening to. Escape Pod was the audio version of a sci-fi magazine, and Scott Sigler was recording his novels and serializing chapters each week.

“It’s the perfect time to record and release your first novel as a podcast,” Larry said. “Your writing is good and different, and nobody else releasing audio fiction does what you do. Hell, barely anybody’s releasing audio fiction at all!”

But I didn’t listen to Larry because…much like self-publishing your novels, it wasn’t “real” in my mind. It was admitting defeat.

So, instead, I wrote my first “serious” novel—sure that it would be the story to give my dedication to writing legitimacy.

* * *

You probably know what happened next without me telling you.

Yes, that novel was also met with a mix of praise and rejection. One agent told me he knew by the second chapter that he’d not represent it, but he still read the damn book because there was much he loved about it. He just thought it would be very difficult to sell.

Others felt the same way: it fascinated them, but it wasn’t their sure thing.

Another story I’d poured so much of myself into went nowhere. (That particular book is likely the most “me” novel I may ever write.)

I had two different ideas for my next novel, and I struggled to decide which to work on next.

I needed to do something new.

* * *

In October 2010, I finally listened to Larry. With no idea what I was doing, during a period of unemployment I knew would go through—at least—the holidays, I recorded and released my first novel, Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors as a podcast.

That feeling of not “making it” in a so-called proper manner disappeared when I heard from people I didn’t know, telling me about how much they loved that goofy little story. (Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors is a coming-of-age story about a family traveling cross-country in a possessed station wagon, and you can listen to it from the Not About Lumberjacks website.)

I didn’t care that it had not seen publication through any legitimate channels…it saw over 125,000 downloads! Even factoring in that each download was a chapter and that some people bounced, it was the equivalent of moving almost 6,000 books, which many people would have been happy to do in 2010.

I wished that I had listened to Larry five years sooner…and not waited another five years to begin Not About Lumberjacks.

* * *

At least 10 stories on nolumberjacks.com were written in an old writing group I used to attend. Two friends and I met every other week to review each other’s work, talk about writing, and challenge each other.

One night, a good friend who doesn’t write asked if he could listen in. It was breaking rules we set for ourselves when we formed the writing group, but we agreed.

That friend-in-attendance admired our dedication to craft and how we supported each other as writers. He was happy to see what we did behind closed doors every-other Wednesday night. Then, he said something I still tease him about to this day…something to the effect of:

“It’s inspiring to see you all work so hard at a dying art.”

“What?” one (or all) of us said.

“People aren’t reading as much as they used to,” our friend said. “Sales are down. I’m not saying writing is a lost cause, but there are fewer readers for what you write each year…”

Years later, I still tease my friend Steve about the “Death of literature” chat, but he wasn’t entirely wrong.

Fewer adults read for pleasure than they did in the past. By the time younger people graduate college, their reading-for-pleasure numbers drop and don’t seem to pick back up as they age. Those of us with hope spin the numbers in our favor (the rise of indie bookstores being a biggie), but so many people—including myself—don’t read as much as they used to.

Or…they consume stories in different ways.

* * *

What does all this have to do with the latest Not About Lumberjacks story, “Firing the Muse?” Warren Quinn is a writer during a time of change. The story takes place in 1957, the year the American News Corporation—the primary distributor of pulp fiction at the time—was liquidated. Other companies had already made the move to changing the kinds of stories they published.

The traditional route no longer worked.

Warren (and Butch) had to devise a different plan…

* * *

I’d be lying if I said I’m not-at-all bothered by never seeing a novel I’ve written on a shelf in a bookstore. I still have a dream of that one day happening, but it’s no longer a driving motivation in my life. But it’s also not a dream I’ve set aside.

The ways to traditional publication have changed, but it’s still a thing worth pursuing. I’ll let you in on a little secret: Not About Lumberjacks was formed, in part, as part of that plan.

* * *

When I started this show in 2015, I’d been doing another podcast with a friend for a couple years. I wanted to do something entirely on my own.

At a podcast festival it clicked: why not return to podcasting fiction? I’d been focusing on novels so much that I hadn’t written a short story in years! Beyond that, the show would serve as an online repository of my fiction—something I could point to when querying agents with novels…proof that I’m online and active—that I work hard and have at least a small following.

I’d love to say this show was 100% born out of a creative desire, but its existence was at least—in part—by design.

The point of the latest Not About Lumberjacks story is that things change.

* * *

I still tease my friend about the death of literature, but he saw something my two friends and I didn’t see: how much things were about to change.

Self-publishing is no longer the albatross it once was. I can wander out to the living room right now and watch Silo, based on Hugh Howey’s partially self-published series.

Salman Rushdie said if he were starting out today, that he’d try writing for television instead of novels.

While audio fiction podcasts have not risen to the heights of popularity as true-crime podcasts or talking meatheads spreading misinformation and pretending to be philosophical, they have the attention of fans and other media.

There are more ways than ever, today, to have your writing seen. That arguably makes it harder to support yourself writing fiction, because there are more writers than ever, but when I started writing, my only real option was print publication. Today, it’s possible that someone wanting to find their next thing stumbles upon nolumberjacks.com and sees something they want to develop.

* * *

I ended “Firing the Muse” with Warren and Butch taking a bold step into a future in which their approach to writing was different than what got them there. They adapted to changes, and I like to imagine they went on to greater success.

Every so often, I go through old boxes and see type-written stories from when I started writing. I see the rejection letters I saved, saying there was something editors liked about those stories, but that they were going to pass. All those pages tucked away to be seen only by me. All that effort for naught.

But every one of those stories eventually found a home…here. Some of the stories doomed to live in the darkness of that old box became personal faves of some Not About Lumberjacks listeners. Because of this show, all those rejected stories saw publication.

They don’t exist in a traditional sense, but I make more money in a year with this show than most people writing short stories for the same rates paid in the 80s…if they are paid at all. I no longer spend my time looking at reading periods and waiting months for rejections or acceptances. If I want a story to exist as something more than a file on a hard drive and backed up to the cloud, I simply record it and release it.

Not About Lumberjacks is far more real than my old dream of “making it” through so-called proper channels. That’s not to say I still don’t dream of one day seeing a novel I’ve written on a shelf in a bookstore, but it’s not my driving motivation. Even if I somehow became a known novelist, this show would still be my refuge…because here, I am free to be the writer I never knew I’d become.

I’m so glad I listened to Larry!

* * *

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 September, the residents of a trailer park battle a developer and city to save their homes from being bulldozed to make way for a golf course.

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 light-hearted tale about a writer who trades in his long-time muse for another…to disastrous effect.

But first, the usual content advisory…

“Firing the Muse” deals with stresses and job loss around creative work. There’s casual alcohol consumption and smoking—and a very brief allusion to combat PTSD. Unless you consider “dammit” swearing, this is the sixth Not About Lumberjacks story with no language advisory. (I can already tell you there won’t be a seventh.)

To that point, the show is nearing its 50^th full story episode in November. I have big plans for the annual anniversary show, including a giveaway.

All right, let’s get to work!

Firing the Muse

1957

The blank page in Warren Quinn’s trusty Olympia typewriter was ready for words that didn’t come. Like all the days before, he rose before the sun, made a pot of coffee, and sat down to write. The room normally echoed with the clattering of keystrokes and bars striking the typewriter’s platen, leaving behind the words of pulp stories read by millions. It was honest work, but it had become a task Warren no longer enjoyed.

He smelled the cigar smoke before a fireplug of a man in a hard hat materialized at his side.

“Mornin’ kid. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, Butch.”

The pop-eyed man squinted and said, “Don’t gimme that—you’re normally typing away by the time I clock in. I told ya: no such thing as writer’s block, so get yer ass in. Not gonna happen if you mope around all morning on your keister.”

“I’m not blocked. I’m just…”

“Just what?” Butch said.

“Tired. I’m tired.”

“It’s early—you’re supposed to be tired. There are tired iron workers watching the sun rise over Manhattan right now. Tired women opening cleaners in the dark canyons of our streets. Tired people all over the city who would love to be sitting in front of a typewriter instead of doing what they’re doing.”

“Thank you for the reminder that everyone has it worse than me.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I was being sarcastic.”

“I know. I’m not gonna let ya wallow.” Warren’s muse sat on the edge of his desk.

“I’m sorry I’m sometimes hard on you, but when you get paid by the word, you’re losing money when those fingers aren’t moving.”

“That’s the problem,” Warren said. “I’m tired of always rushing. And before you say it, I know, I know—I’m lucky to have this job. Sometimes, though, I want to write something requiring a bit more thought. The city’s full of authors writing novels, and I’m up in this little apartment telling stories that don’t matter.”

Butch blew a cloud of smoke at the ceiling. “Don’t matter? Tell that to the guy who busted his balls ten hours in a factory for next to nothing—who sits down at the end of the day with a beer and reads something you wrote. That’s important to him. I’ve seen people on trains and buses reading your stories in magazines. Trust me, you don’t want to be one of those hoity-toity writers begging for attention because they don’t have what it takes. They only wish they had your chops!”

Warren sighed and said, “Things are changing, Butch. I’d be better off writing comic books.”

“Don’t talk like that, kid.”

“I’m not wrong. What happens when people move on from the kinds of things I write?”

“Ya deal with it then. But it’s no good worrying about tomorrow if it ruins today.”

* * *

1945

The War changed Warren. It didn’t traumatize him in the same way it did many of his brothers-in-arms he served with while beating back the Nazis. He came back home with a perspective on life he didn’t have going in. To return to the factory work he did before the war was accepting defeat. He made it through the hell of the European Theater—why not give his dream of writing a shot?

As a child, Warren spent more time with his nose in a book than playing in the streets with friends. His early attempts at writing stories impressed teachers enough that he saved his money selling newspapers and bought a leather-bound journal and a Waterman fountain pen. Each blank page was an invitation to pour out a piece of his imagination to be shared with others. He decided to become a writer on his 13^th birthday.

When he was fifteen, two books changed everything for him: John Steinbeck’s, The Grapes of Wrath and The Big Sleep, by Raymond Chandler. Until finishing The Grapes of Wrath, Warren believed “serious” fiction was a hardboiled tale in Nick Carter Detective Magazine. A choice was laid before him: go the way of Steinbeck or follow Chandler’s path? He emulated both, until—eventually—the War had the final say. Warren’s gift to himself for surviving? An Olympia typewriter and six months’ rent on an apartment in Hell’s Kitchen. Unfortunately, the words did not come as easily as he hoped. One night in a fit of frustration, he pulled at his hair and said, “I can’t go back. I deserve this one little thing, dammit.”

Warren screamed when Butch appeared in a puff of cigar smoke at his side. Warren grabbed his pen and wielded it like a knife.

“You can stab me all you want, but it ain’t gonna do nothing,” the squat man in the hard hat said.

“Who are you? How did you get in here?”

“I’m Butch. I’m your muse.”

“What?”

“Be happy—not all writers get one.”

Warren slapped his face, and Butch said, “I’m real, kid.”

“I thought muses were beautiful women?”

“There’s a lot ya don’t know.”

“Then why don’t you tell me?”

Butch explained that anytime Warren needed help, all he had to do was call on him. He told Warren to think of him more as a partner than a boss. The words would belong to Warren; Butch would be his motivation.

“And what if I don’t like this?” Warren said.

“Then you can trade me. You only get to do that once, but we’re sure I’m the right muse for you.”

“Who’s ‘we?’”

“Gods? I don’t know, I’ve never seen them. One day I’m sitting in my place, and then FOOM, I’m in your apartment. I’m not even sure how it all works. But I can tell ya right now, you’re not gonna want to get rid of me, ‘cause we’re gonna get things done.”

And they did…

* * *

1957

Writing had lost its thrill. Where once, gritty detective stories and sensational tales of adventure stirred something inside Warren, the thought of sitting at his desk and going through the motions left him drained. Butch teased him when he moved out of Hell’s Kitchen and into Greenwich Village in the hope of reigniting his love for writing. With fewer places to publish Warren’s stories, he figured it was a way to double back on his earlier life decision and see what might have happened had he pursued Steinbeck’s way instead. To be less like Dent, Howard, and Hammett and more like Salinger, Ellison, and Cheever.

During a rough time when no publisher seemed interested in buying Warren’s short stories, he asked Butch what he thought about working on a novel.

“Why would you spend all that time on a chance, when you can write a pile of stories that make you money?”

“I’m not selling much, lately.”

“Dry spells happen. You’re a smart cookie and saved yer clams for hard times like I taught you. Give it a bit more time…”

* * *

On a particularly frustrating day when words and sales seemed lost for good, Warren called on Butch.

POOF!

“What’s up, kid?”

“I get one trade, right?”

“Huh?”

“In the beginning—the day you arrived. You said I can trade for another muse.”

Butch shook his head. “Don’t do this, kid. Not for my sake—for yours.”

“This is for my sake. My savings are dwindling. I don’t want to lose this place.”

“You were the one who wanted to move into fancier digs. You’d have a lot more money had you listened to me and stayed in the Kitchen.”

“Listening to you got me where I am right now.”

The burly muse narrowed his eyes and pointed a stubby finger at Warren “You’re not pinning this on me, kid. You were the one who chose what you thought was the easier route to making it as a writer. You were the one who looked at all your starts and stops and decided to write entertaining short stories and not risk it all on the challenge of a serious novel. I was assigned only because I was the best fit for what you wanted.”

Warren said, “Sometimes what we want in life changes.”

Butch threw up his hands. “All right, fine. I wish you’d reconsider, but rules is rules. I hope you find what you’re looking for, kid.”

With that, Butch disappeared. Eventually, even the lingering cloud of cigar smoke was gone.

* * *

The day after parting ways with Butch, Warren sat before his typewriter, waiting. In the back of his mind—and in his old journal—he’d pieced together a story about a writer struggling to make it in the city. Butch had told him the worst thing a writer can do is write about writers.

“People would rather read a book about a rusting fence than that!”

Warren finished his pot of coffee and went for a walk in the neighborhood to clear his head. When he returned home, words still didn’t come. He called out.

“Hello? Anybody here?”

Nothing.

“I’m supposed to have a new muse. Hello?”

Out of desperation, he was about to call for Butch when a lithe figure in a bathrobe materialized at the side of his desk.

“Are you my new muse?” Warren said.

The man rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands and smacked his lips. “What time is it?”

Warren pointed to his watch. “Almost eleven. I’ve been up for hours.”

“We need to get you on a different schedule if this is going to work.”

Warren extended his hand. “I’m Warren.”

“And I am…aware of that.”

“I need a little help. Just to get started.”

Warren’s new muse yawned and said, “Give me a bit of time to get some coffee and wake up…”

* * *

Warren’s new muse finally returned around two-o’-clock. He told Warren his name was Cristano and that he only had an hour to help.

“Nabokov’s muse is in town, and some of us are meeting up for drinks.”

“You know Vladimir Nabokov?” Warren said.

“No, I didn’t say that.”

“But you know his muse?”

“I didn’t say that, either.”

Warren surveyed his new writing partner. Cristano was indistinguishable from the aspiring Beat writers Warren bumped into on the streets. Counter-culture by design, they were people who tried too hard being different, all in an effort to fit in.

“So, who do you know?” Warren said.

“It’s not about who you know, man. It’s about the scene.”

* * *

Cristano frequently went missing for days. At first, Warren wondered if it was part of his approach, to force him to find his own words and sense of pride. But when Cristano did appear, he offered no help or advice.

“Are you really a muse?” Warren said one afternoon.

“Did I not just appear before you from nothing?” Cristano said.

“I didn’t ask if you were magical—I asked if you’re a muse. Have you ever helped a writer actually finish anything?”

“I don’t have to tolerate this.”

POOF!

He was gone…

* * *

Two months into his floundering attempt at a novel, Warren spent the morning reading what little he’d finished. He could hear Butch: “Never read what you’re writing until you’re finished with a draft! Stop looking for an excuse to not write! Put yer backside in that chair and get typing!”

Looking at what he’d written, maybe Butch was right—maybe a writer writing about writers really was about as exciting as watching rust form. While fewer places were publishing what got him to where he was, with Butch’s guidance, he’d have at least written a small pile of stories and not seen his savings dry up.

He thought about spending the day writing a detective story—even thought about calling out for Butch and apologizing. Instead, he went looking for Cristano.

* * *

While Warren moved to Greenwich Village in the hope of becoming a more serious writer, his writing schedule and Butch ensured he rarely got out. His former muse was like a protective father when it came to the neighborhood.

“I’m not saying don’t go to any bars bars, kid, but they’re not gonna do ya any good.”

“I’ve never had a problem with drinking,” Warren said.

“I’m not saying you do—this has nothing to do with booze. It has everything to do with not needing those kinds of writers in your life.”

* * *

Warren had passed the White Horse Tavern many times, but never stopped in. He figured, if he was going to find Cristano anywhere, it was a good place to start.

Warren expected a more refined space—not an everyday establishment with a dozen stools at the bar and half a dozen tables packed into a small area and a tiny side room with a few more places to sit and talk. It lacked the regal standing of The Chelsea Hotel or the Algonquin Round Table, and perhaps that was its charm. A bar once claimed by longshoremen, now overrun by writers and artists.

Warren approached a table and said, “Excuse me, I’m looking for someone named Cristano. Do you know him?”

The resulting sneers told him that, even if they did, it was best to move on. Other tables yielded more side-looks or “No”s. Warren was about to give up when a man in the back of the side room waved him over.

He tried a bit too hard to fit in: an open flannel with perfectly rolled sleeves over a white t-shirt. Jeans and boots that looked like they’d never seen travel or a day of hard work.

“Heard you asking about Cristano Leventis,” he said.

“I don’t know his last name…”

“Tall, thin blond guy with a face that looks like a classical sculpture? Bit of curl in his hair and piercing eyes? Arrogant as hell?”

“That sounds like him.”

“You’re a writer then?”

“Yes, how do you know?”

He pushed a chair out with his foot. “Take a load off…”

* * *

The man in the flannel took a sip of whiskey and lit a cigarette before reaching across the table.

“Name’s Paul.”

Warren shook his hand and told him his name.

“So,” Paul said. “You’re Cristano’s new writer?”

Warren nodded. “I take it you’re Cristano’s old writer?”

“I’ve not put anything in my belly today but whiskey—so, yep! Lemme guess, you’ve not seen him for days. When you do, he always has an excuse about why he can’t help out. And you’re left sitting there—not writing a word—wondering what you did to deserve him?”

“Yes.”

“Trade him.”

“Huh?”

“Trade him for another muse.”

Warren said, “I already did a trade. He was the replacement.”

“Oh. What were you writing before?”

“Detective and adventure stories for magazines. I wanted to write something more serious.”

Paul laughed and said, “I suppose it could be worse. I was writing plays, but wanted to become a novelist because I imagined more fame. Now, look at me. You have two choices as I see it: deal with Cristano and all his baggage…or fire him.”

“You can do that?”

“The whole thing’s weird, man. You can trade them once. After that, you’re stuck with them or have to quit.”

Warren looked around the room, wondering how many others in the space had suffered the same fate. After considering Paul’s words, he said, “Have you heard about anyone rehiring their old muse?”

“Nope. I mentioned that to Cristano before I canned him. He said once a muse is reassigned, that’s that. Your old muse is probably sitting with another writer right now, working away. You’re better off getting a regular job than suffering with Cristano the rest of your life.”

* * *

Warren grew determined to make his collaborative alliance with Cristano prosper. He ignored all slights in the month that followed, giving the muse’s never-ending parade of excuses the benefit of the doubt.

Each time, Cristano got worse.

 A month later, during a particularly flippant visit from Cristano, Warren finally lost his temper.

“Do you even know how to write?! You’ve given me nothing the whole time I’ve known you.”

“How dare you!” Cristano said. “Of course I know how to write.”

“Good. Then help me!”

“Not if you’re going to be like this!”

Cristano disappeared in a sudden POOF!

Warren brought a fist down on the top of his desk, causing his pen to roll off his old journal. He picked it up and looked at the nib.

When he finally calmed down, he devised a plan…

* * *

Warren spent the following three afternoons at his desk, pen in hand over his journal, waiting. When Cristano finally appeared at his side, Warren scribbled in the book.

“What are you writing?” Cristano said.

“A story. Without you.”

“You’re not supposed to do that,” the muse said.

“I wouldn’t if you did your job.”

Cristano tried peeking at the page, but Warren blocked the view with his shoulder.

“Is it a detective story? Like you used to write?”

“No, it’s a serious story,” Warren said. “The kind you’re supposed to help me write.”

“Let me see.”

“No.”

“I’m your muse. I demand to see.”

Warren sighed and said, “Okay…”

He moved his shoulder, giving Cristano a view of the page. When the muse bent over for a closer look, Warren drove his Waterman pen into Cristano’s neck.

Cristano took a step back and raised to his full height. His mouth formed a surprised O. Half the pen was lodged deep in his throat. It rocked up and down as he swallowed.

He met Warren’s eyes and tilted his head. Then, he reached up, calmly extracted the pen, and handed it back to Warren.

“What the hell was that?” Cristano said.

“Uhm…”

“Uhm, what? Did you think that would work?”

“I figured it was worth a shot.”

“And if it did work,” Cristano said. “What then?”

“I’ve written piles of detective stories. I had a few plans to get rid of you based on what happened.”

“What?!”

“I wasn’t sure if you’d disappear or die like a human. Or something else.”

“You actually believed you could kill me?  Why would you do such a thing?”

“You’re never around. We’re getting nothing done.”

Cristano shook his head. “It may look like I’m doing nothing, but I’m meeting people. That’s how it’s done. You hole up in this room all day and night thinking what you write matters? If you want to be a known writer, you have to be known for more than just your writing.”

“That’s what writers who don’t know how to write do,” Warren said. “I asked you before: do you even know how to write? And don’t disappear this time!”

“Of course I know how to write. I’m a muse, aren’t I?”

“Tell me something you’ve written.”

“You wouldn’t know it.”

“Try me!”

“This is ridiculous. I don’t have to stand for this.”

“Neither do I,” Warren said. “You’re fired.”

“What?!”

“I don’t know if there’s any special thing we have to do, but I’m done with you.”

“You can’t do this.”

“Why not?” Warren said.

“If you get rid of me, you’ll never write again.”

“That’s preferable to dealing with you.”

Cristano’s temperament changed. “Please reconsider. Please?”

“No! Why would I?”

“To help me. They said this was my last assignment.”

“Who’s ‘they’?” Warren said.

“Gods? I don’t know, I’ve never seen them.”

“What will they do to you?”

“I don’t know—make me work?”

Warren considered stabbing Cristano in the throat again, knowing it would do no harm, but feel so good. Instead, he said, “What a horrible thing to do to you—make you work.”

“You agree?”

“No! Of course I don’t agree.” He thought about what Butch would do, and said, “The effort you put into not working is greater than most people put into work. Get out of here.”

“Please!”

“I said leave.” Warren poked Cristano in the forehead, and he disappeared for the final time.

* * *

Warren thought about work often in the month that followed the firing of Cristano. After the War, he’d moved on from factory work by working harder than ever at writing. Now, he’d returned to where he started: back in Hell’s Kitchen, toiling through his days for a loud boss on a factory floor. He consoled himself by thinking how the time for writers like him was nearing an end. Publishing was changing, and he was destined to be left behind, despite his best efforts. He’d at least done more than most who set out to make a living with words, and had a shelf in his tiny apartment to always remember those days.

Another month of trying to convince himself he was okay with how things turned out wasn’t working. He thought about ways to get close to publishing again, even if it was working for a print house instead of writing the words to be printed. Maybe a maintenance job in a publishing house, where he could talk with an editor and let them know he was more than just a person to call on when light bulbs needed changing. He even considered becoming a merchant marine, just to get away from it all and later write about his travels.

One payday, too tired to go home and cook, Warren treated himself to dinner at his favorite neighborhood diner. As he waited for his pork chops, he smelled cigar smoke and heard a familiar voice.

“Well, who do we have, here?”

The squat man set his hard hat on the table and slid into the booth across from Warren.

“Butch!”

“The one and only. Howya doin’, kid?”

“Not so good.”

“What’s up?”

“I should have listened to you,” Warren said.

“Things didn’t work out, huh?”

“No. I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For trading you.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Butch said. “You did what you thought you had to do, and I’m proud of your moxie.”

“That does me no good, now. They assigned me a new muse who did nothing. I fired him.”

“You did?”

“Yes. He was never around. I don’t know if he even knew how to write.”

“Maybe. We have some charmers among our lot.”

“I tried killing him, Butch.”

“You what?!”

“I stabbed him in the neck with my pen—”

Butch howled with laughter. When he finally dried his eyes, he said, “Oh, kid…you’re the best!”

“Thanks,” Warren looked around the diner.

Butch said, “If you’re wondering if they’re looking at me for laughing, they aren’t. You look like a crazy guy in a booth talking to himself as far as they’re concerned.”

Warren lowered his head and voice. “It’s good seeing you again.”

“Good seeing you.”

“So, what’s your new writer like?” Warren said.

“Huh?”

“Your new writer.”

“Oh! I didn’t take a new assignment.”

“You quit?”

“No! Why would I do that? I finally took a vacation. Been ages. Literally.”

“Where’d you go?”

“We have an island in Greece all to ourselves. Gave me plenty of time to think.”

“About what?” Warren said.

“You.”

“What about me?”

“I figured things might not work out for you and my replacement, so I didn’t take on a new writer. Guys like me aren’t in great demand these days, so it’s not like nobody was beating down my door.”

“What does that mean for me?”

“It means I’m gonna ride your ass harder than ever for thinking you could trade me away, but I’m not gonna hold a grudge.”

“You’re my muse again?”

“Kid, I never left—you did. You needed to figure some things out. We both needed time to think. But yeah, we’re a team again. And you’re right: things are changing. I should have listened to you more instead of being so stubborn. I’m sorry I didn’t see that.”

“It’s okay,” Warren said. “I think we were both too set in our ways.”

Butch knocked on his head and said, “So hardheaded, I really don’t need that hat!”

People at nearby tables watched Warren laugh to himself. When he stopped, he said, “I’ve been thinking about where things might go. I’ve been thinking about writing spy novels.”

“That’s a good idea,” Butch said. “But is it what you really want?”

“No,” Warren said, “but there are worse ways to spend a day.”

“True. But I think I figured out a way for us to both be happy,” Butch said. “I think there’s a damn good market coming for your ‘serious’ stories…but not stories like all the others everyone’s writing, now. Serious stories about people like us. Everyman stories.

“Instead of stories that let people escape into lives they can only dream about, or writing about rich people and their problems, why not show people they aren’t forgotten? I think the future’s gonna become busier than we can imagine, and stories are gonna become more important than ever. I think that’s our new place. Sound good?”

“Sounds great!” Warren said.

“Good…good. All right, I’m gonna let ya eat your dinner in peace and enjoy the weekend. ‘Cause Monday morning when the sun comes up, I want to see your keister in that chair ready to work harder than ever. We got a whole new world ahead of us, kid…”

* * *

[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 Jackie Martin, 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.

Next time, the residents of a trailer park battle a developer and city to save their homes from being bulldozed to make way for a golf course.

[Quirky music fades out…]

[The sound of an axe chopping.]

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

[Listen]

[Intro music plays]

[Woman’s Voice]

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

[Music fades out]

Christopher Gronlund:

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

* * *

I was six years old when, during a weekend visit with my dad and his family, I was told my purpose in life was to carry on the family name.

It wasn’t said in those exact words, but that was the message.

It was a strange demand; after all, my father was creeping toward his mid-30s and still fertile. In fact, he did go on to remarry and have another child—a girl. But had my younger sister been a boy, and had I bought into the position of importance bestowed upon me by the Gronlund men who came before me, I would have been dethroned at the age of 10.

Just beginning life, but with no purpose.

* * *

Obviously, I don’t believe any of that…but I know people who would in that situation. Growing up, I saw many friends and acquaintances living lives chosen for them by others at a young age. Maybe it was the result of a dad lost in the glory days of his youth who ends up screaming at coaches at youth sporting events because—unlike him—his kid is destined for the big leagues.

Maybe it was an overbearing father pressuring his kids to succeed in business just as he had, even though the only thing going for him was money…if that’s your measure of success.

I’ve seen many people with lofty dreams told by those entrusted with their well-being to give them up and do what they deemed was best for them.

And, other times…I’ve seen people stick to their dreams and tell even family they no longer wanted them in their lives.

* * *

I wasn’t sure how the latest Not About Lumberjacks story, “The Song of the Stone,” would be received. I know first-hand how deciding to not have children can be seen by some…even though I would expect no one to do the same. Even more: creating a character who disowns family can be seen as extreme and wrong. (It’s always amazed me how quickly people can dispel the lifetime of abuse some faced with, “Your parents were only doing their best,” when they really weren’t.)

All these elements are part of a greater theme in the latest story: being true to yourself…living a life that, when your end comes, you don’t regret “what might have been…”

That aspect of “The Song of the Stone” seems to have resonated with listeners and readers, and I’m glad.

I often have a person or audience in mind when I write a story. If it’s a humorous story, I think about the friends I laugh with and know if they’d laugh at a scene, others will as well. Sometimes it’s not as specific—sometimes it might be as simple as, “I want to lift the spirits of someone feeling a bit down by the end of this story…”

With “The Song of the Stone,” I deliberately wrote a story for child-free people…and those who have stepped away from overbearing—even abusive—families.

* * *

Of course, when you write a story with such purpose, some might assume the actions of the characters are also those of the writer. It’s a fair point…there are some things I pulled from in my own life that made it into this tale.

• I was told at a young age that my duty was to carry on the family name.
• My wife and I were told by someone at a family reunion that we would have children…”just wait and see—you will!” (And, at another family reunion, told we clearly wanted kids because of the way we were “longingly” looking at a kid—when in reality, we were trying to determine if her face was smeared with dirt, chocolate, or feces.)
• And I did step away from most of my father’s side of the family because they were largely a bunch of bitter racists. (I believe if one won’t tolerate certain behaviors from a stranger, why accept them from family?)

But my story is not Zander’s story.

• Zander doesn’t want to marry…and I’m a month shy from 31 years with my wife.
• Zander did what his parents expected from him. My parents made no demands on me…I was allowed—even encouraged—to pursue my wildest dreams.
• Zander is so into solitude that he’s fine not having any friends. While I might be the most reclusive extrovert on the planet, I love my friends like family and enjoy time spent in their company.

I simply wanted to write a story for people like Zander because there aren’t many stories written for people like him. And I know, given history, there were no stories written for people like Einvaldr, who struggled with many of the same things people still deal with eleven-hundred-years later.

With “The Song of the Stone,”  I wanted to write a story that says, “There’s nothing wrong with you or the different things you want from life.”

* * *

For all the smaller themes in the story, it’s clear the big one is about living a life free of regret. (Specifically, not living the life others demanding of you.)

There’s a song called “Sweat Loaf” by the Butthole Surfers that…well, I’m not recommending you go listen to it, but there’s a good line about regret in it. A son asks his father what regret means.

The father answers: “Well, son, a funny thing about regret is that it’s better to regret something you have done than to regret something you haven’t done.”

In the context of the band, one could easily make an argument that it’s an endorsement of hedonism, but as a writer, I understand people sometimes see different things than the author’s intent—and that’s valid.

I always saw the line as saying, “At least try doing something”—that regretting a mistake is better than regretting not doing anything at all with your life.

* * *

I recently turned 54, and I can tell you there are things in my life I wish I’d done differently. But…it’s not regret.

No one lives a life free of mistakes. We all make poor decisions along the way and shouldn’t be made to carry them the rest of our days. I believe, if you’re a good person and do what you can to honor some of your truths, that you’re living well.

Your life may look like a wreck to others—and it very well might be—but if you’re living a life true to who you are, you’re doing better on some level than most people.

The line in the story: “I wish I’d had the courage to live a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me,” really is from an essay and book from a palliative care nurse named Bronnie Ware.

In the end, for all one might have accomplished, that is the most common regret she heard from dying people. And it’s no surprise—the people I know who carry the deepest regrets often came from judgmental households. They are often the people who lived the lives others expected of them, never even trying the things they always wanted to do.

* * *

Of course, many things are easier said than done.

I have a good job, but it is not the job I hoped to be doing when I was 20. Yet I’ve still found a way to be true to myself with this show. In ways, its lack of greater “success” only strengthens that truth. I keep making Not About Lumberjacks because I’ve always wanted to write and share stories with others.

I think the important thing is to not confuse one’s truth with an imaginary ideal.

When I was 20, I was naïve enough to believe the two were the same. Because I wanted to be a successful writer, anything less than that wouldn’t do. But I was still a realist: I believed I’d be comfortably supporting myself writing fiction by the time I was forty. (I gave myself 20 years to get there.)

That didn’t happen.

I can be sad about that, or…I can look at the body of work behind me—and know there’s still so much more to be written.

I know more than a few people who very well might have gone further with their writing than me but gave up because they didn’t get into a certain program or have a blockbuster debut. The imagined ideal mattered more than their truth. They were raised to believe if they didn’t succeed in a big way, that they failed.

In “The Song of the Stone,” Eivaldr still spent much of his life in Birka because most of us are bound by realities beyond our control. Zander lives in a time allowing more freedoms, but still doesn’t end up as a history teacher. And yet, each character found a way to make the things they loved their truths…because they refused to live the life others expected them to live.

I’m not the writer I believed I’d be when I was 20, but I’m not sure I’d be as true to myself had that been what I became.

* * *

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, it’s a light-hearted tale about a writer who trades in his long-time muse for another…to disastrous effect.

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 person’s dissatisfaction with living the life others expected from him leading to a stone in a Swedish forest that also called to someone else during a turning point in his life in the early 860s. Not 1860’s…860s.

But first, the usual content advisory…

“The Song of the Stone” deals with lack of job and life satisfaction, pressure to marry and have children, career pressure, and death from illness.

Before we begin, A mighty thank you to Miro Karjalainen, aka Three Star Vagabond, for answering some questions about Stockholm and Birka. If there are any inaccuracies in the story, they are all on me.

Miro is my favorite travel vlogger. Each week, he documents his travels around Stockholm, the rest of Sweden, and the world. It’s an impressive one-person operation, full of great places, history, and humor.

Miro also has a second YouTube channel called This is Geeky! in which he knocks around documenting geeky things. Of course, I love that channel as well.

So, check out what he’s up to at either link above, or swing by his Three Star Vagabond Facebook group.

Also, I hint at a couple YouTube channels in this story. If you’re curious who inspired those lines, here you go:

Roaming Wild Rosie – A thru-hiking designer who stepped away from the hurried pace of life in London and bought a cabin in the Swedish woods. Most Sundays, she chronicles her efforts restoring her home and tending to her little plot of land. I can’t tell you how much I love the commentary in her video about being a hermit.

Lowkey Swedish – Ally and Hamish are the “adorable couple from New Zealand,” mentioned in the story. Like the others mentioned above, each Sunday they share their restoration progress on their cabin in the woods not too far from Stockholm.

It’s already hit 97F / 36C in Texas this spring, so I’m sure I’ll revisit their snowed-in video as it gets even hotter in Texas.

Links to everyone and everything I just mentioned are in the show notes.

All right, let’s get to work!

The Song of the Stone

It was always about more than just my job, but I didn’t realize that until I found the stone. One day we’re told we can be anything we want, but as we get older, we’re told those dreams aren’t “responsible.”

I’m sure there are six-year-olds who decide they want to be an accountant from the start, but growing up, all my friends wanted to be artists or writers or in bands. They wanted to make movies or explore the world. Now, they spend their days in cubicles or tucked away in home offices, never feeling able to fully step away from their work. But chat with them—maybe even loosen them up with a drink or three—and many admit they wonder what their lives would be like today had they been more true to themselves and not those who raised them.

Me? I wanted to be a history teacher, but my parents wouldn’t hear it.

“It’s a noble profession,” my father said, “but it won’t provide the life of a doctor or lawyer. At least consider business.”

The saddest thing about that day? Me saying, “I was raised to believe I could be anything,” and my mother looking at me and replying, “You should listen to your father.”

And that’s what I did.

I moved from my hometown of Olathe to Lawrence, where I enrolled in the University of Kansas School of Business. If nothing else, I was out of the house.

After I got my MBA, though, I was back home, working as a business analyst where my dad worked in Kansas City.

That’s when Crisis Number One hit…

* * *

I know I wasn’t the first 26-year-old to be burned out at work and feeling some degree of guilt about such a seemingly fortunate problem to have. My grandparents were married and had several kids by 26, and they sucked it up—so what was my problem? But why should a person compare themselves to others, and be made to suffer, when that’s not who they are?

I later found out from my mom that her parents were miserable together. My grandfather cheated on my grandmother for years, and she eventually had more than just a clinical relationship with the family doctor. My dad’s side of the family at least didn’t try keeping things together in an effort to appear happy. My grandfather had the typical mid-life crisis, dumping my grandmother for someone younger who eventually dumped him.

My grandmother, on the other hand, rolled with it and started living for herself instead of to the expectations of others—and today she’s one of the happiest people I know. She doesn’t regret having children, but there’s a spark in her eye when I say I don’t want that.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been told it is up to me to continue my family line. That’s a ridiculous weight to place on the shoulders of a six-year-old, but that’s how old I was when I first recall my family telling me—the last male in our family branch—that I was essentially here for one thing: to carry on the Pierson name. I have considered my aversion to being a father might be linked to that. Were my feelings just me pushing back against my dad, his father, and aunts and uncles telling me memories of them would die unless I sired at least one male child myself? Like we were royalty or something?

But it’s not that: I just like solitude. I’ve never dreamed of having a relationship with someone, let alone a marriage. I’ve been told by family, and even some people I barely know, that I’m greedy for being this way. I think it’s more greedy, however, to have children because it’s what’s expected of us. I’ve been told I can’t know what I’m missing until I hold my own child in my arms and look in its eyes, but I have many friends whose parents did that and then put on them all their regrets and failures and expected them to carry those hopes and dreams—even if they did not share them—to some imaginary end. The world is full of neglected children, many from some of the wealthiest neighborhoods that exist.

Yet I’m somehow the broken one rolling in a puddle of greed for not producing the children I don’t want, just so someone can say, “See? I told you so!”

I’ll admit, my solution to Crisis Number One might have been a bit extreme, but I made the decision on my 26th birthday to leave Kansas. I’d been thinking about getting my own place in Kansas City, but it was apparent I needed even more distance from home. Somehow, the conversation during my birthday dinner turned to talk about when I was going to settle down and give my parents grandchildren. I zoned out, but I remember my dad saying something about leaving behind a legacy and my mom asking me who will care for me when I get older.

It was my friggin’ birthday, and that was my gift? I looked at my mom and told her: “If I had kids, I’d not have them to take care of me. We shouldn’t be talking about my inevitable death on my birthday, but since we are, I’m fine walking into the woods and dying when it’s my time. And legacy, Dad? Who’s your great-great grandfather?”

He couldn’t name him.

“That’s legacy, Dad: forgotten in a few generations.”

“I’m here because of him, though,” my father said.

“Yes, you are, and honoring his legacy by working a job I know you can’t actually enjoy—and badgering your son on his birthday, despite knowing my feelings about all this.”

I’d done what I was supposed to do: I got an MBA and a good job, but it still wasn’t enough.

I knew the longer I stayed in Kansas that things would only get worse.

I wondered what another life entirely might be like…

* * *

AD 857

Einvaldr wondered what his life might be like had he stayed on the farm. It’s not that he lacked interest in the bustling trade city of Birka, with its people from distant places converging on the island to peddle and purchase wares, but it was the life his father wanted—not him. Einvaldr preferred the quiet pace of farm life, tending to the land and sheep, instead of the din and throng surrounding him. That didn’t stop his father from trying to convince him they shared a dream.

“Do you agree this is a good life, my son?”

The two huddled around the hearth in the center of their small shelter and shop.

“It is, father. But it is not the life I imagined.”

“What do you not like about it?”

“This building is small, and the village is crowded.”

“This building is warm and a reminder of our family’s work. This city is our connection to the world.”

Einvaldr looked at the piles of fabric making their already tight dwelling even more claustrophobic.

“I am proud of our work and do not mind coming here to sell it. I do not like living here, though.”

At first, Birka was not without its excitement. Einvaldr was content to sleep beneath their stand when the weather was pleasant, and moods were bright. When they settled into a permanent space—staying even through winter—the novelty quickly faded. Einvaldr only saw home when his father sent him back to the farm to retrieve more fabric.

“That we can survive, here, is a testament to our way of life,” his father said.

“My way of life is not here.”

“Your beard is still short. You will one day see the opportunities before us as I do.”

Einvaldr’s father stood and retrieved a piece of silk from a nearby stack of fabric.

“I will put our family’s work against any local, but it is not like this. Do you not want to travel east to see how this is made?”

Einvaldr drew his cloak around his body. “That will not keep you warm during winter.”

His father settled back beside the small fire. “I have given you a better life than mine. Your children will have a better life than you. One day, you will realize this.”

Einvaldr stared at the flames and said, “I had a better life on the farm.”

* * *

Crisis Number Two was on me.

I left Kansas for a corporate training position in Portland. It wasn’t teaching history, but it was teaching. I quickly realized how easy it is to convince yourself that doing something similar to a dream is the same as living the dream, but it didn’t last long. What I was doing in Portland was not much better than analyzing data back home in Kansas. Training people how to use proprietary software is not the same as teaching people something you love—it’s just a job like any other if your heart’s not into it.

I had aspirations to get outside with my move to the Pacific Northwest, to soak in the landscape—maybe become one of those people who forages for mushrooms and knows hidden places even most locals don’t know exist. But I spent most of my time in Globotek’s Pacific Northwest office, or in my studio apartment, exhausted. While I was free from the pressure of family, I was not free from its effects.

The problem with running from something is that you’re running. Instead of holding my ground when others demanded things from me, I gave in because it was easier than confrontation and feeling like the bad guy. Once you establish that as normal, though, you are—in essence—giving others permission to continue doing things in your life you do not like.

I once read an article written by a palliative care nurse—about the regrets people have at the end of their lives. I figured wishing they had worked less would be the number one misgiving, but it was number two. The number one regret of the dying? “I wish I’d had the courage to live a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me.”

At least I was in good company.

I was on the cusp of another full-blown crisis just three months into my move when my boss asked me to come into her office. I hoped it was a layoff. I’m not sure what I would have done, but I was able to save much of what I made and knew I’d be fine. Worst case: I’d have a little bit of time to get out and see things I moved to experience before finding another job. But instead of saying, “We’ve unfortunately made the difficult decision that we have to let some people go,” she said, “How would you like to spend a year in our Stockholm office?”

* * *

Stockholm was nothing like Kansas City, or even Portland. If I had to compare it to other places, I’d say it’s like a cross between Paris and Vienna, with a lot more water and bridges. But that’s not fair—it is a city all its own, where Baroque masterpieces stand beside minimalistic works of art. A city that built its streets around walking and cycling. Despite breaking each morning for fika and eating pastries with coffee, it took little time to lose the bit of extra weight I hoped to shed hiking in the forests of Oregon. It was every beautiful thing about other wonderful cities in one place.

My work life was much different as well. I never quite figured out why I was needed, other than my manager wanted a native English speaker to create training content for some clients, even though my coworkers spoke better English than many native speakers I knew back home. When we worked, we worked with focus, but when the day was done, we stepped away. I wasn’t expected to answer email on my phone after hours or work on weekends. I never realized until then how even on my best day in the states, I still carried the hum of low-grade stress with me everywhere I went. When you factor in how stringent my parents were about school and sports growing up, I found myself with time to myself for the first time in my life. That’s when I discovered a new problem: I had no idea what to do with that time.

I mentioned my predicament to my manager, Nora. She suggested I get a hobby. I told her I enjoyed hiking, and she said, “That is a part of life. You need something to focus on.”

I said, “I enjoy history and reading.”

“That is also part of life.”

* * *

Another thing I discovered about Sweden is your work friends are your friends at work, but it’s up to you to find friends outside the office. It’s not like in the states where work friends are often personal friends; in part, because we never seem to stop working in the U.S. I suppose that’s why Nora suggested I find a hobby—so I’d at least have friends at a club for whatever I decided to focus on. But I preferred being alone.

I was content to wander Stockholm, so there was no reason to take up something new. The history of the area, and the city’s myriad museums and parks, meant I always had something to do. When the novelty of living in a new place faded, I rented an Aimo carshare one weekend and explored outside the city.

Of course, I still focused on history—opting to visit the ancient trading outpost of Birka west of Stockholm. It was a simple plan: visit Birka early, and then drive around and see what else was out there.

I was surprised how quickly the city gave way to suburbs, and then suburbs turning into country. The urban sprawl of the U.S. was so normal that I never gave much thought to how far you have to drive before things feel even a little open. A ferry ride got me to the Lindby jetty, where I parked and hopped a final boat to the island of Björkö.

The recreated Viking village reminded me of the Western villages I visited as a kid in Kansas and Missouri: everything was meant to appear authentic—and perhaps it was. At least there were no Viking battles in the streets like the mock shootouts back home. The museum was everything I craved, full of weapons, jewelry, clothing, and dioramas. After that, I wandered down to the water, where I saw a handful of replica boats on either side of a small pier. It was easy to imagine what the island and city must have been like then, with its tightly packed structures and throngs of people living along the banks of Lake Mälaren.

While it seemed most people’s favorite part of the visit was the overlook at the Cross of Saint Ansgar atop a stony hill, I preferred wandering the rest of the island. The trail meandered around so many burial mounds that I lost count of how many people were buried there. Sheep and cows lazed about in the shade of trees, and I was surprised to see fields and small farmhouses. I found a trail cutting through a small cluster of trees, giving me my first taste of Swedish forests. On a rise on the south side of the island, I wondered what it must have been like looking out across the water and the trees beyond. Or living there and looking across to Birka.

* * *

AD 862

No matter how low Einvaldr felt, returning home to the farm for stock and supplies always brightened his spirits. The family home sat on a slight hill overlooking a pasture full of sheep. Behind it all, trees scraped the sky. Their farm was humble, but a sprawling estate compared to the tight quarters in Birka.

It was Einvaldr’s first visit home since the death of his grandfather the previous spring. He had argued that his mother, uncle, and aunt needed him on the farm, but his father had final say. As he approached home, he considered anything he missed back in Birka. He liked being closer to the water, but not at the price he and his father paid. There was nothing else he liked about the place. All that mattered at the moment, though, was he had a few days at home before his uncle would help him drive a cart full of fabric back to a waiting boat Einvaldr would struggle to row back to Birka.

After their bellies were full of dinner, Einvaldr’s mother asked how his father was doing.

“He is father,” he said. “He should be here as well.”

“He is doing what he feels must be done,” his mother said. “I love your father, but I do not miss him. I miss you, however.”

“And I miss you. All of you. And home.”

“There are many years before you,” Einvaldr’s uncle said. “Give it time.”

“Time is one of the things I do not like about Birka,” Einvaldr said. “Here, time passes slowly. A year is measured on the land. There, it all runs together. We are losing our fascination with slower things. Now, it’s all about trade routes and goods. Birka is a place of desperation.”

Einvaldr’s uncle laughed and said, “You have always been wiser than your years. Do not worry—your day will come.”

* * *

Einvaldr fell immediately back into the routine of the farm. He rose early and helped his uncle tend to their cart. He cleaned up around the house, giving his mother and aunt time to ensure the fabrics they had woven were ready for market. He sat on the hill watching the sheep graze in the pasture stretching before him. Birka was not without its open spaces outside the village, but Einvaldr’s father kept him tethered to their small shop.

In the afternoon, Einvaldr returned to the lake the check on their boat. Perhaps the thing he disliked most about Birka was absorbing his father’s fear that if things were not watched, they would be taken. He never had such a concern on the farm.

After confirming the boat was secure, Einvaldr walked along the edge of the lake, eventually spotting a large stone through the trees. He made his way into the forest and climbed atop it. There was something about the way time had worn it down that cradled Einvaldr’s frame in all the right places. His stresses seemed drawn from his body and into the chunk of granite. Across the water, he could see the better side of the island of Bierkø. Birka lay out of view—from his vantage point, one would never know there was a city on the far side of the island, were it not for the occasional ship on the water or tales of the port.

It was a luxury for Einvaldr to lose track of time; he only realized how long he’d been sitting on the stone as the shadows of the day grew longer.

He couldn’t explain what it was about the spot he’d found, but he had never felt such a connection to a place.

* * *

I wanted to see what was south of Birka, so I doubled back after leaving the island. A couple ferry rides got me to where I wanted to go.

It’s funny how places far from each other can seem familiar. You could just as easily film a movie set in old England near Birka as you could a Viking saga. And when I lost myself among the pines, fields, and cabins south of the island, it became easy to understand why so many Scandinavians who found their way to the United States settled in Wisconsin and Minnesota—the scenery, in spots, was practically interchangeable. I parked the car at the end of a gravel road and stretched my legs.

It was what I hoped for when I moved to Portland and then agreeing to work on the project in the Stockholm office: the smell of the pines and lakes, the sound of water lapping along the shoreline and wind through the trees. Birds, the occasional boat, and nothing more. I grabbed my water bottle and headed into the trees.

It wasn’t a deep forest, but when you’re new to a place, even a small stand of trees feels huge and magical. I followed the shoreline where I could, occasionally making my way back into the forest. About 50 yards in, I found the stone.

It was roughly the size of a small car and smoothed by time. The annual expansion and contraction of ice on its surface created a ledge on one side almost like a chiseled seat. It was the perfect place to sit and think, or to clear your mind and do nothing more than take in all the forest offered. Years of stress melted away. I found myself practically sobbing as I let go of unseen weight carried within.

I couldn’t tell you why, but I’d never felt such a connection to a place.

* * *

When I lived in the United States, I believed my dissatisfaction with work came from the long hours I endured. My time in Stockholm revealed a deeper problem: I was not happy with what I was doing, even when I had more time to myself.

Parts of my job interested me: creating interactive learning modules, writing and voicing scripts, and even the occasional video presentation, but the topic always left me wanting more. Proprietary ordering software was not history. At times, I felt undeserving of the role I worked my way into as an escape from analyzing data. Somewhere, there was a person who studied what I had figured out largely on my own—some days, imposter syndrome got the best of me. Was someone with better credentials stuck in a job they hated because I took the seat in the role they craved?

I considered returning to school, to study what I wanted to do all along, but a semester had already started, and I only had a year in Sweden. So, I did my job as best as I could, and looked forward to my weekends.

* * *

There was no reason to explain why I kept returning to the stone, other than it was a place of comfort for me. There were more places to see north, south, and even the islands to the east—places I knew were more impressive than a boulder in the trees by a lake—but that spot had a strange allure.

I loved seeing cabins tucked away in the trees and imagining what it would be like to live in one, and I did visit more than just the stone. I’d pick a direction and drive, watching fields and trees roll by, or stopping for lunch in small towns along the way. It was a reminder that people were the same all over, city dwellers retreating to the country, searching for antiques and specialty shops, or time away at a bed and breakfast.

No matter how far I roamed, though, I always felt pulled back to the stone.

* * *

AD 864 – 873

In time, Einvaldr’s father’s promises of travel became reality. They traveled west into Värmland and north into Kvenland. They crossed the Baltic Sea into the land of the Rus. No matter how far they roamed, Einvaldr always felt pulled back to the stone.

When his father followed trade routes deeper into lands they’d heard about in Birka, Einvaldr insisted he stay behind to manage the shop. He missed the farm but appreciated his time alone—and came to appreciate being in one place again, even if it was a place where he didn’t want to live. When he was able to get away from the city, he wandered to the south side of the island, scanning the far shore for the spot where the stone lay.

Trips back to the farm to restock were also times to ground himself in his secret spot in the woods. His uncle joked with Einvaldr, asking if he had found a father’s daughter who held his heart. He told his family it was nice being in a place not so crowded and loud—that time walking released the stresses of living in Birka.

What Einvaldr didn’t tell his family was that he’d begun feeling unwell.

* * *

Fall was every bit as beautiful in Sweden as it was in Portland. Winters in Kansas City prepared me for the cold of winter, but not the darkness. Spring was an explosion of light and relief. Through it all, I visited the stone when I could. Like the seasons, I always returned.

That cycle was a reminder that life is never truly behind—it all loops back if we’re willing to receive it. It’s easy to feel lost if you measure your own worth based on the perceived successes of others, but I can say with confidence that while my father appeared to have everything constituting a well-lived life, he was not a happy man. My time in Stockholm, particularly my weekends, were happy times. And maybe that’s why I always returned to the stone: it was a reminder that if something stuck around in my mind, eventually I got to the things I want to do.

Sitting on the stone, looking across the water to Björkö, I could imagine someone long ago sitting in the same spot doing the same. Maybe a farmer imagining what life would be like there, or even someone from the city wishing for a slower pace to their life.

I have to think, even long ago, that people got burned out by the speed at which the world grew, and time passed.

* * *

Einvaldr’s life turned with the seasons. With his father mostly gone, he settled into his own routine. He came to enjoy winter—not because it was a slower season in Birka, but because he could walk across the ice to home, which was easier than arranging for a boat in warmer seasons. Other days, he crossed the lake and visited the stone.

With nature’s annual cycle came great changes in Einvaldr’s life: news of his uncle’s passing—and eventually, his aunt. When he insisted he come home to help his mother, she insisted he stay in Birka. In time, Einvaldr assumed his father passed away or found a new family in a faraway land. With his mother unable to keep up with demand, he sold his spot in Birka and returned to the farm. Eventually, it was just him.

Each year brought more fatigue, but visits to the stone rejuvenated him. Now, when Einvaldr looked across the lake to Bierkø, his past felt like a strange dream told to him by another person.

* * *

The last time I visited the stone was the weekend before my project came to an end. I expected a profound visit for some reason, but it was like all the others—which was not a bad thing. Sitting there eating a sandwich, I did spend a moment thinking about how many other places I could have seen during my time in Sweden. But I was always content to know specific details about a smaller area rather than seeing a smattering of things quickly over a wider space. I wouldn’t go as far as saying I lived like a local during my time in Stockholm, but on Mondays when chatting with coworkers, more than a few nodded and said, “That’s a good place,” when I told them where I’d been.

I’d seen more of the country than I’d ever expected to see. To think about what I might have missed served no purpose, other than unnecessary regret.

Before leaving, I placed my left hand on the stone. I wished I could absorb what it was that drew me there and carry that energy back to the states with me.

I patted the stone and said “Goodbye…”

* * *

AD 881

In the dark of morning, after summoning his final reserve of strength, Einvaldr struggled through the woods to the stone. It was more than the usual pull to the spot he loved, as though something inside had finally given up and sent a message to his brain that it was time, and that was the place to be. Too weak to climb atop the boulder, he gave it his back, propping himself up so he could see through the natural window of the trees to the lake. Above, stars shimmered as gentle waves counted down time against the shoreline.

The blue sky gave way to the sun’s glow beneath the horizon. Einvaldr listened to the arrival of another day in the forest: birds calling and animals scurrying about, all oblivious of their mortality. It would be easy to envy them, were it not for the pride he felt in living a life without regret. In the end, the demands of others did not weigh upon his soul.

Einvaldr reached back with his left hand and placed it against the stone. It gave him just enough strength to see his last sunrise climb above the trees.

He patted his old friend and whispered, “Goodbye…”

* * *

I thought I’d carry my Swedish weekends in the woods back to the states, but I was quickly reminded how broken work is in the U.S.—even in Portland. With the opportunity—even expectation—to work oneself to exhaustion, I did. When I was able to get away, I looked for a place that made me feel like I felt on the south shore of Lake Mälaren. I could argue the forests of the Pacific Northwest were more majestic than those in Sweden, but I felt more grounded over there. I loved the smell of ancient glacial lakes others might even find repulsive: the pungent decay and rebirth along the shoreline mingling with cool breezes and cold water.

I daydreamed about returning, becoming obsessed with YouTube channels about people buying cabins in Sweden and slowing down. I knew I’d have no idea how to fix up an old place, but each Sunday I watched a British designer who left her secure world behind to have a go on her own in the middle of nowhere, and an adorable couple from New Zealand who seemed to inspire people to help them figure things out in their efforts. It made it feel not so out of reach.

When I found myself working for the god-knows-how-many-consecutive weekend in a row (after promising myself I was done working weekends and would get out to do things that made life worth living), I told my manager I wanted to take a little time off to step away from the rush of days.

“We’re busy right now,” she said.

“I know. But we’re always busy. It’s my time to take.”

“Those Swedes got into your head.”

“Maybe. I’m not even talking about a week off. Just two or three days packed around a weekend,” I said.

“We’re pushing toward a product release. We need you to be laser focused in case training needs to be updated or the dev team drops a new feature on us without notifying product managers. After this project—I promise.”

Maybe my manager believed that, but I’d heard that line so many times before. I emailed Nora.
Nora,

Hi, it’s Zander Pierson, but you know that. Since returning to the U.S., things have not been great. I find myself working far too often. Any time away is spent preparing to work: doing laundry, shopping, and planning the next week. I miss Stockholm—I miss Sweden.

I feel I proved my abilities when I worked for you, and I wonder if there’s a permanent role for me at the Stockholm office? If there is, I’d love to return. I promise I’ll even get an actual hobby.

All the best,

Zander

I knew it was a risk. If word got back to my manager in Portland, she’d have likely taken it personal. Fortunately, Nora’s reply was more than I hoped for.
Zander,

Your timing could not be better. I’m leaving Globotek in three months to form my own company. How are you in front of a camera? We’ll need a native English-speaking content developer for an online effort. The first project is an educational series about Swedish emigration to the United States. You’d work with historians developing scripts and be one of the hosts on the series. There’s a need for your skills after that, so yes: it would be permanent.

Please let me know your thoughts. I look forward to hearing from you soon,

Nora

* * *

I had always done the right thing, but never the right thing for me. I avoided a third crisis by accepting Nora’s offer to help with her startup educational media company in Stockholm. My manager in Portland told me I was making a mistake by going to another country to support something that might fail. I reminded her in the few years I was with Globotek, that I’d seen enough layoffs to know loyalty and security only goes one way. It’s a matter of time before most of us, these days, are shown the door for no fault of our own.

The good thing about living a solitary existence is there’s no one to tell you you’re living life wrong—no one to tell me, “How can you leave your parents behind and move to another country?” as though I owe them something for which I had no say. No one to tell me I’m greedy for not having kids or that I should suffer because others have had a harder life than me. I know my parents did their best, but their blood does not bind me. I should not suffer and be judged based on their preconceived notions of who and what I should be.

I didn’t buy a cabin in the woods; instead, I stayed in the city and settled into a new job that satisfied my love of history. Things that didn’t seem possible in Kansas City or Portland seemed viable in Stockholm. My work friends were my work friends, and I was happy to spend my days with them. I didn’t need more beyond that.

On weekends, I explored. I visited the stone frequently, but also traveled north, south, and far enough east to where the Stockholm archipelago gave way to the Baltic Sea. I even discovered forests every bit as majestic as those along the Oregon coast.

And…I kept my promise to Nora that I’d take up a hobby.

* * *

Nora was right: reading for me was a part of life, not a hobby. Still, I wanted something that complemented the pile of history books about the area I kept on my nightstand. From its first episode, I fell in love with the TV series Detectorists, so I purchased a metal detector. Of course, the first place I visited was the stone.

Along the trail from where I parked to the stone, I discovered two pull tabs and a 25 öre coin from 1983; the body of a tiny toy car and a crushed beer can.

An initial sweep in the area around the stone revealed nothing, but when I moved closer to the boulder, I got a good hit on my metal detector.

After digging down a handful of inches and poking around with my pinpointer, I pulled out a metal loop about the size of a poker chip. In the same hole, I discovered a metal belt tip. The items were caked in dirt and corroded, making it difficult to see the simple design on the belt tip in any detail. Another sweep of the area exposed a cloak pin and a ring appearing to be made by the same hand. My heart raced as I set the pieces on the stone.

Almost immediately after returning to my search, I got my biggest hit. From a hole in the dirt beside the place I’d sat for who knows how many hours on weekends, I uncovered a knife. Its handle had long decayed, but the six-inch blade, extended tang, and pommel were in tact. I placed it with the other items and spent the next 20 minutes searching the area for anything more. The only other signs of life in the dirt revealed that sometime, probably in the 80s, someone liked to sit on or near the stone and drink beer.

As a kid in Kansas, I loved exploring the trails behind my hometown’s water works. Looking back, it wasn’t a huge swath of land, but it seemed endless when I was young. I’d lose myself in those woods, convinced I’d traveled back through time. It was always the discovery of a beer can that pulled me back to reality.

I put the cans in my pack and returned to the items on the stone. For all the history books I’d read, I could only guess at the age of the items before me. With no bones to be found, they were either placed beside the stone, or the owner of the tiny cache had been there so long that their mortal remains had been claimed by time. I carefully soaked the metal belt end with water from my water bottle, gently removing the dirt. It seemed the stone had been calling to others for a very long time.

Certain places stir something deep inside a person. Were I to analyze why this particular spot meant so much to me, I couldn’t explain it. Sure, it was a nice rock tucked back in some nice trees beside a nice lake, but for most people, it might only be a place to stop for a water break, perhaps a photo, and move on. For all I know, the person leaving behind the items I had spread out on the stone before me was just stopping by, but something told me I wasn’t the only one who heard its song.

I also wondered what became of the beer drinker of the stone. Was he still alive and in the area? Did he live in one of the nearby cabins that stirred a different sense of comfort in me? Perhaps one day I’d visit the stone and share a beer with him.

I was further removed from the life of the person whose life seemed to end beside the stone. There was no sword or surviving metal from a wooden shield, so it’s unlikely they met a violent end. The bit of cleaning I did on the found items indicated they once belonged to someone of modest standing. Was this spot his escape from what passed as the rush of life back then, like it was mine today? What were his final moments like? (What would my final moments be like?) What was it about this spot that seemed so important to us?

I contemplated returning the items to the soil, but I feared someone else might find and take them. I always had mixed feelings about respecting the final resting places of those who came long before us and removing remains. But when I thought about someone taking what I had discovered putting them in a drawer or showing them off to friends as a novelty, I knew what I had to do.

* * *

A proper archaeological survey of the area around the stone revealed a fragment of bone and some teeth—enough left behind to conclude my guesses weren’t far off from those of experts. Roughly eleven-hundred years ago, someone likely died beside the stone. There was nothing to indicate a burial, and with little more than remnants of a body to determine a possible cause of death, it was an end left to speculation. Everything pointed to a modest merchant with ties to Birka dying in that spot. I can think of far worse ways to go than hearing the wind through the trees and Lake Mälaren splashing along the shoreline as one took their final breath.

I was invited to the Birka Viking Museum shortly before opening on the day the items I found were added to the exhibit. The knife didn’t look much different than the day I found it, but seeing the polished pieces eased my concerns that I had done the right thing.

Over 1,000 years ago, people plying their crafts shaped bronze and silver into something more than utilitarian standards. Except for the ring, each piece still served a functional purpose, but their designs were a reminder of a society’s growth and appreciation of beauty, a step to where we stand today. Why should that work be left beneath the surface of a forest floor when their efforts can be admired over a millenia later?

I spent the morning watching people look at my discovery. Some marveled at the pieces, while most paused briefly before moving on. A small part of me hoped for a bigger reaction—not because my ego required it, but because the five items represented all that was left of a life. But they were still only a handful of fragments among hundreds. We’re all just a solitary piece of so much more in the end.

That morning reminded me the legacies we leave behind are always claimed by the ages. Living a life true to oneself—not giving in to the expectations of others—is always a life well lived. I hoped my inevitable end would be free of regrets. And I hoped the person who once owned what I discovered in the woods found what he wanted from life. He may have given his bones to the stone, but his memory had joined a song echoing through time.

* * *

[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 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.

Next time, it’s a light-hearted tale about a writer who trades in his long-time muse for another…to disastrous effect.

[Quirky music fades out…]

[The sound of an axe chopping.]

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

[Listen]

[Intro music plays]

[Woman’s Voice]

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

[Music fades out]

Christopher Gronlund:

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

* * *

J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Hobbit is one of the books that changed everything for me. It, and Ray Bradbury’s Dandelion Wine, were novels I read multiple times in elementary school. They shaped my imagination and even the way I looked at the world.

Somewhere along the way after reading The Hobbit, I came into possession of the 1971 Ballantine Paperback Box Set of Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings—the set with the trippy Barbara Remington art on the covers.

But no matter how many times I set out to read The Fellowship of the Ring, I always gave up. To this day, much to the surprise of people who know how much I loved The Hobbit as a kid—and all the hours I’ve spent playing Lord of the Rings Online—I’ve still never read the Lord of the Rings trilogy.

But I’ve read the appendices at the end of The Return of the King several times. I found it fascinating to see just how much work went into the books.

A quick aside since I mentioned Lord of the Rings Online. The latest Not About Lumberjacks story, “Rockbiters,” contains the names of two dwarves I’m quite familiar with. Thorvlin is my wife’s main character in the Lord of the Rings Online game…and while Bautigan was created in the early 80s for Dungeons and Dragons, I brought him back when I started playing the game with my wife and some friends.

His name is, admittedly, not very dwarvish-sounding. I was a kid and needed a different sounding name for a Dungeons and Dragons session, so…I looked at a bookcase in the house that housed a Richard Brautigan novel. I dropped the “R” in his last name, and the rest is geeky dwarven history.

* * *

Aside from playing Dungeons and Dragons and other table-top role-playing games, I am not into worldbuilding. In the fiction I write, I usually find it tedious and unnecessary.

In my younger years, when I started taking writing seriously, someone showed me how much they put into creating the characters for their stories—down to knowing what kind of soap they used. But for all their efforts, they still didn’t write very well, and finished very little.

* * *

My main issue with worldbuilding is that it can be a trap. It’s easy to keep tinkering with your world and how every little thing works…down to what soaps your characters prefer. You can convince yourself you’re writing without actually finishing anything.

Sure, depending on the story, worldbuilding is necessary to a point, but I know more than a few writers who have world statistics and places on paper, but no completed stories set in those worlds.

It might sound like I have something against worldbuilding, but that’s hardly the case. I recognize it can be necessary, especially for certain kinds of stories. I just think, instead of knowing what kind of soap a character uses before writing, that you should be able to figure that out in the moment if it ends up having any relevance to the story.

* * *

Genre fiction lends itself to worldbuilding—and with good reason. Writing a literary story taking place in the world in which we all live in obviously has its complexities, but names and places and other things are easier to come up with because this is what we know.

If I set a story in the Dallas area, sure…I might jump into Google Maps and make sure some cross streets I mention are correct, but I don’t need to build the world. I can grab the first name of someone I know or have known…and mash it up with a different person’s last name. BOOM! Character name.

What kind of car does that character drive? Well, they are upper middle class and beginning to become concerned with image, so…they’re in a BMW or Volvo. I might have to look up a model number, but I don’t have to build that world.

If I’m creating Middle Earth or the Star Wars galaxy, though, I need to know where I am.

* * *

Continuing with the point about fiction set in our world, I might have to research some details if I have a character travel from Dallas to Singapore, but I already know a bit about each place and how the characters would get there.

In a sci-fi story, however, if characters travel among planets in a different solar system, it’s not as easy. I have to make up planets and maybe even nations and cities. I have to figure out the method for travel between planets and maybe even galaxies.

I have to build [at least part of] that world or universe.

* * *

In recent years, with the exceptions of the mystery in “Godspeed, Crazy Mike” and the After Life in “A Deathly Mistake,” I’ve charged into the stories I write and share on Not About Lumberjacks with little to no planning. If I write myself into a corner where I’m not sure about something, I jump online, find my answer, and get back to writing.

But with “Rockbiters” I had to build at least the basics of a solar system.

I needed to know what planets made up the system, and I needed character names before beginning. I needed to know where asteroid belts were and some legendary history that guides the dwarves. I had to build all these things up front.

To my credit when it comes to not getting bogged down in unnecessary details, I know nothing about the planets mentioned in the story—other than what’s needed. Thara and Izli especially? No idea what they’re like, other than they are planets and they have names. They don’t matter beyond giving a sense of place.

* * *

I do understand the appeal of worldbuilding.

I want to know more about Izli and Thara…and even additional details about the planets getting more attention in “Rockbiters.” More history and lore and other things.

But had I done that, I’d still be building my worlds and not have a finished story.

Were I to ever return to this system in a future story, then sure…I’d add to what I’ve already made. If I set even more tales there, I might create a story bible…and more cool things to write toward.

But “Rockbiters” didn’t require anything more than some planet names, character names, a few places, and a touch of lore.

* * *

Let’s return to Tolkien’s Middle Earth…

Novels are different than short stories. While I still believe Tolkien’s worldbuilding is a bit much, it obviously worked for him. He not only finished stories, but wrote stories that reached legions of fans. And his worldbuilding led to keeping his tales and legacy alive today.

That’s the important thing: finishing.

“Rockbiters” is my first science-fiction story—at least something screaming sci-fi fantasy—and it required more effort before writing than any other story I’ve shared, here. And I had fun with the bit of worldbuilding the story required; in fact, I’ve had fun with other stories requiring more work up front on Not About Lumberjacks.

* * *

One of my wife’s favorite things I’ve written and recorded for the show is “The Other Side”—a story about a recently-divorced man who travels through a portal back to a fantasy realm he visited when he was young.

I had to make up locations, lore, character names (in fact, there’s a nod to some of those characters in “Rockbiters”), and even some made-up language and grunting, performed so well by my friends, Mark Hosack, Rick Coste, and Shawn Kupfer. Ever since writing “The Other Side,” I’ve wanted to write a fantasy story set in that world…or some other fantastic place requiring some worldbuilding up front.

So maybe 2023 will see another straight-up genre story on Not About Lumberjacks. In high school, a fantasy novel was never out of my reach, and I’ve had the urge to read more in recent years.

Who knows: maybe this is the year I finally get around to reading The Lord of the Rings trilogy…

* * *

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 [probably] April—but definitely by early May—it’s another story with things rocky or stoney in the title. “The Song of the Stone” is a tale told through time, about two people drawn to a particular location as they ponder turning points in their lives.

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 first science fiction story I’ve ever written—a tale about DWARVES IN SPACE!!!

Find out what happens when the Forgefire brothers, while mining in an asteroid belt called The Delve, discover something that changes the lives of an entire solar system.

But first, the usual content advisory…

“Rockbiters” deals with loss of life, brief mention of enslavement, and war. Some may find the battle scenes loud and stressful, but there is no gore or suffering. Think of it like Star Wars-level action and you’re fine. Also: I extend my no-swearing streak to a fourth story in a row…unless you consider a made-up, one-syllable word swearing.

Before we get going, I want to talk about this episode’s music. The usual theme music notwithstanding, all music is courtesy of Martin Goldmann.

Martin is a German video producer with an evening synthesizer habit. He has a handful of YouTube channels, one of which is full of his ambient soundscapes. It’s fair to say his music has gotten me through many a workday and writing session.

When he heard I was working on a story about dwarves in space, he wrote a piece of music aptly titled, “Dwarves in Space.” Like me, through a love of role-playing games and stories, Martin is also a fan of dwarves. Then, when he heard the title of the latest Not About Lumberjacks story, he wrote another piece called, “This Rockbiter Wants Some Marshmallow.”

I asked if I could use either piece, and Martin said I was free to use anything he’s done. When I asked how I could compensate him—like every contributor I’ve worked with on Not About Lumberjacks—Martin refused payment. So…a donation was made in honor of Martin’s talents and generosity to Musicians Without Borders.

I’ll be sure to link to the organization in the show notes, in case you’re so inclined to donate—as well as sharing Martin’s channels and website.

All right, let’s get to work!

* * *

Rockbiters

The Book of Roon – Part 1 – Malinor

From The Great Spark came the flame that started it all, The Time Before Everything giving way to the Age of the Gods. On Histrides, the three races—Dwarves, Humans, and the Sylvanon—took their first steps. In time, each claimed their lands: the Sylvanon left for the forests, the humans built their cities, and the dwarves found their way beneath it all. When the gods no longer listened, we turned to our legends for guidance and inspiration; of whom, the greatest is Malinor the Hammer.

Long before humans reached for distant systems, Malinor discovered the stones that would fuel their ships and dreams. No longer were we bound to Histrides—the Sylvanon settled on Moroth, while Malinor founded our home planet of Galbolduhr, where I, Roon—The Keeper of Tales—am writing this. The humans stayed on Histrides.

Malinor ventured into The Delve, the great rock field between Vondra and Toberon the Stone Crusher. There, he found more Ozymandite in one small asteroid than all of Histrides. An alliance between the three races of the system was formed, and Vondra became a processing outpost under dwarven guidance.

When the humans turned their attention to the stars, Malinor turned his attention to a new task: finding a stone that would restore the dying fires of The Great Forge at the center of our system.

* * *

The Discovery

Thorvlin Forgefire was deep down in Asteroid 2849 when he found it. He called his brother, Bautigan, over.

“By Malinor’s Hammer, is that…?”

“I believe so,” Thorvlin said.

“What is it doing here?”

“I’m not sure. Help me cut it free…”

* * *

On Vondra

Two days later, on the processing outpost of Vondra, Thorvlin summoned The Council of Nine. Three elected members from each race in the Alliance of Histrides appeared on the massive screen before him.

“Ah, if it isn’t the Forgefires!” an old dwarf said.

Thorvlin and Bautigan bowed. “Greetings to you and yours, Brondor Ironbeard. And the rest of the Council. Thank you for hearing us today.”

A human woman said, “Sur Ironbeard said you would not ask for our time unless it were vital.”

“Aye, it is.” Thorvlin gestured to something the size of a small shuttlecraft covered beneath a gray drop cloth.

“What do you have hidden there, Master Dwarf?” a lithe Sylvanon said while leaning forward in his seat. “Another large piece of Ozymandite?”

“No, something even greater.”

Thorvlin and his brother pulled back the cloth, revealing a massive stone on a wheeled pallet. They struggled to turn the chunk of Asteroid 2849 around to face the screen. The three dwarves on the council froze in awe.

Before them, fossilized in the stone, was the head of a massive drake. While its snout had long gone cold, its teeth were every bit as menacing as when it was alive. The beast’s horns spread out wide at the back of its head. Its scales looked like sculpture.

“Were you a human, I might think this is a joke,” the Sylvanon said. “But I know you would not summon the council unless you believed it important. Can you explain to us what it is we’re looking at?”

Thorvlin said, “Indeed, I can, Sur Greenvaro. We believe this to be the head of the Crowned Drake, Khurakmore.”

“I am sorry, I don’t understand the significance.”

“It is said that Malinor the Hammer slew the Crowned Drake on Malmora. We have never known where on Malmora this occurred, but we do know, from ancient writings, that Malmora was struck by a small rogue planet millennia past. I believe this to be a piece of Malmora placed into The Delve’s orbit by the gravity of Toberon the Stonecrusher.”

Seldona Greenvaro said, “Please forgive me, Master Dwarf. I still do not understand.”

Thorvlin turned to the fossilized drake. “It is written that Malinor and Khurakmore each met their ends in that battle. It is also written that in that battle, Malinor’s hammer was lost. We have known the hammer to be on Malmora for ages, but we have never known exactly where. If we can determine where on Malmora this is from, we might possibly retrieve Malinor’s Hammer.”

“You want us to sacrifice a mission to Malmora to retrieve an artifact?” Seldona Greenvaro said. “I understand its importance to you and your folk—we all have legends and treasures we hold dear—but we will not risk such a mission for a hammer.”

Thorvlin turned back to face the council. “What if I told you that hammer was forged with something greater than Ozymandite—something so powerful that it will revive the Great Forge before its fires die?”

“You mean the sun,” the Sylvanon said.

“Sun…Great Forge. We all have our ways of describing it. Ours is more…poetic; which is rather surprising, considering the Sylvanon reputation for airy songs and stories.”

Seldona Greenvaro smiled at the playful jab. A human man on screen said, “Assuming what you say is true. We have our plan. Sol will die, and it will die soon, which is all the more reason to not pursue such folly. As much as it may pain us all to leave, that is what we will do.”

Thorvlin said, “Sur Morro, I mean no offense with what I am about to say, but do you honestly believe we will all board ships and leave? Do you not understand that only the wealthiest among us will survive, while the rest of our people perish? Even if we could evacuate everyone, is this not worth the undertaking to find out if this is true? I understand your kind only live to 100 or so. We live several times that. And the Sylvanon live much longer than your kind and mine combined. If not for you, then for your descendants—so they may know the beauty of Histrides and not some distant system separated from their bones.”

“Those are fair points,” the man said. “What do you need from the Council, Sur Forgefire?”

“This fossil must be tested, to determine my heart is not leading my brain. If this is the head of the Crowned Drake Khurakmore, then we can determine where on Malmora Malinor’s Hammer rests. And once we know, we must go to there to retrieve it. For all our tomorrows.

* * *

Aboard the HSC Criterion

Twenty days until arrival at Irrades

Thorvlin and Bautigan sat in the mess hall with mission leaders Kalzoum Axebiter, Steen Brazol, and Andaleein Alzomar.

Steen looked at the emptiness of space through a port-hole window and said, “Surs, you like it out here?”

“On the ship?” Bautigan said. “Or do you mean in The Delve?”

“The Delve.”

“We like it,” Thorvlin said. “Galbolduhr is our home, but there’s something peaceful out here in these rock fields. Most of the time, we’re beneath the surface mining. The tunnels we carve may not be as grand as in the mountains of our youth, but it’s safe and to our liking.”

“I’d expect no other answer from a Rockbiter.”

“What?” Thorvlin said.

“Rockbiters,” Steen said. “That’s what we call you.”

“Well, I’m sure we’ve been called much worse.”

Andaleein smiled and said, “Do you have any names for us?”

“You’re a Sylvanon,” Bautigan said. “And Sur Brazol is a human.”

“That is not what I am asking. Do you have any endearing names for us?”

Thorvlin looked at his brother before saying, “I’m not sure about endearing, but we sometimes call you Leaf Ears. Because you like trees so much…and—ahem—those ears you all have.”

“And what do you call Master Brazol’s people?”

“Bunglers.”

“And why is that?”

“Because they bungle through everything, but somehow, it always works out.”

Andaleein laughed.

“What’s so funny?” Thorvlin said.

“That is not unlike my kind calling your kind Bolders. You are a bold people, but also: every bit as stubborn as stones.”

Fifteen days until arrival at Irrades

At breakfast, Andaleein Alzomar watched Thorvlin as he picked at his food.

“What?”

“You seem a bit on edge, Master Thorvlin.”

“I am not fond of traveling, at least like this.”

“There is no reason to worry.”

“Oh, I know that. It’s just…we like to be doing more than sitting and waiting. Take us from our work for too long, and we—as you say—get edgy.

“I can stomach the two days of travel from Vondra into The Delve. The four days from Vondra to home seems long, now. A week in this can is more than plenty. I don’t need a computer reminding me we still have two weeks to go.”

“It is a spacious ship.”

“Aye, it is. I suppose I prefer being in mountains or underground. I’d even take Toberon’s orbit being a bit closer as we pass through its space. Just to feel something other than nothing.”

“Have you ever felt Toberon’s pull?”

“I’ve been close enough to a convergence on the far side of The Delve to know I don’t want to be any closer than that. But the Stonecrusher brings with it a bounty. We’d not be in this can of a ship were it not for all Toberon places between it and Vondra.”

Ten days until arrival at Irrades

Thorvlin and Bautigan sat in the Captain’s Lounge with Kalzoum Axebiter, playing a game to pass the time. Steen and Andaleein broke free from their tables and sat with the dwarves.

“What is this?” Andaleein said.

“It’s called Hledatoml,” Thorvlin said.

“And how is it played?”

“The rules are simple enough. Kalzoum’s company starts in the middle of the board. Bautigan’s company is broken up to defend the six corners.

“Bautigan’s goal is to capture Kalzoum’s king by surrounding the piece on three sides. Kalzoum’s goal is to get the king to one of the corners of the board to win. Pieces move in straight lines. You take your opponent’s pieces by flanking them on three sides, or just one piece against the king’s starting space in the middle or a corner.”

Andaleein spent a few moments looking at the board and its pieces before saying, “You are correct. It is a simple enough game in concept, but I can appreciate its complexities. When your brother and Master Axebiter are finished, would you like to play?”

Thorvlin smiled. “Oh course!”

Bautigan and Kalzoum played until Kalzoum was left with only his king and one other piece. Bautigan had the advantage with five pieces of his own. That advantage served as Bautigan’s downfall. As he positioned his pieces to take Kalzoum’s king in his next move, he didn’t realize one of his pieces was against the king’s starting point.

Kalzoum flanked one of Bautigan’s pieces in the center, and in his next move, his king took a corner for the win.

“Ah, good match!” Bautigan said. “I thought I had ya!”

Kalzoum said, “So did I!” He slid the board toward Andaleein and Thorvlin.

Andaleein said, “Which side would you like?”

“It’s even odds, though some say the King’s side has the advantage. So, if you want, you can take the middle.”

As the game progressed, Thorvlin said, “Are you sure you’ve never played?”

And when Andaleein took a corner for the win, Thorvlin threw up his hands and said, “Ah, beginner’s luck!”

Andaleein smiled and said, “I would be happy to play again…”

“No, that’s all right…”

Five days until arrival at Irrades

“The rules of Ruuma are simple enough,” Steen said. “Using only your feet, your team tries kicking the ball into the goal.”

Steen and his human partner gestured to the court, a large, rectangular room with a round port at the far wall. Andaleein and another Sylvanon listened intently, while Thorvlin and Bautigan surveyed the space.

“The first team to 13 goals wins. You cannot stand in front of the goal, but if you are behind the goal line when an opponent kicks, you can cross and defend against them. Any questions?”

“Aye, can you play the ball off the ceiling?” Thorvlin said.

“You can play the ball off anything, Master Forgefire. Even your opponents. To that end, you can stand your ground and push against each other from a stopped position, but you cannot charge into others.”

“Ah, where’s the fun in that?” Bautigan said.

Steen placed the ball in the middle of the court, and each team retreated to a quarter circle marker in three of the room’s four corners.

“Three…two…one…GO!” Steen yelled.

At first, their familiarity of the game gave the humans a quick three goals. But Sylvanon speed quickly took over. With only one goal, it looked like Thorvlin and Bautigan would be better off letting their opponents play among themselves, but once they figured out trajectories and how to use their stout, lower centers of gravity to their advantage, they came from behind to win: their thirteen points to the humans’ ten and the Sylvanon’s nine.

As Steen struggled to catch his breath, he dabbed himself off with a towel and said, “That was quite a comeback for Team Forgefire. Tell me, what did you discover to change things to your favor?”

Thorvlin said, “Well, aside from being the stubborn Bolders Sur Alzomar mentioned a couple weeks ago, everything a dwarf knows can be found in family and the shapes of things. The structures that hold stones and gems together—what makes up our bodies. We know where to put pressure on rocks; where those rocks will fall and, possibly, even roll. We know how to make things do what we need, so it should be no surprise we can figure out how to get a ball into a hole.”

Six hours until arrival at Irrades

The cargo bay bustled with activity as crews prepared to disembark. Steen Brazol watched as the dwarves secured their axes and hammers.

“I’ll never understand the dwarven insistence to do battle with such outdated weapons.”

“They’re a bit more than they seem,” Thorvlin said.

“True. But one must still get close to do any damage.” Steen pointed to the Sylvanon crew’s preparations. “Their bows allow them to at least attack from a distance.”

“We can attack from a distance, too,” Bautigan said.

“I hardly consider hurling stones with primitive devices a proper attack.”

“Perhaps not,” Thorvlin said. “But it’s a good defense. And it explains why dwarves go to war far less than humans. You fight from a distance, making combat an easier option than talking. Because we get in much closer, it’s in our best interests to negotiate rather than coming to blows. Something worth considering, no?”

Steen laughed and said, “Indeed, it is. It has been my pleasure getting to know you all better in recent weeks.”

“Ours as well!”

* * *

The Book of Roon – Part 2 – Malinor

With Malinor’s discovery of Ozymandite, Dwarves, humans, and Sylvanon were able to travel the system. Humans dreamed of longer voyages. Malinor and The Crew of Twenty sought additional stone fields to mine and found the greatest of all between Malmora and Thara. The Far Stones yielded more Ozymandite and other resources than even The Delve. An outpost was established on Malmora, and more of our kind traveled far from Galbolduhr to work. There, Malinor discovered Forge Fire, a metal with the power to reignite the source of life should it ever fade.

But even the greatest of his supporters thought Malinor a fool when he set out to shape the rare deposit at his anvil. His undertaking became an obsession. Gone was his time in the stone fields; no longer did he seek camaraderie from his brothers and sisters. When even Malinor’s strongest allies were poised to intervene, he emerged from his shop with the hammer held high…

* * *

Above Irrades

“It never gets old,” Steen said as the HSC Criterion descended toward Irrades. The moon looked like an orange pupil against the azure eye of Malmora below. “I wonder what other marvels wait beyond all we know.”

“Regardless of our success, here,” Thorvlin said, “I’m sure you will know in your lifetime. As for me, I have no intention to leave this system.”

“Don’t you want to know what’s further out there? We know there are other systems like ours. New species to meet.”

“You think so much about what’s out there that I wonder if you fully see and appreciate what you have right here. What it is to truly know the ground on which you stand —what it is to know every stone of your homeland.”

“Well, should I ever travel far, I will be sure to send a communication letting you know what rocks I see in faraway places.”

* * *

The Briefing

Thorvlin and Bautigan sat with Kalzoum Axebiter and the rest of their assigned squad in the briefing room. He admired the assembled company, feeling a mix of pride and concern for the group. If something went wrong, how would he handle knowing his plan resulted in a loss of life? Was staking so much on an ancient legend a foolish pursuit? What would happen if Malinor’s Hammer were just…a hammer—a hefty piece of metal on the end of a handle created to shape its more stubborn ores? His concerns dissipated when the briefing started.

The commander of the mission brought up a map on the screen behind him.

“Our intelligence and readings put our objective here.” The human pointed to a desolate, scarred expanse of land in an otherwise mountainous region of Malmora. When this mission was proposed, my initial thought was, ‘If the Crowned Drake’s remains were scattered in a collision with a planetoid or small planet, why would this hammer still be there?’ But we are getting a reading that something is down there.

“Obviously, our main concern is the Vard. While there are no Vardian cities in the region, there are small towns and outposts. The plan is to send you down in shuttles with breakaway hulls so it appears to be nothing more than a large meteor breaking up on entry. We are the intruders, here, and you must remember that if something goes wrong down there, we cannot attack the Vard. May those who came before be with you.”

* * *

The Descent

Thorvlin’s favorite part of traveling into The Delve were the smooth landings. He was not as fond of the turbulence that came with the final stages of planetary travel, even in larger ships. Dropping into the atmosphere of Malmora in a shuttle was like rolling down the side of a rocky mountain in a barrel. Every bump shook him to his bones; he gripped the sides of his seat while counting to himself in an effort to steady his nerves. Just when he wondered if the break-away hull of the shuttle was about to give way to the only thing separating him from space, his world became quiet and smooth. A little tug of gravity here and there as they did a series of turns to slow the craft, but the worst part was over.

* * *

The Book of Roon – Part 3 – Khurakmore

With the Far Stones yielding a steady bounty, Malinor turned his attention to the surface of Malmora, believing more Forge Fire to be found on its surface. When he found none there, he tunneled into mountains.

It is not known how long the Great Crowned Drake, Khurakmore, slumbered beneath Monte Skalbruder—what is known is that, in their battle, Khurakmore and Malinor met their ends. Those present said the mountain shook with each blast from the Crowned Drake. Each hammer blow by Malinor resonated in the stones.

There is a carving in The Grand Hall of Erbadeor depicting Malinor’s Leap at Khurakmore’s crown. It is said the ground opened where Malinor fell, his final act looking up at the slain drake as the mountain swallowed him whole.

* * *

Under Ground

Thorvlin watched Steen Brazol step out from his shuttle and take a deep breath. Fresh air filled the dwarven squad’s shuttle when the seal on the door was broken. Thorvlin inhaled, savoring its taste and feel; it wasn’t the fresh air of Histrides or Galbolduhr, but between his time in The Delve and on Vonda, it was the first naturally breathable air he’d drawn in over a year.

“I’ll need a trip home after this,” he said to Bautigan.

“Aye,” Bautigan said. “It’s easy to forget how nice this is.”

The moment was disrupted by the human commander shouting, “All right, we need to move!” In and out before the Vard realize we’re here.”

The squads moved in double time toward a rip in the ground where once, a great mountain stood. Steam billowed from the crack and blew across the surface. A human closed the visor on his helmet and took a reading of the vapor with a small hand-held device. He gestured to seal up.

“It was good while it lasted,” Bautigan said.

Once underground, Kalzoum Axebiter brought Thorvlin’s squad to the front. They wound their way through an old lava tube full of noxious smoke, until it opened to a chasm dropping far below.

Thorvlin looked up, imagining Malinor falling to his end in the place he now stood.

“What now?” Steen said. “Climb down?”

Kalzoum set a small box on the ground and pushed a button on top. A single ping resonated. The dwarven leader looked at a small screen on his wrist.

“There’s another tunnel over there. Looks like it descends to the bottom without too much climbing.”

The company made their way down, following the lead of the sure-footed dwarves. Eventually, the passageway gave way to a wall of rubble.

“Dakk!”

“Hold on, hold on,” Thorvlin said to the commander. “Get back, the lot of ya.”

As the company retreated, Thorvlin and Bautigan opened a pack and got to work. They surveyed the stones, placing charges in just the right spots. The humans and Sylvanon retreated further as they watched the giddy brothers rushing back their way.

THOOM!!!

The settling dust gave view to a large cavern.

“If there are any Vardians about, they know we’re here,” Steen said.

Kalzoum raised his axe. “And we’ll be ready for them.”

Stones tumbled down from above as the company made their way toward the opening. The human commander held up his arm, signaling for the group to halt.

“Just some stone left over from the blast,” Bautigan said. “No worries.”

More stones fell as they neared the cavern.

“What about that?” Steen said.

Thorvlin reached down and felt the ground.

“No, that’s something different.”

He pushed his way past the rest of the company.

Andaleein Alzomar looked concerned. “Vardians?”

Thorvlin examined the edges of the opening.

“Don’t know.”

Going back to the ground with his hand wasn’t needed. Dust fell from the ceiling, and the ground shook. Thorvlin leaped to the side and shouted, “Drake!”

* * *

The Cavern

A gout of flame filled the tunnel, singeing those quick enough to make it to the sides. Those who didn’t perished in the blast. When the flames subsided, the dwarves were the first to rush in.

It became apparent to those who didn’t know him well how Kalzoum Axebiter got his name. He and the Forgefires worked at the drake’s legs in an effort to topple the beast.

Humans and Sylvanon fired on the creature from the mouth of the tunnel, retreating to safety only when the drake swelled and released another blast.

The massive beast turned its attention to the dwarves below, stomping and swinging its tail in desperation. Kalzoum and two others were caught in a swipe of its front leg—Thorvlin and Bautigan watched them sail across the room and smack into a wall.

“Kalzoum!”

With that, Thorvlin climbed up the drake’s rear leg and held tightly to its back. The company focused its fire on the beast’s lower body as the confident dwarf made his way to its shoulders. Halfway up its neck, the drake released another blast. Thorvlin lost his axe as the monstrosity lurched toward the tunnel entrance. Below, Bautigan continued working on one of its legs.

Thorvlin shouted, “Brother, my axe!”

The drake reared back on its hind legs as Thorvlin held firmly to the back of its head. It came down with all its might just as Bautigan grabbed his brother’s axe and hurled it skyward.

Thorvlin met the weapon as it made its way up and the drake continued its attempt to crush Bautigan. At the last moment, Thorvlin’s brother rolled out of the way. The momentum of the beast coming down made it easier for Thorvlin to steady his weapon and sink the blade into the drake’s head. It let loose with one final blast and fell silent.

Bautigan and Thorvlin were the first to reach their fallen squad leader. Kalzoum leaned against the wall with two others: all shaken, but not broken.

“Do you need aid?” Thorvlin said.

Kalzoum slowly stretched his back, working through a tinge of pain. “I can only speak for myself, but I will be fine.” The other dwarves grit their teeth and nodded in agreement.

As Thorvlin turned away to check on others, Steen approached and said, “It seems there is something to your belief that getting in close to a battle matters.”

“Ah, I can’t say it was all us,” he said. “Maybe you make a point about firing from afar.”

Thorvlin and Bautigan scoured the cavern for any sign of Malinor’s Hammer. The remains of creatures overcome by fumes at the upper drop to the cavern were scattered about the floor; some showing signs that the drake had its own steady supply of food from above, others seeming tossed about for amusement. They dug through piles of debris while the rest of the company tended to the wounded.

* * *

Malinor’s Hammer

On the far side of the cavern, beneath ages of dust and refuse, Thorvlin found more than he was looking for. The remains of Malinor were wrapped in an old space suit, a fragment of the mighty legend all dwarves held in their hearts. It was evident, however—that in his prime—Malinor was everything imagined. Few dwarves the Forgefire brothers ever met could fill such a bulky suit. Whether shoved aside by a descendant of Khurakmore or the ages didn’t matter—Thorvlin trembled as he gazed upon the legendary hero while reaching down and taking his hammer by its handle.

It was heavier than Thorvlin expected, requiring both hands to raise it against his chest. Its shaft was a wooden slat from a tharo tree from home. The head of Malinor’s Hammer was composed of meteoric iron. Etched into the sides was a bronze, isometric design Thorvlin had seen in books and carvings since childhood. A thick, bronze band wrapped around the center of the hammer’s cheek, secured to the head and throat with iron rivets. On each side’s face, inlaid with bronze, was the symbol of Galbolduhr. After marveling at the find, Thorvlin turned his attention back to the company.

“He should no longer lie here. My brother and I will carry him from this place.” He brought the hammer to Kalzoum. “I believe he would want you to protect this.”

Kalzoum took it in his hands, admiring the weapon’s heft. “Aye. Thank you.”

“We need to leave,” the human commander said. “If there is one drake, there may be more. And by now, we must assume the Vard know we are here.”

Bautigan strapped the remains of Malinor to his brother’s back, and the two followed the company back to the surface.

* * *

The Book of Roon – Part 4 – The Vard

With Malinor and the Forge Fire Hammer gone, we turned our attention to establishing the far stones and Malmora as a second dwarven outpost. Then, the Vard arrived.

It is still not known if they left a dying system as ours will one day become, or if it is their nature to take what they decide is theirs, but they came upon us like a storm. They enslaved our kind, forcing us to mine necessary resources as they prepared to take the system. Those who rose up were dispatched; there were no more legends among us to be found.

Were it not for the humans, the system would have been lost. We were content to hide away under mountains and in rock belts; the Sylvanon lost themselves in their forests. The humans built their cities and prepared for a war the rest of us didn’t see coming.

The Vard met their equals when they moved toward the system’s inner planets. They never made it past The Delve as the Sons and Daughters of Histrides came together to meet them. Some say it was only because killing all Vard would have been difficult that the humans gave them what territory they have today. It is only in knowing they are under constant scrutiny from Irrades that they have never fully regained their strength.

Still, while no treaty was ever signed, we do not infringe on their space. We left Malmora, the Far Stones, and Thara to them.

* * *

Above Ground

Once back in the open, the remaining humans took the lead. The Sylvanon took their place at the flanks and rear, while the dwarves and the injured moved along in the middle. They were halfway back to the shuttles when the Vard opened fire.

“We see you!”

Several humans and Sylvanon were hit before the mission commander shouted, “Shields!”

The company tightened ranks and dropped to the ground, firing in the direction of the attack. Thorvlin saw nothing.

“They’re cloaked!” Steen said as he dropped to the ground beside the Forgefire brothers.

Thorvlin’s force shield pulsed with each Vardian shot it stopped. He scanned the battlefield and slapped Steen on the shoulder.

“There!”

Steen shook his head. Thorvlin rolled to his side and lined his arm up with Steen’s field of view.

“See it, now?”

Steen nodded and took careful aim at the generator on the far side of the battlefield. It only took one shot from his plasma rifle to uncloak the Vard.

They came in three waves, firing on the company as they advanced—not caring about their fallen. As the company closed the ranks, the dwarves readied themselves.

“You’re about to see something wonderful,” Thorvlin said. He turned back to smile at Steen just in time to see his visor shatter from a Vardian shot.

“Steen!”

Thorvlin charged past the perimeter, spinning and ducking while dropping Vardians with his axe. A rage reserved only for rare moments such as this consumed him. He heard his brother behind him.

The two formed a tiny ball, back to back, savoring the battle. It didn’t matter that the Vard were taller than the Sylvanon and as stout as dwarves—the brothers worked together, taking down any Vardian foolish enough to get in their way. Their efforts were not enough to tip things in the company’s favor.

The Vard divided in an attempt to flank the company. The plan worked once they breached the Sylvanon’s ranks. It seemed like such a loss to come so far, only to fall so close to success.

A Vardian alarm sounded; Thorvlin braced for them to finish off his compatriots. Instead, the Vard stopped their attack and retreated quickly.

“What’s that about?” Bautigan said.

Thorvlin felt the quake in his bones before spotting the source of Vardian terror.

From a distant cavern opening, a drake dwarfing the one in the cavern rose from the ground. It spread its wings and took to the sky.

“Run!!!”

Thorvlin and Bautigan turned toward the shuttles and ran as fast as they could. The gargantuan drake made a run at the Sylvanon ranks, destroying their soldiers and shuttle in a single pass. Most of the humans didn’t survive the second attack.

Thorvlin watched the mammoth beast bank and begin its final run. He thought about Steen and wished, for once, he had a plasma rifle—not that it would do any good, but at least he’d go down fighting. Thorvlin watched the drake fill its lungs and advance. He reached back and touched Malinor’s remains for strength. Were the old stories wrong? Was this Khurakmore?

It didn’t matter—nothing did in the moment, except Thorvlin’s pride. For a rockbiter working The Delve, he did his people proud.

A screaming came from above, but it was not from the grandest of drakes. The defenses on Irrades had never been used against Malmora and the Vard, but a message was sent in defense of the remaining company. The drake vaporized as a beam scoured the ground and sky in front of Thorvlin and the others. Three charges rained down after that, seeming to do more damage than the rogue planet that demolished Monte Skalbruder.

* * *

The Voyage Home

Twenty-two days until arrival at Vondra

            Thorvlin spent most of the trip home in silence. There were no Hledatoml matches with Andaleein; no games of Ruuma with Steen and other new friends. Every corner of the HSC Criterion was a reminder that he was still here, while they were not.

            “You mustn’t let this rule you,” Kalzoum said over dinner one evening. “Hold them in your heart, but do not blame yourself. They were soldiers; they knew the risks. The sacrificed themselves so that all our people will live.”

            “I know,” Thorvlin said. “Still, it will take time. Perhaps one day I will take a trip outside the system, for Steen and the others—to see what they will not.”

            “You have plenty of time to decide,” Kalzoum said. “There are better days to come.”

* * *

The Great Forge

Throvlin stood on the bridge of the HBC Sol beside his brother and Kalzoum Axebiter. With the planet Izli behind them, it was just the ship and The Great Forge.

Several decks below, Malinor’s Hammer waited in a torpedo tube. Thorvlin and Bautigan had watched Kalzoum place it in a shell in preparation for its final mission.

“You hate to see it go,” Thorvlin said. “You hate to see a time come to an end.”

“As long as we are here to share our stories,” Kalzoum said, “nothing ever truly dies.”

“Still, it seems a shame to lose it.”

“It is what Malinor intended.”

On the bridge, Thorvlin and the other two dwarves were summoned to the main battle station. A human soldier activated the torpedo and pointed to Thorvlin. The ship’s captain said, “It only seems fitting to allow you the honor.”

With the press of a button, Thorvlin sent Malinor’s Hammer into the Great Forge, ensuring continued life to all the Sons and Daughters of Histrides.

* * *

On Galbolduhr

The burial of a dwarf is both a somber and joyous occasion. When the years are exhausted and one enters Final Sleep, the weight of their existence is given to time—but their memories belong to their people.

Thorvlin and Bautigan were given the honor of attending Malinor’s entombment. They watched as he was carried into his final resting chamber; they marveled at the armor that would protect his corporeal remains forever. When it was his turn to pass and stop at the tomb, Thorvlin bowed and whispered, “Thank you. For all you have given our people; for all you have given me. I vow before you today to honor your memory for all my tomorrows.”

Thorvlin and Bautigan ascended from the tomb, where torchlight gave way to the Great Forge glowing on the horizon. The day was almost done, but their time on Galbolduhr was not. Their time in the system was once more guaranteed.

Thorvlin felt the warm light on his face. Maybe it was all in his mind, but it seemed brighter than he’d ever seen it. He filled his lungs with the air of his home world and sang with his people in honor of Malinor.

[Quirky music fades in…]

Christopher Gronlund:

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks.

Theme music, as always, is by Ergo Phizmiz. As I mentioned up front, all music in this episode is courtesy of Martin Goldmann.

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

Next time, it’s another story with things rocky or stoney in the title. “The Song of Stones” is a tale told through time, about two people drawn to a particular location as they ponder turning points in their lives. It might end up my fifth story in a row with no swearing…

A quick thank you to William J Meyer for recently sharing a sound effect technique on his YouTube channel. I used it as the basis for the sound of the Vard. Check out bywilliamjmeyer.com—all one word—for more information about what he’s up to. If you want movies in your head, William has you covered. I’ll include a link to his site and YouTube channel in the show notes.

One last thing before wrapping up. I want to thank my wife, Cynthia Griffith—not only for voice effects in this episode, but for all her help with the show and Patreon. She’s always pitched in to help, but since starting my Patreon account, it’s been more like a partnership than her patiently listening to me or offering the occasional idea.

I used to collaborate with creative friends regularly, but don’t have opportunities to do so as much today. At times, what I do is lonely—and I’m fine with that because I enjoy solitude. But I must confess to having more fun with Not About Lumberjacks these last 6 months or so than I have since the beginning. No matter how ugly the world may get, this show is a refuge.

So, thanks to Cynthia, and thank you for listening. Time is a precious commodity, and it’s not lost on me how lucky I am to have a bit of yours.

[Quirky music fades out…]

[The sound of an axe chopping.]

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

[Listen]

[Intro music plays]

[Woman’s Voice]

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

[Music fades out]

Christopher Gronlund:

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

* * *

I am a man of many new years.

First comes that day each May when I mark another year of existence. I won’t go into great detail, here, but I spent most of my life depressed. Sometime in my early 40s, things got better and the worst of those thoughts are behind me. So, each May, no matter how busy life might be, I take the day off on my birthday to celebrate being here.

New Year number two:
Despite living in Texas, where it’s usually still well into the hundreds when the calendar turns to September 1, I view that day as the beginning of my writing new year.

I was born in Chicago and raised north of the city. September did mean returning to school, but it also meant I’d soon be surrounded by my favorite season. Even as a kid, life seemed more reflective in the fall. I loved the colors, the weather, and knowing quieter days were ahead.

These days, September is like a starting gun—weather be damned! I see “September 1st” on the calendar and my mind turns even more toward writing (or at least being more reflective, which never hurts a story).

My third new year is in November, when I release the annual Not About Lumberjacks story totally not about lumberjacks! While September and October were my favorite months when I lived up north, November and December are my favorite months in Texas. Taking a moment each November to remind myself, “You wanted to get back to writing short stories, and you did,” is never lost on me. Starting this show in 2015 is one of the best creative moves I’ve ever made.

That Not About Lumberjacks is a part of some people’s lives matters to me more than many things that probably should matter to me even more.

I celebrate what I have with this show each November, when I release the anniversary episodes.

Of course, there’s also the new calendar year. That new year means a little break with Not About Lumberjacks, even though I’m usually doing something behind the scenes. But after back-to-back releases in November and December, it’s nice returning to a slower schedule.

While November is the “new year” for the show, the calendar new year is the new year in my planning. Once November’s never about lumberjacks story and December’s Christmas episode are released, I’m back to writing without regard to themes. Anything I want to write is within reach.

And there’s one more new year I should mention: July 3^rd. I’ve been with my wife, Cynthia, for over 30 years. We’d both confess there are times sharing a life and tight quarters with another creative person can be tough (we both go through periods of wanting to be left alone to the things we do), but I’m lucky to share my life with an artist who understands there are times you rush to getting an idea down when it arrives, no matter what’s going on. [And really, as we’ve gotten older and not viewed our creative endeavors as an everything-or-nothing pursuit, we just have fun making things we don’t have to create, but do because we enjoy it.])

* * *

I’m writing this the day after Christmas. I stayed up reading last night as the fire in the fireplace died out, and then woke up early. I opened my list of story ideas to see what seems to demand the most attention. It’s down to three things: a sci-fi story (which would be the first sci-fi story I’ve ever written). It’s a story I know gets Cynthia’s vote.

Next: a story about the secrets of a small town (probably in Italy) being revealed to all…and the fallout from that. And then a story about a rough-and-tumble creative muse…and the writer who wants a replacement.

Of course, I have other story ideas to choose from…and this excludes the new story ideas I’ll likely come up with the rest of this month and into the new year. So, February could see something not even I knew about.

* * *

The thing about all the “new years” I celebrate is acknowledging the constants in my life. On May 26 each year I get older…but I’ve grown older just in the time putting this commentary together. Every second to some is loss—for others, it’s wisdom gained, new adventures, or seeing the patterns in life that make one happy.

July is a reminder that I share my life with someone who knows me better than anyone else ever will. (And someone who has helped keep this show going behind the scenes, despite her own creative pursuits.)

September is the annual reminder that, since childhood, I’ve always written. I may have wanted to be an artist before anything…and along the way I entertained becoming a wildlife biologist or a professional juggler, but I have always loved the stillness that comes with working through thoughts, getting them down in some tangible way, and leaving behind a glimpse of how I view the world.

November’s new year is a reminder that I made a decision to get back to writing short fiction—and the way I knew I’d do it regularly is putting it out there for others. It’s a simple moment in the seconds of my life when I add a new year to the Quick List of stories on the Not About Lumberjacks website, but it always feels so big to me.

And, of course, there’s seeing the constants that come with each calendar year. I might look back and think, “I wish I had done this or that last year…” but I choose to acknowledge the things I did do.

I would have loved moving more miles on my feet last year, but it was the first full year in a newish job. Despite that, some of the miles I did put in on my feet (and in a canoe) were in warmer weather that usually wrecks me. I could choose to berate myself for not moving as much as I liked, or…I can look at progress made in weather I hate that encourages me to maybe not hate the sun as much in 2023!

* * *

There’s a scene in the movie, City Slickers, in which Billy Crystal’s character is talking to Curly, the grizzled old cowboy played by Jack Palance. They ride along on horses as Crystal’s character tries finding out what makes Curly tick.

They stop, and Curly says, “Do you know what the secret of life is?”

Crystal’s character doesn’t know.

Curly holds up a single finger. “This. One thing. Just one thing. You stick to that and everything else don’t mean shit.”

Crystal’s character says, “That’s great, but what’s the one thing?”

Curly replies: “That’s what you gotta figure out.”

Obviously, most of us live for more than one thing, but it’s a good thought exercise. While I live for many things, I suppose my one thing is being as true to myself as I can be in a world that doesn’t always make that easy.

I’d love to write fiction full time, but that’s not my reality. Obviously, I work toward it becoming a reality with each new story I release, but it’s possible to work harder and smarter than most people and still not see one’s biggest dreams come true. But by acknowledging all these little “new years” I celebrate in each calendar year, the things that mean the most to me never fully slip my mind.

* * *

Working in corporate America, I’ve worked for decades with people who work during their time off. They work weekends. They are always busy, and each turn of a calendar year, they resolve to change everything.

But that’s not how it works.

In the end, the two biggest regrets people have at the ends of  their lives are:

• I wish I had been more true to myself and not lived my life by the demands of others.

And…

• I wish I hadn’t worked so much.

It might seem strange to some that I acknowledge so many little new years each 365 days, but seeing the things that make me happiest (or feeling fulfilled) as constants in my life ensure those are the things I fight for. Granted, it’s usually easier said than done, and many of us are bound by certain realities that don’t always make that possible.

As Anders says near the end of this year’s Christmas episode, “We all trade for something.”

* * *

A more [supposedly] rational person might look at Not About Lumberjacks and say, “You spend 40-60 hours on each episode, and until this past year, you’ve done it for free. Even now, you don’t make much money for your efforts.”

I’d be lying if I said there have not been times in my life I wished I were wired to just give myself to a job and reap the rewards of perceived security, but that’s not being true to myself.

In the rush of life, the things I’ve traded for might leave me thinking, “Ya know…this is a foolish endeavor, and my time would probably be better spent pursuing things more likely to ‘succeed.’”

But I see Not About Lumberjacks—and other things I do in life—as successful. They are constants that bring me happiness in a world that makes me sad. They might not be Curly’s “One Thing,” but if I trace back why the constants in my life are important, it leads back to something at least resembling a single thing.

* * *

It’s natural to get a bit reflective at the close of one year and the opening of another. It’s natural to say, “Next year, I will do all these things!”

I’m no different than anyone else in that regard.

But by stopping along the way in the year to appreciate little accomplishments—not waiting until the very end—I regularly pause and reflect upon the things that matter most to me.

At the time of writing this, the latest Christmas episode has passed the 50 listens mark I shoot for in a story’s first week. It made it, I believe, faster than any other story I’ve released.

Not great numbers for a podcast…especially one that requires so much time and effort.

But this show is a constant in my life I can depend on more than many other things. It makes me happy.

That it makes others happy is not something I take lightly, and I hope the stories I write, record, and share in 2023 somehow make your life a bit brighter.

Thank you for caring about what I write…and…

* * *

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

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

I mentioned not knowing what story February will bring. Like I said, I wrote this commentary the day after Christmas and I’m recording it on New Year’s Eve Day. So, I now know what story I’ll share in a couple months; in fact, I’ve had a bit of time off to even get it started.

“Rock Biters,” is the first science-fiction story I’ve ever written. It’s about dwarves in a mining colony…in space. I’m having a blast with it, and can’t wait to share it in February.

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

But first, the usual content advisory…

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

All right, let’s get to work!

* * *

When Anders Came Home for Christmas

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

“What are you doing here?”

“It’s Christmas Eve,” Anders said.

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

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

“I wanna say I’m sorry.”

“You’re forgiven. Now: leave.”

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

“Do I hear Anders?”

“Yep!” Oliver said.

“Let him in.”

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

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

SMACK!!!

Anders ran his fingertips across his stinging face.

“What’s that for?” he said.

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

“I didn’t take any money, Mom.”

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

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

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

“How would you remember?”

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

“Are you sick?” his mother said.

“What? No. I just thought…”

“Thought what?”

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

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

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

“Sure, Mom…”

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

“Your brother’s wife.”

“Ah. Nice to meet you…”

* * *

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

“Two years ago.”

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

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

“What about the other two?”

“Cousin Ronnie’s kids.”

“Where is he?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m Anders. Oliver’s brother.”

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

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

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

“Sure. About what?”

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

* * *

Santa’s Sad Helper

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The end.

* * *

“So, how was that?” Anders said.

Oliver’s step daughter said, “Terrible!”

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

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

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

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

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

Anders said, “I just did.”

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

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

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

* * *

The Nutcracker and the Elf

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

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

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

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

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

“Mommy, these walnuts taste funny!”

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

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

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

Up on the shelf, the elf surveyed the chaos.

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

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

It was shocked when the Nutcracker stamped it out.

“Enough!”

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

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

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

“What do you have to say for yourself?”

“I’m just doing my job, old man.”

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

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

“There are better traditions.”

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

“You exist to destroy?”

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

“What about framing Noah and Fifi?”

“Hey, sometimes I am just an asshole.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Nutcracker stood in silence.

“Hey, buddy, you okay?” the Elf said.

Nothing.

“Pal…?”

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

“Sure, anything…”

“Can you move that?”

“Move what?” the Elf said.

“Move deez nuts!”

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

“Like you and Daddy?”

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

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

The rest of the family looked up.

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

“Something without drinking or fighting.”

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

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

“It is, it is. Hear me out…”

* * *

The Red Thief

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you…” He stretched out the expression.

“Erin. My name is Erin.”

“Thank you, Erin. I’m called Dylan.”

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

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

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

He settled into the chair beside the fire.

“This is a comfortable spot.”

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

“I understand why. When did he pass?”

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

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

“I’m sorry,” Erin said.

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

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

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

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

“At least let me find you some gloves?”

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

“Thank you.”

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

On the edge of the light stood a red fox.

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

The fox stood its ground.

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

“What plan is that?”

“Bringing two old people together on Christmas Eve.”

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

“And to you.”

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

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

* * *

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

She smiled and nodded so hard, her body shook.

“Good…good. I’m glad you liked it.”

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

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

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

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

* * *

Trollson

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

* * *

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

Anders nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” she said.

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

“What?!”

“The divorce with Carrie hit hard…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, stay,” Oliver said.

“You sure?”

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

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

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

“Look at that, it’s snowing.”

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

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

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

“Is Sovandeberg a real place?”

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

“What’s it like…”

“It’s a great country—”

“No, what’s traveling everywhere like?”

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

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

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

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

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

“That would be great.”

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

“Me, too.”

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

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

* * *

[Quirky music fades in…]

Christopher Gronlund:

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks.

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

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

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

But I’m sure looking forward to it.

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

[Quirky music fades out…]

[The sound of an axe chopping.]

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

[Listen]

[Intro music plays]

[Woman’s Voice]

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

[Music fades out]

Christopher Gronlund:

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

* * *

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

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

So, I gave it some thought…

* * *

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

* * *

Back to “Tin-Hearted Man…”

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

But…the pain is still there.

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

[Listen]

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

Christopher Gronlund:

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

My name is Christopher Gronlund, and this is where I share my stories. Sometimes the

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

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

But first, the usual content advisory…

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

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

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

All right, let’s get to work!

* * *

Prologue

1968

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

Maybe share a story. I’ll start.”

He took a deep breath and then smiled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He never answered me…”

* * *

1939 – 1948

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

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

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

“Are you crying?” he said.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I’m scared.”

“Of what?”

“The flying monkeys.”

“What flying monkeys?”

“From the Wizard of Oz.”

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

“What are you doing here?”

“Visiting Mom.”

“What’s that on your arm?”

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

“Why’d you get that?”

“I like it,” Nick said.

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

Nick stopped talking.

“Did you hear me?” his father said.

Something in the pit of Nick’s stomach burned.

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

1948 – 1951

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

* * *

1951 – 1963

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

In the Territory of Alaska, he found Nanook.

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

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

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

Three months later, Nanook was gone.

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

André Benoit was the next to speak.

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

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

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

* * *

1965

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

Michel DeCoeur closed out the ceremony.

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

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

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

* * *

Epilogue

1975

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

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

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

* * *

[Quirky music fades in…]

Christopher Gronlund:

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks.

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

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

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

[Quirky music fades out…]

[The sound of an axe chopping.]

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