[Listen]

[Intro music plays]

[Woman’s Voice]

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

[Music fades out]

Christopher Gronlund:

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

“What’s Tron?” Akara said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

[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, the residents of a trailer park battle the city and developers in an attempt to save their homes from demolition to make way for a golf course.

But first, the usual content advisory…

“Lakeview Estates” deals with the loss of homes, a broken housing market, corruption, mention of drug and alcohol abuse (including teen marijuana use), death, arson, violence, incarceration, and marriage infidelity. Also: after a six-episode run with no swearing, that’s back, too!

Man, that content advisory makes it sound like you’re in for a brutal story, but I can assure you: it doesn’t linger on any of those elements very long, other than people fighting to save their homes.

All right, let’s get to work!

Lakeview Estates

Prologue

Everybody has a dream. Before falling asleep most nights, Jerrod Pyle dreamed about walking across a stage to thunderous applause. The speech he gave changed depending on his mood, but he was always the first person to win an Oscar in an Iron Maiden t-shirt.

Bonnie Kirkland dreamed about going on the Price is Right and winning big. When she was younger, her mom won a TV on the show, but Bonnie wouldn’t settle until she took the Showcase Showdown.

Carlos Espinosa was a fix-anything grease monkey who dreamed of one day racing funny cars and leaving Sean Bellemeur and Doug Gordon in his dust.

No one knew what the Flynn triplets dreamed about, but it was likely based off something they saw in Half-Baked or a Cheech and Chong movie.

Noah Cooper dreamed about becoming a professional wrestling superstar. He had a long way to go, but he was the reigning Pineywoods Wrestling Alliance’s Hardcore Championship.

Not everyone’s dreams were as lofty. Ms. Rose dreamed about simply making it to the end of her life while dealing with as little bullshit as possible.

These dreams might seem funny to most people, but dreams were all that’s left in Lakeview Estates Mobile Home Park.

* * *

Jerrod was walking along Pine Street, on his way to Nate’s Corner for his Friday morning Gansitos and Dr. Pepper breakfast, when he saw the sign.

Zoning Change

Notice of public meeting about this property

For information call: 987-555-1212

He pulled his phone from his pocket, snapped a photo, and continued on his way.

* * *

Since its construction in 1961, Nate’s Corner stood at the crossroads of Kimball Avenue and Dove Road in the tiny East Texas town of Tooksberry. The white, clapboard building not only served as the town’s only gas station, but welcomed locals with groceries and bait—and travelers with refreshments and souvenirs. They were known for their kolaches, and heaven help the pedant who pointed out the sausage rolls were actually called klobasneks, while kolaches were fruit pastries. That’s not how things worked in Texas.

The second story of the building was a small apartment where the store’s owner, Nathan Yate, lived. Just like his name, he inherited the business from his father, who inherited it from his. Between the two windows of the upper floor were painted wooden American and Texas flags. Three small spotlights hung from the soffit above, shining brightly on the painting at night so even the drunkest of residents would never forget where they lived.

Jerrod entered the store and waved.

“Mornin’, Nate.”

“Morning, Jerrod. How’s it going?”

“Good. You?”

“One of those mornings where I wish I was a trust fund baby with all the time in the world to sleep in.”

“That would be the life,” Jerrod said. He entered the snack aisle and grabbed two packs of Gansitos without slowing down. At the far end, he swung past the drink coolers and grabbed a Dr. Pepper.

“Ah, the Friday breakfast,” Nate said.

Jarrod pointed to the Gansito packs. “Well, just one. The other goes in the freezer for tomorrow morning.”

“I can always put a couple packs in the ice cream freezer for you when I close on Thursday nights.”

“Thanks, but I like my routine.”

“Gotcha.”

After Nate rung up the order, Jerrod said, “Have you heard anything about a zoning change in town?”

“No. Why?”

“I saw a sign about it while walking here.”

Jerrod pulled out his phone and showed Nate the photo.

“Where is this?” Nate said.

“Right at the bend where Pine Street turns into Taylor. Right there in front of the trailer park.”

“You gonna call?”

“Yeah, when they open” Jerrod said. “Would be nice finding out what’s up. Especially since it’s right there.”

“Yeah. I wonder if it’s the town center Itchy’s always going on about.”

“That’s a good point. Ever since Holstein built one, he’s been obsessed with making this town like them.”

“I swear, that boy needs his own vision.”

“He’s too dumb for that,” Jerrod said.

The two laughed, and Nate said, “That’s why he’s our mayor.”

* * *

The 75 mobile homes of Lakeview Estates were packed into a 1000 by 750-foot rectangle of land on the edge of Tooksberry, over 250 lives playing out each day where meadows and ponds gave way to thicket and pines. It was the only home Jerrod Pyle ever knew. When the property owner, William Pate, moved to Conroe to be closer to his daughter and grandchildren, there was only one person he trusted with running the trailer park. It was a job Jerrod took as seriously as his passions. He ensured those who rented never waited long before something broken was fixed, and he was always lenient with those a bit behind on payments. The pride he took in the trust extended to him by Mr. Pate carried over to the residents. It was not a dusty community full of dilapidated structures and cars up on blocks, the kind of place where children in dirty diapers raced past dogs chained to trees and fences. The residents of Lakeview Estates may not have possessed much in the way of material goods, but they made up for it with dignity.

As Jerrod made his way toward the office trailer, he saw Noah Cooper lifting weights beneath a cedar elm in his side yard. Noah had leveled a spot beneath the tree for a square rubber gym mat, a weight bench, and dumbbells. Anyone who had seen him wrestle knew that stealing his gear would not be in their best interests. In addition to the potential hernia from moving so much iron, one would not want to find themselves on the wrong side of someone who was regularly slammed through folding tables, took steel chair shots to the head, and rolled around in barbed wire for fun. Jerrod waited for Noah to finish a set of bench presses before approaching.

“Gotta sec?” he said.

Noah sat up and stretched. “A quick one, yeah.”

“Thanks. Two things. First, I should have time today to pull highlights from last Saturday’s match for your YouTube channel. But the bigger thing: have you seen the zoning sign at the bend just outside the trailer park?”

“No. What’s up?”

“Dunno. I tried calling on the way back from Nate’s Corner. Got city hall’s voicemail, so I’ll call back when they open.”

“I’ve not seen it or heard anything about it,” Noah said.

“Gotcha. Well, I need to open the office, so I’ll let you get back to your workout. I’ll catch up later about the next documentary meeting.”

“Cool deal. And let me know what you find out from the city.”

“Definitely.”

* * *

A tiny pile of envelopes full of checks and money orders greeted Jerrod on the other side of the mail slot in the office trailer’s front door. When the first day of the month fell on a Friday, it meant a longer-than-usual day, with most residents getting paid and rushing home to pay rent on their homes or land. He gathered the envelopes and placed them on his desk before popping the second Gansito pack into the freezer. After processing the first batch of payments on Mr. Pate’s old desktop computer, Jerrod pulled his laptop from his backpack.

While managing a trailer park was not Jerrod’s dream, it was a job that still allowed him time to focus on the life he imagined as a kid. In 1999, when Jerrod was 15, he decided he’d direct movies. When Steven Spielberg won the Oscar for Best Director and began his acceptance speech with, “Am I allowed to say I really wanted this?” something switched inside that teenager living in Lakeview Estates. Jerrod was raised to believe that wanting something more in life than what little you were given was akin to sin. It was greedy. It was a way of thinking reserved for people who thought they were better than others. For Jerrod’s parents, taking what you were given resulted in his father overdosing while Jerrod was still in high school, and his mother drinking herself to death shortly after graduation.

With Mr. Pate’s help, Jerrod enrolled in the closest thing to a degree in Radio/TV/Film in the area: a BA in Mass Communication from the University of Texas at Tyler, in Longview. The half hour drive from home was more affordable than packing everything up and heading almost five hours away to Austin. During his studies, Jerrod realized he was more suited to interview people and tell their stories than he was directing blockbusters—and for a kid from backwater East Texas, it was a more realistic pursuit. YouTube allowed him a way to distribute the short documentaries he made about people most wouldn’t give a second glance, and his latest project—a joint effort chronicling Noah’s attempts to make it as a professional wrestler—brought even more attention to his endeavors.

At 9:00 a.m., Jerrod took a break from cutting the best clips from Noah’s most recent match and called city hall.

* * *

Two weeks later, Jerrod and a handful of residents from Lakeview Estates attended their first city hall meeting to find out why the zoning sign was placed at the bend outside the trailer park. After Mayor Bradley Stevens called the meeting to order and his best friend and council member, Scotty Walsh, led the Pledge of Allegiance, it was on to business. The mayor’s wife—and Board Secretary, Carrie Stevens, called role and announcements. For Jerrod, it was more boring than sitting through classes that didn’t hold his interest when he was younger. The council seemed just as bored, only coming to attention when it was time to vote on previous business. Hands going up, followed by “Ayes,” seemed automatic.

Jerrod came to attention when the mayor said, “Will the secretary please read the first application before the board?”

Carrie Stevens adjusted her microphone. “There is one application before the board. West Industries, ZB23-D-03, 300 Pine Ridge Road, Block 1300 Lot 1.00. This applicant seeks a Use variance from section 154-43 to allow construction of Mallard Lake Public Golf Club.”

“Thank you,” the mayor said. “We open the floor to thirty minutes of comments of public interest. A reminder: each speaker is limited to three minutes.”

The eyes of Lakeview Estates were on Jerrod. He stood up, stepped to the microphone at the podium, and said, “Yeah, I’d like my time.”

Mayor Stevens smiled and said, “You don’t get to just stroll up there and babble, J.J.—”

“It’s Jerrod!” he said.

“As I was saying: you don’t get to just stroll up there, J.J. You have to sign up to speak.”

“Fine. Where do I do that?”

Carrie Stevens walked over and handed Jerrod a notebook and pen. She pointed to an empty ledger page where Jerrod gave his name, address, and phone number.”

When the mayor nodded, Jerrod began. “I have some questions.”

“We discussed that order of business in our last meeting,” the mayor said. “This is why I encourage everyone to attend these meetings regularly.”

“I don’t think you mean that, Itchy.”

“You’ll address me as Mayor Stevens, here.”

When Jerrod and the mayor were in Boy Scouts, on an overnight camping trip, Bradley Stevens and Scotty Walsh were setting up their tent in tall grass, away from others. Jerrod and Noah wandered over and told them it was a bad idea. A young Mayor Stevens told Jerrod to mind his own business. It wasn’t until a few days later, when Bradley’s legs were covered in chigger bites, that he realized Jerrod was trying to help. As he scratched his way through classes for days, he was given a nickname that followed him into adulthood.

“So, we don’t get to ask questions?” Jerrod said.

“You do. But that was an order of business in a previous meeting. You can go to the city website to view the minutes and watch the video.”

“So, something’s going on right in our backyard, and we don’t even get mail or anything?”

“We send mail to those within 500 feet of any proposed plan.”

“You know I’m gonna go home and grab a yardstick,” Jerrod said. “And if it’s off, I’m raising hell.”

“I’ll remind you to watch your language, J.J.”

“Yeah, well fuck you, Itchy!”

* * *

Noah Cooper walked behind Jerrod in the field behind the trailer park, making lines in a notepad each time Jerrod moved a yard stick one length closer to Mallard Lake. After Jerrod was escorted from city hall by Officer Perry McCollough, the resolution passed unanimously. Noah told Jerrod some residents in attendance even welcomed the measure, saying a golf course in their backyard was at least better than a shopping center.

“At least we’ll still have this view.”

Jerrod ignored him and continued moving the yard stick. He occasionally paused, checking the GPS map on his phone against the map of the new zoning area on the city hall website. He eventually stopped and said, “How many marks?”

Noah tallied the tick marks in the notepad and said, “one hundred seventy-two.”

Jerrod multiplied that by three on his phone’s calculator. “Five hundred sixteen feet. Damn…”

Noah gave his best friend a moment and then said, “Maybe it won’t be so bad.”

“It’ll be weird,” Jerrod said. “All these trees cut down—all this natural grass replaced by a green carpet full of rich assholes playing golf.”

“It’s still better than all the development in Holstein.”

“Yeah, but how long before we get like that? How long before the people who grew up here can’t afford to stay—and this entire area ends up like every place else?”

Jerrod continued walking until reaching the edge of Mallard Lake. He stared at the water, watching it shimmer in the gloaming. Noah stood by his side until the frogs called out and a huge moon rose over trees that would soon be gone.

* * *

In the weeks that followed, Jerrod grew to accept the place he retreated to for solitude would soon become a manicured space he wouldn’t legally be allowed on unless he took up golf and paid a green fee. He grudgingly admitted his friends were right: it was at least better than parking lots and stores, and the crowds that came with them. As nearby Holstein grew, Mayor “Itchy” Stevens seemed hellbent on showing Holsteiners that Tooksberrians had a better quality of life. One had to drive to Longview or Marshall to play golf, so a course in town would send the message that Tooksberry was superior to all neighboring towns.

Eventually, Jerrod’s schedule of running the office and maintenance at Lakeview Estates, working on the documentary with Noah, and recording Sunday services for the First United Methodist Church of Tooksberry returned to the center of his thoughts.

On the first cool afternoon in October, nothing was going to ruin Jerrod’s good mood: no more seemingly constant air conditioner maintenance and insect control, and no more sweltering days of landscaping and swimming pool upkeep. It was a slower, pleasant season with time to edit and plan while waiting for fewer things on the property to go wrong. After a productive morning and early afternoon, Jerrod checked mail. A letter from the City Attorney caught his attention. He opened it where he stood and scanned the page. The line that stopped him read:

NOTICE IS HEREBY GIVEN that the City Council of the City of Tooksberry will consider taking action by approval and passage of an ordinance that will authorize the City Attorney to commence eminent domain proceedings against the above-described subject property…

* * *

On Sunday mornings, most residents of Lakeview Estates made the walk up the hill on Creekview Drive to the First United Methodist Church of Tooksberry. Growing up, it was a refuge for Jerrod, a place to get away from strung-out parents and spend a morning in the company of friends and Reverend Lawrence Terry. The tiny church served as more than just a place of worship: it was a gathering place for kids after school and during summer break, a place for area seniors to gather, and for evening addiction programs Jerrod’s parents ignored. This day, the residents in attendance waited to hear why Jerrod gathered them there in such a hurry.

“Evening, everyone,” he said. “I suppose ya’ll are wondering why I called you here. The property received a letter from the city that has the potential to change all our lives in a big way. I called with Mr. Pate, and he said it’s okay if I share this with you.”

Jerrod read the letter.

In the front row, Ms. Rose fanned herself with her hand until Bonnie Kirkland pulled a folded piece of paper from her purse and took over. Several deep breaths later, and she was feeling better. People looked to each other as if to say, “Did I really hear what I think I just heard?”

Eventually, Carlos Espinosa said, “So, what’s this mean for all of us?”

“I don’t know,” Jerrod said, “but Mr. Pate’s meeting with his lawyer tomorrow. The only reason I pushed for telling y’all before hearing back about that is I know how word gets around in this town. You can bet I called the city right away on this one. They’re meeting next Tuesday to discuss this.”

* * *

Tooksberry City Hall was in a renovated Burrus grocery store. Most residents thought it was fitting that the City Council sat where the freezer section was once located—especially on an evening they were discussing such a cold decision. After the meeting was called to order and previous business was addressed, it was time to discuss seizing Lakeview Estates for expansion of the public golf course. The Council was visibly on edge; they had never seen a standing room only crowd. Worse: they had never seen so many people sign up to speak.

Each resident who spoke was met by Mayor Stevens assuring them, “We understand and sympathize with your concerns. This difficult decision is for the public good of all Tooksberry.”

After each speech, Carrie Stevens looked at the ledger, called the next resident’s name, and reminded the group how much time was left.

When Carlos Espinosa’s turn arrived, he asked how many more people were signed up to speak. Carrie counted and said, “Seven.”

“And there’s only twelve minutes left?”

“Yes,” she said.

“What happens to those who won’t have time?”

Carrie looked at her husband. Mayor Stevens said, “They can submit their concerns in writing. We will not extend the time we’ve allocated for this matter.”

“Can I see the list?” Carlos said.

Carrie turned the book around as Carlos approached. He looked at the list, realizing Jerrod was second to last.

“I’m giving up my time so Jerrod can speak.”

Each person who followed did the same.

When Jerrod stood up to take his turn speaking, Noah Cooper said, “Stay calm, Jaybird…”

Jerrod took a deep breath and began. “I know this is all a done deal. Mr. Pate’s lawyer said it would cost a lot to fight, and that we’d likely still lose if we did. After his push back, he said the city’s offer on the land is even fair. You have all of us over a barrel. I know we’re not gonna convince you to change your minds at this point, but I’ve enjoyed watching ya’ll squirm as each person spoke tonight. That means you know what you’re doing is wrong on a basic level.”

“Do you have a point to make?” Scotty Walsh said.

“Yeah. I don’t see how this is in the public good of Tooksberry when we make up a lot of the public in town. I know things change, but this is ridiculous. You want to bulldoze our homes and build a golf course and bigass houses, but what about us?”

“Language, J.J.—language…” Mayor Stevens said.

Jerrod didn’t give Itchy what he wanted. He took a deep breath to steady himself and continued. “Like I said: what about us? Where do we go? We can’t even afford an 800 square-foot house in the old part of town because they’re now going for three or four-hundred-thousand dollars. And even if Tooksberry had apartments, I’m sure a one-bedroom place would cost more than your mortgage each month ‘cause y’all got in when the getting was good. The rest of us work too hard and for too little to have your kind of luck. And say I did have money to buy a house…I put a big chunk down, and some rich asshole three states over or a multi-national conglomerate offers more than I have and turns it into a fuckin’ AirBnB—”

Mayor Stevens hammered the stand with his gavel and said, “I told you to watch your language…J.J.”

Jerrod closed his eyes to compose himself. When he opened them, he said, “Okay—fine. I’m sorry ‘bout that, y’all. Where was I going with this? Oh, yeah: and then, when we’re out in the streets, you’ll point at us and say, ‘Those losers should just get better jobs,’ totally ignoring the fact that a lot of us are working two or three jobs already and barely getting by. Then what, you arrest us for loitering and fine us into oblivion? After that put us in jail ‘cause we default on fines we can’t pay because you keep adding to them? All so a couple already-rich mother f— … rich people who don’t even live in the state can get richer? I don’t see how it’s good or in the public interest when much of the public ends up without homes.

“And what sickens me most about all this is then, on Sundays, you’ll all drive your fancy little cars over to Longview and bow your heads in your Jesus-Dome of a mega church and pretend to follow a savior you’re nothing like. Meanwhile, Reverend Terry is part of this community. Your guy just wants to be on TV—”

Mayor Stevens hammered his gavel repeatedly while shouting, “Order!”

Jerrod said, “I know you’re about to sic Perry on me again, so fuck it. I can see it in your face that there’s more to this, and I aim to find out what you’re really up to, Itchy! All of you!”

Officer McCollough approached the speaker’s podium. Jerrod put his hands up and said, “Don’t fuckin’ touch me, Perry—I’ll go, I’ll go.”

Before leaving the building with Officer McCollough at his side, Jerrod turned back to face the City Council and said, “I swear to God, Itchy—I’m gonna make you regret the night your momma and daddy flopped around in bed and made your dumb ass if there’s anything more to this…”

* * *

The resolution to seize Lakeview Estates passed unanimously. In the weeks that followed, Jerrod called Mr. Pate almost daily with new ideas about ways to fight the city. Each time, Mr. Pate said, “We both know how small towns work.”

On Jerrod’s final call, Mr. Pate said, “My lawyer’s looked things over in every way, Jerrod—and they have a solid case in the public interest, even though we both know that’s not right. But money talks, and a golf course bringing people in from all over is deemed better for Tooksberry than a trailer park. We’re lucky he was able to get a better deal on the land.”

“You’re lucky,” Jerrod said.

“No, we’re all lucky. I’m driving up on Friday. I wanna to tell everyone in person, so keep this just between us until then. There’s plenty of money for me to leave for to my daughter. I’m prepared to give each household $25,000 to help with moving…or whatever they want. Can you get everyone at the church at 6:00?”

* * *

The residents of Lakeview Estates gathered at the First United Methodist Church of Tooksberry on Friday evening. Jared, Reverend Terry, and Mr. Pate sat in front of the altar, while the rest of the crowd occupied the pews. The Flynn triplets sat beside Ms. Rose. From their teen years on, Ms. Rose was like a grandmother to the brothers. The best Jerrod could make of the relationship was once the brothers discovered weed, they went from terrorizing the trailer park to being three of the mellowest teenagers one would ever meet. While Ms. Rose never approved of their habits, she appreciated their company.

When the last of the stragglers were seated, Reverend Terry signaled to Mr. Pate. He rose and stepped to the pulpit.

“Thank y’all for coming out. I know this ain’t an easy time for any of us. First, I want everyone to know I did all I could to stop this seizure from happening. I don’t think it’s a city’s right to take property for any reason, but it especially hurts because this is all about money. My lawyer told me I’d be wasting what little retirement funding I have fighting this and would likely have nothing in the end. That’s why I took the deal.

“I want y’all to know that wasn’t easy. Y’all know me well enough to know I feel a bit guilty about this, even though it ain’t my fault. What I’m about to say isn’t said out of guilt, but because I’ve always cared about that little plot of land and all y’all. So, for now, until the order to vacate comes through, I’m not collecting any rent. And I’m giving $25,000 to each household to help with moving expenses.”

A buzz rose from the crowd as those in attendance verified with neighbors that they heard Mr. Pate correctly.

He continued. “I wish I could give everyone more or just swap Lakeview Estates for a new place, but there’s no time. What’s left will be enough for me, my daughter, and her family, but it’s not like I’m gonna be traveling the world in style or anything. I hope y’all understand.”

Heads nodded, and Carlos Espinosa said, “Thank you, Mr. Pate.” Ms. Rose fanned herself and told the Flynn triplets, “I have nowhere to go.”

One of them said, “You can come with us,” but she shook her head as she fought to catch her racing breath.

Another said, “Are you okay?”

Ms. Rose closed her eyes. “Just…not feeling quite right.”

The third of the brothers noticed her sweating and said, “We need to get her down,” but she was already on the floor.

* * *

Naomi Grace Rose took her final breath in the company of friends in the church she loved. By the time paramedics arrived, there was nothing anyone could do. Mr. Pate drove the distraught Flynn triplets to the hospital, figuring they were in no state to get behind the wheel, even if they weren’t stoned. The rest of the crowd slowly dispersed. Reverend Terry stood at the door letting each resident know he was there for them if they needed anything. When the last parishoner left, he turned to Jerrod, gave him a huge hug, and finally cried himself.

* * *

Jerrod awoke in the middle of the night to the sound of sirens. In his dazed state, he thought about Ms. Rose and the ambulance, wondering if someone else’s heart finally gave out under the stress of it all. The cacophony of emergency vehicles stayed on the far side of town, fading to nothing as Jerrod fell back to sleep.

* * *

The second time Jerrod was awakened by noise, it was to pounding on his front door. He pulled back the edge of his bedroom curtains and saw Itchy Stevens standing on his stoop, illuminated by the first light of morning. After pulling on an Iron Maiden Trooper t-shirt, he went to the living room and opened the door.

“Why the hell are you pounding on my door, Itchy?!”

“You know why, J.J.”

“No, I don’t. Enlighten me.”

“Don’t give me that shit! You fuckin’ know!” Jerrod had seen Itchy angry, but never in a slobbering rage.

“It’s too early for this,” Jerrod said. When he started closing the storm door, Itchy forced it back open.

“Get your ass out here, J.J.”

In high school, Itchy Stevens started calling Jerrod J.J. when word got out that meth had a grip on his parents. The two Js stood for “Junkie Jerrod,” and were often followed by taunts about his parents—and how he was destined to follow in their footsteps. Jerrod knew even then if he ignored it that others would eventually stop taunting him, but teenagers aren’t known for a Zen-like ability to let things go. As an adult, Jerrod was able to let it go, but as he stared at the person he suspected was somehow responsible for displacing an entire community, remaining calm took more discipline than usual.

“Call me J.J. one more time, motherfucker.”

Itchy grinned and stretched it out: “Jaaaaay Jaaaaay.”

Jerrod made a fist and slowly brought his arm back; then, he took a deep breath and let it go, shaking out his hand before stepping back to close the front door. It crashed into him as Itchy shoved his way inside and took a swing at him.

Jerrod grew up wrestling with Noah, and as adults, often let his best friend practice new moves on him. While not as formidable as Noah, along the way, Jerrod learned how to hold his own and defend himself. He used Itchy’s momentum against him and took him to the ground, tying up his arms in the process. It would have been easy to take out decades of hatred on Itchy’s exposed face, but instead, Jerrod said, “What the fuck is wrong with you?!”

“You burned my fuckin’ house down!”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I know you did it!” Itchy said while trying to break Jerrod’s hold.

“Look,” Jerrod said. “I hate your dumb ass, and I would love to see you suffer for being a lifelong piece of shit, but I wouldn’t do something like that. Not even you deserve that, and Carrie sure the hell doesn’t. I’m gonna let you up. Before I do, I want you to remember: you forced your way into my house. I can legally stand my ground and kill you, but I don’t want that for you, either. We good?”

“We’re good,” Itchy said.

“All right.” Jerrod released his grip and offered Itchy his hand when he stood up. Itchy ignored it and stood on his own.

As he left Jerrod’s trailer he said, “If I find out it was you, you’re dead.”

* * *

In the month that followed, Lakeview Estates slowly emptied. Bonnie Kirkland moved to Shreveport to live with her daughter, and Carlos Espinosa moved to Ennis to be closer to the Texas Motorplex. Other people Jerrod knew from his very first memories packed their lives into U-Hauls to move away—some near, some far. Some used the $25,000 from Mr. Pate to pursue dreams, while others planned to hold on to it for as long as possible.

The Flynns were packing their trailer the day before Thanksgiving when Officer McCollough pulled up with the sheriff and a couple deputies. Jerrod couldn’t make out what was being said, but in the end, all three were handcuffed without a struggle, placed in the backs of police cars, and driven off. The next day, Jerrod got a call on the office phone that he needed to be present when the county came to seize the Flynns’ possessions. When he asked what was happening, he was told they weren’t at liberty to say. Jerrod grabbed a couple tripods, set up two cameras and a microphone, and then sat down beneath his favorite tree to watch.

When Noah wandered over, Jerrod brought his index finger to his lips, signaling to be quiet. He sat up, and quietly made his way to the far side of the office trailer.

“What’s going on?” Noah said.

“I don’t know—they won’t tell me. But they either finally busted the triplets for weed, or it has something to do with Itchy’s house, I’m guessing.”

“What’s with the cameras?”

“It hit me when they wouldn’t tell me what’s up: I should have been recording a lot more these past couple months. Documenting all this.”

“For what?” Noah said.

“Just to have. Proof, I guess. To let them know we’re watching.”

When the movers contracted by the country had unloaded the U-Haul the Flynn’s started filling, as well as their trailer, Jerrod grabbed one of his cameras and walked over.

“Get that thing out of my face,” Officer McCollough said.

“I can legally film this. I’m not interfering with law enforcement doing their job, and until the end of the month, I’m still the voice of the property owner—so I’m not trespassing. Can you at least tell me what’s going on? Please?”

Officer Perry McCollough smiled and said, “You’re right. You can film this. And it’s my right to not say another word.”

“Thank you, Perry.”

“For what?”

“Showing the world just how corrupt this city is…”

* * *

Jerrod and Noah were the last to leave Lakeview Estates after selling their trailers. They combined the money with the payout from Mr. Pate and bought a house in downtown Tooksberry.

When Noah said, “We should just get the hell out of here,” Jerrod told him, “Fuck that—this is where we grew up. They want us to leave, and I’ll be damned if Itchy gets that as well.”

“There’s more to life than just spiting him, Jaybird.”

“I know,” Jerrod said. “This isn’t just to spite him, though. It’s to keep an eye on him, ‘cause I think this is all crooked. But mostly—this is home, and I don’t want to leave. Do you?”

“Nah.”

“There we go, then.”

The two used their new space more as a base of operations than a home. When Jerrod wasn’t documenting the stories of locals and creating online ad campaigns for small businesses in the area, he was working on Noah’s wrestling documentary. And when he wasn’t working on that, he was digging through public records and doing all he could to see if his hunch that Itchy was up to something more was right. He pulled footage from the city council meetings he attended from the city website and began compiling all the footage he’d shot over the years around Lakeview Estates, all the way back to the day Mr. Pate gave him a Sony Handycam for the work he did around the property. He watched hours of interviews he’d conducted with residents from the trailer park, marking highlights, hoping to find the story of the community within it all.

If nothing else, long after the spot of land where he grew up was forgotten, people would come to know his home through the documentary he decided to make about the place where he was raised.

* * *

Jerrod and Noah made a point to attend every city council meeting, which clearly bothered Itchy and Scotty. Sometimes Jerrod signed up to speak about city business, while other times he used his three minutes to make a tenuous connection between a zoning change or other proposal to talk about how his home was taken from him by the city. One evening, Itchy had enough.

“If I may, J.J., you at least have a home. Our home was burned down by your three friends.” He looked at Carrie and then back at Jerrod. “So, you’ll have to forgive me for tiring of this near-weekly performance of yours.”

Marshall Flynn was convicted of arson and sentenced to twenty-five years for burning down Itchy’s home in retaliation for Ms. Rose’s death, believing the heart attack that took her was caused by the stress of a forced move Itchy somehow had a hand in. The other two triplets—Marlon and Marcus—had alibis, but ended up sentenced to five years each for their roles in the arson. Their plan? If Marshall were caught, they believed they could win on a technicality because they all looked alike and wouldn’t be able to say which one did it. They were surprised to find out it wasn’t that easy.

“It’s not a performance,” Jerrod said. “Both of us had our homes taken against our will. But only one of us seems to care about the other’s situation.”

* * *

Jerrod was shooting twilight hour footage on Main Street when he heard someone call his name. When he turned around, Carrie Stevens approached.

“Where’s Itchy?” he said.

Carrie shook her head.

“Sorry. Brad.”

She smiled. “Just between us, I do think the nickname y’all gave him back when is funny. But no woman wants to be married to someone named Itchy. It’s Wednesday. Wednesday nights, he goes to church.”

“You don’t?”

“Nope, it’s my night off. I go to that place once a week, and that’s plenty. It’s more like a concert than a church service.”

“Seems that way,” Jerrod said. “You can always come back to our church. Reverend Terry’s still the same great guy he’s always been.”

“I know. But it’s important to Brad that we attend as a couple.”

“Gotcha.” Jerrod ran his fingers through his hair.

“Why do you put up with him?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’m sorry,” Jerrod said. “I shouldn’t have said that—it’s none of my business. It’s just…you’ve always been so nice. To everyone. I guess I always thought you’d go off to college and never look back at this place.”

Carrie Stevens looked down Main Street, a place stuck in time. It was the same street her parents and grandparents knew. More family before that.

“I thought about it,” she said, “but what was I gonna do? Y’all have a lot going for you. I really didn’t. Everything I was was gone the day after I graduated high school. No one cared who I was in college. Nothing I did, here, mattered out there. I mean, what did I really do? I was head cheerleader—that’s about it. Following Brad to Austin and back is as good as it gets for me.

“After the fire, I did try convincing him to move. Just start a new life someplace else. But he’d rather be a big fish in a small pond than challenge himself.”

“Like I said, sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“It’s okay.”

They each lingered an awkward moment before Jerrod said, “Well, I’ll let you get going. Good seeing you, Carrie.”

“You, too.”

Jerrod was half a block away when Carrie called his name. He turned back.

“I want you to know,” she said, “that taking your homes was wrong. I almost left him over that one…”

* * *

Jerrod sat with Noah in his best friend’s Nissan Versa, camera in hand, waiting for Itchy to leave his temporary home on Scotty’s property. The two joked that they should have been private detectives as adept at following and recording the mayor they’d become in a matter of months. For someone who droned on in city council meetings about how much better Tooksberry was than Holstein, Itchy sure did a lot of shopping and eating in his rival town.

The plan this time was to tail him to Longview and get footage of him walking into Waypointe Church, showing how far he was willing to drive to avoid churches in his hometown. Jerrod decided, if he couldn’t discover the mayor’s plan with the golf course, he’d at least have plenty of negative footage come election season.

Following Itchy on back roads was easy; all it took was riding far enough back that even if he looked in his rearview mirror, he’d not know it was Jerrod and Noah behind him. As they got closer to Longview, Noah closed the distance, hoping the mayor of Tooksberry’s attention would be more on traffic in front of him than behind. When he drove past Waypointe Church, the two thought Itchy was on to them. When he pulled into the Longview Executive Inn and Suites, Jerrod told Noah to keep driving, figuring they’d been spotted.

“Pull onto this side street,” Jerrod said.

Noah took a right and pulled over in the grass. Jerrod craned his neck, waiting for Itchy to pull out and go the opposite direction. After waiting several minutes, Jerrod told Noah he’d be right back.

He ran to the far side of the hotel and peered over a fence. Itchy’s Mercedes was parked in front of a row of rooms. Jerrod raced back to the car to grab his camera gear.

“What’s up?” Noah said.

“He’s there! I’m gonna set up a camera on the rooms.”

“What about me? I can’t just sit here.”

“I don’t know. Go find a place and give me a call when you do.”

Jerrod was already running back to the hotel when Noah shook his head and put the car in gear.

* * *

Jerrod was hiding in the bushes of the neighboring Lone Star Hotel when Noah called and asked how long he’d be.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I have a camera set up and I’m monitoring it through my phone’s app.”

“Do I have time to get a pizza?”

“What?”

“I’m parked in the back corner of the Pizza Hut parking lot. I figured I’d get a pizza if we’re gonna be sitting a while.”

“Yeah…I mean, if you want to.”

“Cool…”

* * *

The sun was setting as Noah walked along the sidewalk, carrying a large meat lover’s pizza. He stopped between the two hotels and whistled. From a cluster of bushes, Jerrod returned the call they’d used since childhood. Noah surveyed the area and headed in.

After taking a seat beside Jerrod in the bushes, Noah said, “Got you extra red pepper packets, Jaybird.”

“Thanks.”

He opened the box, and grabbed a slice. Jerrod claimed his half of the pizza with a deluge of red pepper flakes and did the same. After devouring his first piece, Noah pointed to the phone on the ground in front of his friend and said, “Anything good yet?”

Jerrod pointed to a door on the camera app monitor and said, “They’re in that room.”

“Who’s they?”

“Dunno. Some woman parked around the back, went up, and then knocked. Itchy let her in.”

“Where’s the camera?”

“I mounted it on that fence. The trees hide it pretty good. Now, we just wait to see what it sees.”

* * *

When the pizza was wiped out, Noah said, “This is fun.”

“What is?”

“Sitting in the bushes with you. It’s like being little kids again…making forts and knowing all the good places to hide around town.”

“Yeah,” Jerrod said. “I feel for kids growing up in Tooksberry today. We were lucky to come up right before everything changed. I think we’re doing all right for a couple fuck-ups from a trailer park in Ass-Crack, Texas. I might not be directing movies, and you’re not a wrestling superstar yet, but at least we’ve stayed true to who we are.”

“Hell yeah,” Noah said. “And shit, there’s still time for those bigger dreams.”

Jerrod nodded. “Always is if you keep at ‘em! And even if they never come, we’ve still had fun along the way.”

* * *

Jerrod was considering turning off his phone to save the battery when the door to Itchy’s hotel room opened. He looked around and stepped out, followed by a woman who was definitely not Carrie Stevens. They embraced in a kiss. Itchy ran his hand over her body, ending on her butt, which he patted as they parted ways. After Itchy and the woman left, Jerrod retrieved the camera and headed home. There, after transferring the camera footage to his computer, he zoomed in on the woman on his system’s monitor.

“Holy shit,” Noah said.

“What?”

“That looks like Kristin Martin.”

“Who’s that?”

“The wife of the pastor at Waypointe Church.”

“How the hell do you know that?” Jerrod said.

“I know one of the A/V guys, there. He shot some footage when we thought the wrestling promotion might get a local TV deal. He invited a bunch of us to the church to look at their gear setups. She saw a bunch of wrestlers and sure seemed interested in us…if you know what I mean?”

* * *

Even before he began piecing together a documentary about the seizure and destruction of Lakeview Estates—and the effect it had on residents—Jerrod began his most ambitious video project to date: a timelapse beginning the day the trailer park was demolished that would be complete the day Mallard Lake Public Golf Club opened. Reverend Terry allowed him to set up a camera in the church. The safe location directly across the street from the construction site let Jerrod take a photo every 30 minutes that would later become footage he planned to use in his documentary, showing the passage of time between sections. Once a week, Jerrod stopped by the church to download images from the camera and to chat with Reverend Terry.

“Something’s bothering you.”

Decades of guidance and later, friendship, gave Reverend Terry an uncanny ability to seemingly know when something was knocking around inside Jerrod’s head.

“Yeah. Noah and I followed Itchy into Longview a couple days ago. We just wanted to get some footage of him walking into that huge church, but we ended up catching him meeting with someone in a hotel.”

Reverend Terry raised his eyebrows, but let Jerrod continue.

“Noah said it’s the wife of the pastor at Waypointe. It’s great for the documentary and could maybe even help this town get a new mayor if we leaked it during election season.”

“But…?” Reverend Terry said.

“But…I don’t want to do that to Carrie. We were never really hang-out friends in high school, but she was always nice to everyone—even me. Everyone at the trailer park. No idea why she ended up marrying Itchy, but still…Noah and I don’t want to see her hurt.”

“That’s very kind of you two,” Reverend Terry said. “One question, though: if you were married and your wife was cheating on you, would you want to know?”

“Yeah.”

“Then there’s your answer.”

“I don’t want her to think we’re doing all this out of revenge.”

“I think even Itchy knows you’re a good person. I’ve counseled enough people through breakups over the years. Some people seek counseling and stay together after something like this—others leave an old life behind and find a new way to live. But in every case, people deserve the right to decide how they want to handle things.”

* * *

The following Wednesday evening, Jerrod sat with Noah in his car, waiting for Itchy to leave. This time, they didn’t follow him—they waited for his car to disappear down Oak Street and then waited five more minutes before walking up and knocking on the front door of the guest house on the back of Scotty’s property.

Carrie answered, dressed for her evening alone on Main Street.

“Hey, y’all. Is everything okay?” she said.

Jerrod nodded. “Yeah. Do you have a minute?”

“For what?”

Jerrod held up an iPad and said, “We have something to show you…”

Carrie invited them into the living room. Noah took a seat in an oversized chair that was the perfect size for him, while Jerrod and Carrie sat on the couch. Jerrod placed the iPad on the coffee table in front of her.

“Before I show you what’s on here, I want you to know we won’t do anything with it unless you want us to.”

“What’s going on?”

Jerrod played the video.

“Who is that?” Carrie said when Kristin Martin got out of her car.

Jarrod advanced the video to Itchy and Kristin leaving the hotel room. He paused it to magnify the frame.

Carrie stared at the screen and said, “That fucking piece of shit…”

Her hand trembled as she pointed at her husband and his mistress. Jerrod waited for tears that never came.

“I’m so sorry,” he said. “This wasn’t easy to show you. I asked Reverend Terry if I even should, and he said you had a right to know.”

A full minute later, Carrie said, “He’s right: I do. What do y’all plan to do with this?”

“Whatever you want,” Jerrod said.

“What do you want to do with it?”

“Use it for the documentary somehow. But we weren’t gonna do another thing without telling you about this first.”

Carrie steadied herself with several deep breaths and then said, “You want something good for your documentary? Go get your cameras. I’m already dressed, and I have a lot to say…”

* * *

In the time it took for Noah to race home and pick up gear for an interview, Carrie drank a glass of wine. By the time Jerrod and Noah set up two cameras, microphones, and lighting, she finished another. She was loosened up when they were ready to begin.

“So, how’s this all work?” she said. “Are you asking me questions, or what?”

“I can,” Jerrod said, “but it’s usually best to just let someone talk. Don’t worry if your thoughts wander or you have to stop to think about something. We can cut out all that later. Ready?”

“Yeah,” she said.

When Jerrod gave Carrie the signal, she began talking.

“My husband, Bradley Stevens, and Scotty Walsh have been best friends since childhood. They played football together and attended college together. They were in the same fraternity at UT Austin: Sigma Chi’s Alpha Nu chapter. They have a fraternity brother named Matt Chappell. He’s a homebuilder today. They have another frat brother named Kirby West, the person building the golf course in town.

“I can only tell you what I’ve picked up from them talking, here and there, but Bradley and Scotty made sure to steer the city council to accepting Kirby West’s proposal for the golf course, even though he’s never made one. He’s a landscape designer. A good one, but still. He wanted a shot at a golf course, and they gave it to him.

“There’s no reason anyone would dig into their pasts to find out it was a sweetheart deal for all of them: Kirby getting to design a new course, and Bradley getting to feel like he one-upped Holstein as the better town. I think he’s never forgiven them for knocking us out of the regional playoffs in 2000. Itchy still says it was a bad snap and not his fault that he fumbled.

“The next phase of the plan is a golf community full of big houses. They’re waiting until things are further along, and then Bradley and Scotty will steer the city council toward giving that deal to Matt Chappell. The worst thing about all this is kicking y’all out of your homes. They sold it as being for the greater public interest of Tooksberry because they can’t legally profit from it. Of course, that’s not stopping them from making money.

“This is where it gets a bit hazy for me, but there’s a fake company set up in an offshore account. They have an ‘employee’ who doesn’t really exist move funds through a fake invoice scheme to another account in the states. Bradley and Scotty have access to that one—they set it up so the payments look like consulting fees for work they don’t even do. We’re also getting a new house on the golf course for a steal through one of those accounts, somehow. It’s all a bunch of friends doing favors for each other and making money along the way.

“I’m talking about this now because I’m done. I’ve put up with a lot of shit…sorry, I’ve put up with a lot of stuff from my husband over the years, but this crosses the line. When everything they’re doing is done, I’m reporting it. I want to give them enough rope to hang themselves. It’s bad enough they cut other companies out of being considered for proposals, but there’s no excusing tearing down your homes for a crooked deal. I’ll never forgive what the Flynn’s did to our house—I’m fine if they rot in prison the rest of their lives—but none of that would have happened without Bradley and his friends and this plan.

“When this is done, I want them to hurt more than all of us put together.”

* * *

Four months later, just as Carrie claimed, the Tooksberry City Council unanimously approved a zoning change for a golf community, with Matt Chappell getting the contract to build the new homes. After that, life in town returned to its slow normal pace. Some Wednesday nights, Jerrod met up with Carrie for dinner on Main Street, to keep up with Itchy’s plans, but also to talk about whatever was on their minds. While he never cared for most of the people in Tooksberry High School, he found himself fascinated by the stories of the people who left town that Carrie was still in touch with. When he’d done all he could do with the Lakeview Estates documentary, he shifted attention to Noah’s. And when that slowed down, he contacted former residents of the trailer park for more stories and footage. His online marketing company was doing well enough that he considered petitioning for a zoning change of his own on the house he shared with Noah, making it an official place of business clients could visit, but he knew it wouldn’t pass the council’s vote.

Months became seasons—time seemed to expand and contract at once, making life a blur. Some days, Jerrod was amazed by how much he’d completed on projects, while other days passed by too fast, with no time to finish a thing. With each visit to Reverend Terry at the church, the progress around Mallard Lake Public Golf Course surprised him. Every time it seemed they were nearing completion, something new would spring up as he worked on his master timelapse.

Three months shy of the golf course’s completion, Carrie finally called the county and had her say.

* * *

The arrest of Itchy and his fellow conspirators was not the exciting thing Jarrod imagined. There were no FBI agents working in unison with the IRS, storming homes and taking them in against their will. Rather, there was a knock on the door and Itchy willingly going along with law enforcement. He was booked and released on bail to wait for a trial date. The only footage Jerrod shot was Itchy leaving Scotty’s guest house in handcuffs and placed into a cruiser.

The shame of being arrested and on the news didn’t deter Itchy and Scotty from acting like they’d done nothing wrong; in fact, when addressing the city council, they positioned themselves as victims in the whole affair, all for trying to better the town. Jerrod tried provoking the two at city council meetings, walking a fine line of accusations and not being escorted out by Officer McCollough. It wasn’t until Jerrod and Noah bumped into Itchy on Main Street that he pushed the mayor to the point of breaking.

“Itchy,” he said, “Got a sec? I’d love to get your side of this story. Nothing big: just about the upcoming trial and your divorce.”

“Fuck you! Get that camera out of my face, J.J.”

“We just want to hear your side of things. If there’s nothing to hide, it seems like you’d be more than happy to talk.”

Itchy ignored him and continued walking.

“I’d really love to show you all the footage I have. Especially your Wednesday night visits to the Church of the Longview Executive Inn and Suites.”

Itchy turned and charged. Noah restrained him before he got hold of Jerrod, who put his camera in the mayor’s face right as he said, “I’ll fuckin’ kill you, J.J.!”

Jerrod smiled and said, “I’m guessing that threatening a potential witness at your trial won’t sit too well with your bail bondsman or the court. But feel free to keep talking. Unlike you, I’ve got nothing but time.”

* * *

Jerrod and Noah helped Carrie pack what belongings she’d accumulated since the fire into a ten-foot U-Haul moving truck. It was a seven-hour drive south to Corpus Christi, where an old high school friend offered to help her through the final stages of the divorce by providing a place to stay and a job in her consignment shop, giving Carrie time to figure out the rest of her life.

Carrie climbed into the truck and rolled down the window. “Thanks so much, y’all.”

“For what?” Jerrod said.

“Doing the right thing. I don’t know how I could have done this all without you.”

“Well, thanks for always being nice to us when no one else was,” Jerrod said. “I know this isn’t how any of us wanted things to work out, but it’ll all be good. I really believe that.”

Carrie smiled. “I do, too.” She started the truck and said, “This isn’t goodbye for good. Y’all better stay in touch. And when that documentary’s done and it makes it into festivals, because it will—you damn well better invite me. I’ll be there.”

“Thanks,” Jerrod said. “Be careful heading down south.”

“I will.”

Jerrod raised his camera and filmed Carrie driving down the street. When she disappeared from view, he panned over and up, capturing what would become the final scene of his documentary: a shot of the Tooksberry water tower glowing in the fading spring light.

* * *

Epilogue

Mallard Lake Public Golf Course opened to local fanfare on a perfect day in May. Only two residents of the new Lakeview Estates development—Mayor Stevens and Scotty Walsh—knew it was once a trailer park.

Bradley “Itchy” Stevens, Scotty Walsh, Matt Chappell, and Kirby West were ordered to pay $200,000 to each former mobile home owner or lessee displaced by their scheme. In addition to the millions owed in restitution, each served a six-month prison term, followed by twelve months of home incarceration. In the end, all four still profited on their scheme.

Carrie Stevens assumed her maiden name—Carrie Galloway—and opened a snow-cone stand called Carrie’s Cones north of Isla Blanca Beach in Corpus Christi. She discovered she was far more suited for condo life on the Gulf than small-town life in East Texas.

Bonnie Kirkland not only made it on The Price is Right, but she won the Showcase Showdown. In her bedroom, she still watches the evening news on the TV her mother won when Bonnie was a kid.

Carlos Espinosa used his restitution funds to build a car that took third place in the Street Car Takeover at Texas Motorplex. He’s a long way from facing Sean Bellemeur or Doug Gordon in a big race, but he vows that one day, they will know his name.

The Flynn triplets turned out to be model prisoners. Marlon and Marcus served one and a half years before making parole, and Marshall will be out in plenty of time to catch up on life. Once a month, they make sure a dozen roses are placed on Ms. Rose’s grave.

 The documentary about Noah Cooper, combined with his strong work ethic and solid social media presence, brought some much-wanted attention his way. He said goodbye to the Pineywoods Wrestling Alliance after finally getting a break with Ring of Honor wrestling in Florida.

Jerrod’s timing in releasing the footage of Itchy and Kristin Martin’s hotel meeting to the media couldn’t have been more ideal. With the negative publicity, Itchy was finally toppled as mayor, and The Lakeview Estates documentary premiered at Sundance Film Festival. Jerrod invited Carrie as promised, but she couldn’t make it to a showing until it played at South by Southwest in Austin. Other festivals followed, until the January morning Jerrod watched the live stream of the 96th Oscar Nominations. He almost vomited when he was chosen as one of five documentaries in the Documentary Short Film category.

It may not have been the Academy Award for Best Picture he dreamed about as a teenager, but to this day he’s the only person to ever accept an Oscar in an Iron Maiden t-shirt.

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

A lone lumberjack finds herself alone on the side of a mountain with whomever—or whatever—killed her fellow loggers.

[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…

* * *

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!