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[Sound of an ax chopping wood. Quirky music fades in…]
Christopher Gronlund:
I want to make one thing perfectly clear: this show is not about lumberjacks…
My name is Christopher Gronlund, and this is where I share my stories. Sometimes the stories contain truths, but most of the time, they’re made up. Sometimes the stories are funny—other times they’re serious. But you have my word about one thing: I will never—EVER—share a story about lumberjacks.
This time, it’s the annual Christmas episode. Find out what happens when an estranged family member returns home on Christmas Eve.
But first, the usual content advisory…
“When Anders Came Home for Christmas” deals with family drama, cartoon violence, crude humor, monsters, loss of loved ones, and alcohol consumption. Unless you consider “asshole” swearing, this is the third story in a row without rougher language. I’m sure I’ll remedy that in 2023!
All right, let’s get to work!
* * *
When Anders Came Home for Christmas
The children were practically feral in anticipation of opening Christmas gifts when the doorbell rang. Oliver Sandberg opened the front door and was stunned to see his brother, Anders.
“What are you doing here?”
“It’s Christmas Eve,” Anders said.
“Yeah. That’s what I mean. What are you doing here?”
Before Anders could answer, Oliver said, “Why, I mean? Why are you here is the real question?”
“I wanna say I’m sorry.”
“You’re forgiven. Now: leave.”
Oliver was closing the door when his mother called from the dining room.
“Do I hear Anders?”
“Yep!” Oliver said.
“Let him in.”
Oliver stepped back and let his younger brother enter his home.
Emma Sandberg, the matriarch of the family, sat at the head of a long table strewn with the remnants of a Christmas feast. The adults in her company found just enough room in their bellies for a bit of coffee or a tipple of brandy. Anders slowly walked past aunts, uncles, cousins, and old family friends. A pretty blond woman he’d never seen before caught his attention as he passed. He smiled at her and then leaned in to kiss his mother on the cheek.
SMACK!!!
Anders ran his fingertips across his stinging face.
“What’s that for?” he said.
“That’s for taking $500 from my nightstand before you left four Christmases ago.”
“I didn’t take any money, Mom.”
Emma leaned forward and grabbed a long, metal serving spoon from an empty plate. She wielded it like a club.
“Don’t you lie to me, Anders Sandberg! You’re not so old that I can’t put you over my knee!”
“I’m not lying. Look, I’m sorry about that night, but I swear I didn’t take any money.”
“How would you remember?”
“I…” Anders shook his head. “I’m sorry. That’s why I came here tonight. To apologize.”
“Are you sick?” his mother said.
“What? No. I just thought…”
“Thought what?”
“I don’t know,” Anders said. “I guess I thought you’d all be happier to see me.”
From the living room, the children sounded like a pack of wolves, yipping and howling and circling the Christmas tree as though it were a fallen elk. Anders’s mother looked at him.
“Can you go calm them down? If nothing else, you’ve always had a way with kids.”
“Sure, Mom…”
As he passed the pretty blond, he extended his hand and said, “Hi, I’m Anders Sandberg. You are?”
“Your brother’s wife.”
“Ah. Nice to meet you…”
* * *
In the living room, Anders asked Oliver, “When did you get married?”
“Two years ago.”
Anders gestured to the room full of kids. “Any of those hers?”
Oliver pointed to twin boys about nine years old, and a girl who looked a year younger. “Those three.”
“What about the other two?”
“Cousin Ronnie’s kids.”
“Where is he?”
“In the basement,” Oliver said. “Probably playing video games with the older kids.”
“Gotcha. Well, Mom wants to keep these five occupied, so what do you want to do?”
“What do you mean, ‘We?’ I’m going back to the table to finish my drink. And I’ll be listening out, so nothing funny, okay?”
After Oliver left, Anders went to the center of the living room and sat on the floor. The kids stopped barking and turned their attention to the tiny giant of a man before them.
“Hey, you all,” Anders said. “Your parents are finishing up dinner. Why don’t we keep it down a little bit for them? We can still have fun, but let’s not be so loud, okay?”
Several of the kids nodded their heads. One of the twin boys said, “Who are you?”
“I’m Anders. Oliver’s brother.”
The other twin said, “Does that make you our uncle?”
“Yeah, I guess I am. Uncle Anders. So, what would you all like to do?”
“Tell us a story,” the twins’ sister said.
“Sure. About what?”
A kid with a missing front tooth replied. “Tell us a story about Santa Claus!”
* * *
Santa’s Sad Helper
Once upon a time, there was a Santa’s helper. He was a good Santa’s helper, even though he sometimes drank a bit more than he should have—but you would have, too, if you grew up in his family.
Anyway, he never thought he’d be a Santa’s helper, but when the factory where he worked shut down between Thanksgiving and Christmas, he needed money for presents. Ya see, his brother was always the good one—cool and successful—while he was a total fuh— uhm…disappointment. To show up on Christmas Eve without gifts was to live up to his family’s expectations about him, and his ego had already taken a hit with the one job he was good at shutting down.
So, this Santa’s helper went from floor foreman to answering a Craigslist ad to make a bit of money before Christmas.
He thought it would be an easy gig, sitting in a mall and listening to children’s Christmas wishes, but he ended up standing in front of newly opened donut shops and gas stations, waving at passing cars. He got into it with his boss when she told him to go to a restaurant opening one day, but the restaurant was closed and still under construction inside. (The crew putting in drywall sure were confused when jolly old Saint Nick stolled in). Turns out, his boss got her schedule wrong and sent him to the restaurant when he should have been at a kid’s party. But…it was a job. Only problem: when it came time to get paid, the person booking his appearances took the money and ran.
And so, this sad Santa’s helper showed up at his brother’s nice house on Christmas Eve. Maybe he was a little drunk and still in his Santa costume…and maybe he made a scene when everyone in his family ridiculed him for showing up without gifts. Never mind he was hurting—he could never please his family.
Sad Santa’s Helper had enough. He’d drank just enough Old Grandad to loosen his lips. He started with his brother’s wife at the time, knowing she was cheating behind his back with a coworker. He spilled that secret. Then he told his brother how he always tried getting his approval, and was probably more a failure in life because he never got support from his family like others did. Maybe he crossed the line when he told his mom their father left when they were kids because she was an overbearing bully, but it sure felt good.
He stormed off into the night, the only words between them a couple days later when his mother called to accuse him of stealing $500 he didn’t take.
But the story of Sad Santa’s Helper has a happy ending…
After losing his house, he hit the road. He worked odd jobs and traveled the world on the cheap. In Milan, he bought a camera and began filming his adventures. He started a YouTube channel, a podcast, and has a book coming out next year. He landed some juicy brand deals. He’s having fun and doing well for himself. And, or some goofy reason, he still wishes he got along with his family.
The end.
* * *
“So, how was that?” Anders said.
Oliver’s step daughter said, “Terrible!”
“Yeah,” Anders said, “I suppose it was…”
“Is Santa Claus real? My brothers said he’s not.”
“Sure, he’s real,” Anders said. He waved his hands at the decorated room and Christmas tree and said, “Do you think we’d have all this if he wasn’t real?”
Anders looked at the twin boys. “I even hear Santa Claus has a tough brother named Not Santa who takes care of all the naughty kids who don’t believe. Got it?”
The twins nodded, and a kid in a reindeer sweater said, “Tell us an actual Christmas story.”
Anders said, “I just did.”
“That was just a story about a drunk Santa. We want a better story.”
Anders looked toward the dining room, hoping the group at the table was wrapping up. But drinks were still being poured, and conversation wasn’t ending. Glancing around the living room, Anders spotted something on the fireplace mantel that gave him an idea.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ve got one for ya…”
* * *
The Nutcracker and the Elf
The Nutcracker sat among broken ornaments at the bottom of the big storage box, while the elf went up on the shelf. Each day, the elf was moved to a new spot; each day, the elf reminded the Palmer children they better behave.
“Remember, kids,” Mr. Palmer said. “The elf returns to the North Pole each night and tells Santa Claus if you’ve been good or bad…”
What the Palmers didn’t know is that the elf moved on its own.
At night it got into the refrigerator and drank Mr. Palmer’s beer. Why would anyone suspect the elf when the Palmer’s teenage son, Noah, was the logical suspect? The elf laughed when Noah was told he’d be grounded for all of his holiday break from school for something he didn’t do.
Another evening, while the Palmers gathered as a family to watch Christmas movies, little Susie Palmer spit out her snack.
“Mommy, these walnuts taste funny!”
Mrs. Palmer inspected the bowl of nuts on the coffee table. She noticed liquid at the bottom of the bowl and sniffed.
“Oh my God, Fifi peed in the nut bowl!”
Susie wretched so hard that she threw up on the carpet. Fifi, the family’s toy poodle, rushed in for a taste, and Susie covered the small dog in another round of vomit.
Up on the shelf, the elf surveyed the chaos.
Closer to Christmas, the elf began breaking things. It started with Mr. Palmer’s golf clubs and then Mrs. Palmer’s hand mixer. The XBox was next to go. Mr. Palmer decided to install surveillance cameras to see who was damaging things, but the elf broke those, too.
On Christmas Eve, after the Palmers had all gone to sleep, the Elf fished a hot ember from the fireplace with a metal poker and placed it on the carpet.
It was shocked when the Nutcracker stamped it out.
“Enough!”
The Elf responded with a reflexive punch, but the old knight caught it in its mouth. It slowly bit down, causing the elf to yelp and try to squirm free.
“Quit it, ya nut-gobbler! I’ll behave! I’ll behave!”
The Nutcracker opened its mouth, and the elf rubbed its injured hand.
“What do you have to say for yourself?”
“I’m just doing my job, old man.”
“Old man? I may have roots going back hundreds of years, but I am younger than the Dame of the Household, who has had me since her childhood. You are a marketing ploy not even old enough to graduate secondary school—a bratty teenager created to urge consumption and control children.”
“What’s wrong with that?” the elf said.
“There are better traditions.”
“Oh, you’re gonna pull that whole tradition BS, huh? What did that get you? Forgotten in a box with other old things? Tradition’s terrible for the economy, Nut-Man. Things need to break and be purchased again—that’s where I come in.”
“You exist to destroy?”
“That’s a bit dramatic,” the elf said. “Mr. Palmer’s wanted new golf clubs for a while. Mrs. Palmer’s wanted a Vitamix for years. The kids want a Playstation. I’m only giving them what they want.”
“What about framing Noah and Fifi?”
“Hey, sometimes I am just an asshole.”
“You are worse than that,” the Nutcracker said. “You were about to burn down the house.”
“Don’t get your nuts in a bundle—I was gonna wake them up. Just thought about the piles of new things they’d have to buy if all this went up in flames. It’s insured, and because it’s the holidays, they’d get a lot of pity money, too. They’d miss it all at first, but they’d end up with so much new and much better stuff!”
“What about their memories? What about the things that cannot replaced?”
“Hate to break it to you, but look around. These days, it’s all about stuff. Mr. and Mrs. Palmer work at least 60 hours a week—usually more. When they do take a vacation, they work from their phones. The kids are too busy making videos for TikTok and YouTube instead of making memories. Even when they all get together to watch a movie, they ignore it…and each other. Little Susie will be no different than the rest of them in a couple years.
“Stuff gives their lives meaning. At the very least, it numbs their pain.”
“I cannot dispute that,” the Nutcracker said. “But I must try and do my best.”
“You do realize your best is not enough anymore, right? It won’t do. You’re a thing of the past.”
The Nutcracker stood in silence.
“Hey, buddy, you okay?” the Elf said.
Nothing.
“Pal…?”
The Nutcracker eventually met the Elf’s gaze and said, “I am afraid you might be right. Maybe my time is done. I have one favor to ask you before I return to my box.”
“Sure, anything…”
“Can you move that?”
“Move what?” the Elf said.
“Move deez nuts!”
With that, the Nutcracker drew its sword from its hip and ran the Elf through. He swung the Elf overhead and tossed him into the remains of the fire. All it took was a puff of breath for the flames to take hold. The Nutcracker warmed his hands by the glow of the Elf.
* * *
On Christmas morning, when the Palmers came downstairs to unwrap presents, Mrs. Palmer noticed the Nutcracker standing guard on the hearth.
“Did any of you put the Nutcracker there?” she said. But her family was already looking at their phones.
Little Susie Palmer said, “What is that, Mommy?”
“It’s a nutcracker. Your grandpa got it for me on a business trip to Germany when I was about your age. I used to make it talk and pretend it was your grandpa because he was always away working.”
“Like you and Daddy?”
Mrs. Palmer picked up the nutcracker and looked at her family.
“Hey, everybody, I have an idea. Hey!”
The rest of the family looked up.
“I think it would be nice to go the day without looking at our phones. This morning at least. Enjoy each other’s company without interruptions for once…maybe even make a few memories…”
* * *
Anders looked at the five children and said, “How was that one? Better?”
The twins shouted, “Yeah!” but their sister didn’t seem as impressed.
“Did you not like it?” Anders said to her and the others who weren’t convinced.
“It was a fun story,” she said. “But I want a nice Christmas story.”
“What do you mean by ‘nice?’” Anders said. “That can mean lots of things.”
“Something without drinking or fighting.”
“No drinking or fighting—got it.” Anders looked at the Christmas tree and spotted a fox ornament. “All right, I’ve got an idea. This is the story of the red thief.”
“I thought you said this was going to be a good story?” she said.
“It is, it is. Hear me out…”
* * *
The Red Thief
Dylan spent Christmas Eve day day in his garden, mucking about as much as his old bones allowed. He’d already covered his beds with manure and straw in preparation for winter; this final cleanup served more to keep him busy than accomplishing anything practical. He removed his muddy boots outside his back door and retreated into the warmth of his home. After a snack and a spot of tea, he stepped outside to clean them, but his boots were nowhere to be seen. In their place was a hand-knitted scarf.
In recent days, things had gone missing: a pair of gloves, a dish full of birdseed, and a trowel. Dylan picked up the scarf, admiring the pattern and texture. Despite the rapidly declining temperature, it felt warm in his hands. The day’s on and off snow covered his property in a fine dusting of white. That’s when he noticed footprints.
Dylan went back inside to bundle up. He put on his walking shoes, coat, hat, and wrapped the scarf around his neck. His pockets would have to keep his hands warm. He grabbed a Welsh cake on the way out and followed the prints into the hills.
He used to love walks in the hills with Annie, the two of them rambling for hours, lost in conversation and the countryside. Once, they walked so far after a hearty lunch that the darkness falling on the end of the day took them by surprise. They secured a room in an inn, enjoying the company of strangers and a warm meal before sleeping better than they ever had before.
Now, the hills were full of memories Dylan avoided as much as the trails and lanes cutting through the land. The darkness didn’t take him by surprise—he let it close in around him. The snow fell harder, burying the tracks and making his walk difficult. He didn’t mind—let the night take me for all I care! But Annie wouldn’t like that, so he pressed on until spotting a distant light.
The house was small, like his—another old homestead hidden in the hills. He’d soon return home, but first, he needed to warm his feet. He figured no one would turn away a stranger in the snow on Christmas Eve. He stepped to the front door and knocked.
An older woman, roughly his age, answered the door. Before he could say anything, she said, “My scarf!”
Dylan unwrapped it from his neck and said, “This is yours?”
“Yes,” the woman said. “I was out back the other day and got a bit warm, so I took it off. And then it was gone.”
“I think I know what happened,” he said.
“Do come in before you tell me. It’s warm in here, and you must be freezing.”
The cold drained from Dylan’s body. The glow of a fire and candles melted away all his stresses.
“Please, sit,” the woman said while pointing to a chair by the fire. “Can I get you anything? Some tea…cider?”
“Whatever’s easiest for you,” he said.
The woman shuffled off to the kitchen and returned with a steaming teacup.
“Thank you…” He stretched out the expression.
“Erin. My name is Erin.”
“Thank you, Erin. I’m called Dylan.”
She took a seat on her couch and said, “How did you come by my scarf?”
“I was working in my garden earlier today. I took off my boots, and when I went back to clean them, they were gone. In their place was the scarf. I’ve had some things go missing, lately—little things, like gloves. I saw fox tracks and followed them. And now I’m here.”
Erin rose from the couch and wandered off. Dylan wasn’t sure if he should follow her or not. She returned with his boots.
“They were at my door. I cleaned them up, figuring someone might be looking for them. A fox, you say?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve had little things go missing, too…”
They chatted over the cup of tea, and then another. Erin insisted Dylan eat a plate of turkey, roast potatoes, and parsnips—even though she had already eaten. After dinner, Dylan said, “I’ll have that cider if you don’t mind?”
He settled into the chair beside the fire.
“This is a comfortable spot.”
“My husband, Iwan, loved it. Said it was his favorite place to be.”
“I understand why. When did he pass?”
“Four years ago. What about you—I see you’re married?”
Dylan rocked the ring on his finger with his thumb and said, “I still wear this. My Annie is six years gone.”
“I’m sorry,” Erin said.
“No need. Seems we’ve both lost more than just scarves and boots.”
When Dylan finished the cider, he stretched and said, “I should head home. It looks like there’s a break in the storm.”
Erin stood up and said, “I can send you on your way with some food if you’d like?”
After pulling on his coat, Dylan said, “I have a Welsh cake to get me home, and a pot of cawl at home.”
“At least let me find you some gloves?”
Dylan nodded. He put his boots on as Erin rummaged through a closet. “Here you go. I’m sure Iwan would be happy to see them used again.”
“Thank you.”
When Erin opened the front door, she peered into the yard and said, “Well, would you look at that.”
On the edge of the light stood a red fox.
Dylan pointed to his feet and said, “Look what I found.”
The fox stood its ground.
Erin laughed and said, “The way it’s watching us, it almost seems like it’s checking to see if its plan worked.”
“What plan is that?”
“Bringing two old people together on Christmas Eve.”
“It hurts nothing for us to believe that,” Dylan said. “At least tonight. Thank you for everything, Erin. Happy Christmas.”
“And to you.”
As he stepped into the night, the fox trotted ahead, back toward the direction of Dylan’s home. Just before the evening’s darkness consumed them, Erin said, “You should come again for tea sometime. Perhaps New Year’s Eve?”
Dylan stepped back into the light and said, “That sounds lovely.” And then he followed the red thief’s tracks into the hills.
* * *
Anders looked at his brand-new-to-him step niece and said, “Was that a good enough Christmas story for you?”
She smiled and nodded so hard, her body shook.
“Good…good. I’m glad you liked it.”
In the dining room, Anders heard plates and mugs and glasses being gathered. His new sister-in-law said, “I’ll go rouse the basement crew…might take a bit to tear them away from what they’re doing.”
Anders waited, hoping they’d all come into the living room. But when he heard the noise of dishes being washed in the kitchen, he knew he was still stuck with the kids.
“All right,” he said. “I think we have time for one more story. This is one my grandma used to tell us…”
He was pleased to see he had the room’s undivided attention.
* * *
Trollson
Nobody knows when, how, or why, but a strange child was found wandering the streets of Sovandeberg long ago. The child had wild, course hair, dirty sharp teeth, and pointed ears. He stomped instead of walked, shaking the ground with each footfall. When the townsfolk gathered to see the young visitor, one of the elders said, “That is no child—that is a troll.”
Anyplace else, and the troll child wouldn’t have stood a chance, for trolls are wicked, terrible things. But the village of Sovandeberg was known for its kindness to all. And so, they named the visitor Trollson and cared for him like any other.
Before long, Trollson grew taller than anyone in the village. Not long after that, he was as large as a small house. Still, Trollson gently played with the other children in the village and helped out where he could.
When he outgrew the barn where he slept, the villagers discussed building him a bigger place. Knowing he’d soon outgrow that, Trollson told them he would be content sleeping alone on the outskirts of town. When he grew so large that he could no longer walk among the streets without fear of breaking the stone road beneath his feet or possibly crushing a house, the villagers visited him. In the summer, the children scaled his rocky frame; in the winter, they went sledding down his back. But it takes a long time for a hill to become a mountain—Trollson told his friends it was time to head farther east and sleep. They still visited him, of course, but it was a long journey to reach the sleeping giant.
In time, generations only knew Trollson through stories, most assuming the tales were little more than legends. Eventually, Trollson’s story was forgotten entirely.
* * *
Centuries later, Ancient Trolls thundered down from the Northlands, destroying villages and reshaping the land where they trod. They toppled hills and crushed forests for pleasure, leaving chaos and suffering in their wake. On Christmas Eve, they turned toward the village of Sovandeberg.
The ground rumbled as though the earth were about to open up and swallow the village whole. Cries went up from the watchman: “Trolls!!!” The legends had come to life.
The horizon rose up like a stone wave so tall, it blocked the light of the full moon at its apex. Fleeing would be futile—everything before the rushing trolls would soon be consumed by the charge. Some villagers resigned themselves to their impending end while others prayed. Then from the east, there arose such a clatter.
Trollson Mountain ripped itself free from its foundation and stood tall. It was hard to keep one’s footing as the mountain charged across the flatlands and met the invading army to the north. The battle lasted through the night, a noise so loud that some said they never stopped hearing it. Trollson ground the Ancient Ones to rubble—new hills formed where parts of them landed and settled. But Trollson was not left unscathed. By the light of the moon, he fell to his knees, splitting the land where later, rivers and lakes formed beside him. He settled his ancient frame against the ground and returned to his slumber.
* * *
Family comes in all shapes and sizes. While Trollson’s story was forgotten for hundreds of years, he was—and will always be—considered family by the residents of Sovandeberg. In fact, each Christmas Eve, even today, the villagers gather on top of the sleeping mountain and ski down their old friend by torchlight, singing his name and sharing this story so he is never forgotten again…
* * *
Oliver stood in the doorway between the two rooms. “Mormor used to tell us that story on Christmas Eve, didn’t she?”
Anders nodded.
“I forgot about it,” Oliver said. “We loved it so much when we were kids, but I forgot about it. You do know when I called you Trollson when we were kids that it was meant as a compliment? I was so jealous that my little brother was bigger than me.”
“Yeah, I know. We used to like each other.” Anders said. “At least sorta…”
“I don’t…” Oliver’s words trailed off when the rest of the family entered the room.
Anders grunted and creaked as he got up from the floor. He shook his legs out, teetering to one and then the other as the blood returned. “I should probably get going. Let you all open presents.”
As he made his way to the front door, Oliver turned to his mother. “I took the money.”
“What?” she said.
“Four years ago. The five-hundred dollars in your nightstand? I took it—not Anders.”
“What?!”
“The divorce with Carrie hit hard…”
“You let me think it was Anders all these years when it was you? You’re lucky I put up that serving spoon—I can’t believe this!”
“It’s okay, Mom,” Anders said while turning back from the door. “I’d have blamed me, too.”
He fished five 100-dollar bills from his pocket and approached his mother. “Here. I was gonna sneak up and put the bills under the drawer in your nightstand. Wait until the right moment and make a scene and go look. Rip the whole thing out and say, ‘See? There’s the money you said I took!’”
“You were going to let your brother get away with it?” she said.
“Until now, I didn’t know it was him. I’ve done enough bad things in my life that it all evens out. So take it.”
Oliver held his hand up. “No, I’ll pay it back. I don’t know why I never did. I’m not hurting for anything anymore. I’m sorry. Truly.”
“We’re good,” Anders said. He looked at the five kids still sitting on the floor. “Well, looks like it’s your lucky night, ya wee grunions. There’re five of you and I have five 100-dollar bills. One for each of ya.”
They snapped them up like tiny crabs before their parents could protest.
“All right,” Anders said. “I’m gonna head out and let you all get to your presents.”
“No, stay,” Oliver said.
“You sure?”
“Yeah. Someone’s gotta keep me honest.”
Anders was happy seeing the kids more pleased with their gifts than the money he gave them—not that it was forgotten entirely in the tornado of wrapping paper and boxes. They talked about what they might buy with the money given to them by their strange, new relative—and the twins went as far as waving the bills at the older kids, as if to say, “See what happens when you hide out in the basement?”
When it was all over and the other guests had left, Oliver walked Anders to his car.
“Look at that, it’s snowing.”
Ander’s looked up, watching dry, fat flakes falling to earth like frigid little leaves.
Oliver stretched and said, “In your travels, have you ever been to Sweden?”
“Yeah, one of the first countries I visited.”
“Is Sovandeberg a real place?”
“Nope. I wondered the same thing and went looking for it. But I found places that look exactly how I always imagined.”
“What’s it like…”
“It’s a great country—”
“No, what’s traveling everywhere like?”
“It’s nice,” Anders said. “Sometimes it feels a bit by design because of the YouTube channel and podcast, but it’s not a bad way to make a living.”
“I’ve never really traveled like that,” Oliver said.
“I get it,” Anders said. “I’ve wondered what it’s like settling down and having a nice house like yours. Family and other loved ones stopping by. We all trade for something.”
“I suppose we do. You’re welcome to visit whenever you’re in town.”
“I’d like that,” Anders said. “And maybe someday when you have the time, I can show you where Mormor grew up.”
“That would be great.”
The two brothers awkwardly faced each other in the street, until Oliver initiated a hug. Anders patted him on the back and said, “I’m glad I made this trip.”
“Me, too.”
When Anders unlocked his car door, Oliver said, “Drive safely, Trollson. Never know what’s out there in the dark on Christmas Eve.”
Anders said, “I will. And when I get back to my hotel room, I plan to sleep like a mountain, ‘cause those kids sure wore my rocky old bones out!”
* * *
[Quirky music fades in…]
Christopher Gronlund:
Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks.
Theme music, as always, is by Ergo Phizmiz. Story music this time was a variety of Christmas music, all licensed through Epidemic Sound.
Sound effects are made in-house or from Epidemic Sound and freesound.org. Visit nolumberjacks.com for information about the show, the voice talent, and the music. And, for as little as a dollar a month, you can support the show at patreon.com/cgronlund.
Well, this closes the door on 2022’s stories. With back-to-back monthly episodes, I used to start back up in March, but I’ll likely release a new story in February. What that story is…I have no idea. Well, I have roughly 100 ideas to choose from—I’m just not sure what stories I’ll write, record, and release in 2023.
But I’m sure looking forward to it.
I hope the rest of your year is safe and happy—and that the new year is full of many great things.
[Quirky music fades out…]
[The sound of an axe chopping.]
Until next time: be mighty, and keep your axes sharp!