[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 phone booth that appears out of nowhere, helping someone connect to their past in a most-needed way.

Before that, though, a couple things. First: the usual content advisory. This story deals with sudden family loss and grief. But even there, it’s only one recalled scene that might be rough for some. Surprisingly, there’s no swearing in this story.

While I try keeping even some of the darker stories I write, here, heartfelt, this one might even be wholesome.

The second thing before we get to the episode is I’d like to tell you about a book series by my friend, Jennifer Moss.

If you’re looking for a fun and exciting binge, this is it—a series of mysteries with a metaphysical twist. The first is TOWN RED, in which Detective Ryan Doherty has to save his career by solving a double homicide of husband and wife entrepreneurs. During the investigation, he meets the mysterious Catharine Lulling—a psychic empath who knows just a little too much about the murders. As Ryan is drawn into Catharine’s unconventional world, he has to figure out if she’s for real…or the real killer.

Check out TOWN RED by Jennifer Moss—rated five stars on Amazon.com.

I’ll also be sure to include a link in the show notes.

All right—let’s get to work…

Calling Out of Time

There suddenly appeared a phone booth, a thing out of time seeming more like a joke than reality. The booth’s presence startled Amir, leaving him to wonder how such a thing could be set up so quickly. It wasn’t there on his two-block walk to the corner store for Netflix binge-night snacks and a quick chat about movies with the store’s cashier, Francisco. But there it was, not ten minutes later, on the corner a block down from his apartment. It was strange enough to see a pay phone of any kind, but a fully sheltered booth was a thing Amir had not seen in almost two decades. He looked up and down the streets, wondering if anyone might have seen how it got there, but he was the only one out and about. To see no one else out walking in the early evening was almost as rare as encountering a phone booth that seemed to fall from the sky.

Amir poked the phone booth with his cane, half-expecting it to give, like a cardboard prop–maybe even see the cane pass through a holographic projection. But it was solid. He knocked on the glass and wondered if it was an art installation. Maybe he’d see himself in a handful of months, the first person captured on a hidden camera and projected on a wall at the Museum of Contemporary Art. Others would follow, the spectacle of the piece showing how what was once common can become easily forgotten. And in that artistic statement, perhaps Amir Nazari–on the cusp of his 50th birthday–would seem just as out of time as he inspected the booth with an air of nostalgia.

He waited several minutes, hoping somebody would pass by and be as equally taken aback by the booth’s presence. But the quiet streets made the moment slip from a curiosity to something more unsettling. He pushed the center of the door, watching it fold inward, creating enough of a gap that he could slide it fully open. Amir looked around one more time and stepped inside. He grabbed the interior handle, unsure if it was wise to close the door behind him. What if that was the booth’s purpose: a trap of some sort? That made even less sense; he could easily break the glass with his cane and stumble free. It was not a trap.

The last time Amir used a pay phone was in the late 90s. Once he had a tiny brick of a cell phone, that was it–he had no need for any other means of communication. Everything was now in his pocket or hand. Standing in the phone booth, though, he found himself missing slower days and being unreachable on the go. He picked up the receiver and was surprised to hear a dial tone.

How could this thing have been hooked up so quickly? he thought.

Amir instinctively tapped his pockets, knowing he had no change. Credit and debit cards eliminated that need, but he always knew–in the back of his mind–a day might come in which he’d regret not carrying assorted bills in his wallet and some coins in his pocket. So he did what he did when he was younger and without money: he dialed ZERO.

Amid a churning of static rose a solitary beep he’d not heard in decades, and then the sound of the call going through. The line picked up, but the voice on the other end was smothered by white noise.

“Hello? Hello? Can you hear me?”

Maybe there was no one on the other end–maybe it was just a recording. The whole thing was ridiculous. Amir put the receiver back and picked up his bag of snacks. But…what would it hurt to attempt and actual call?

Amir picked up the receiver again and dialed his old phone number.

* * *

Buffalo Grove, Illinois – 1983

Amir was playing his Frogger electronic game when the telephone rang. He waited for his older sister to pick up–she loved the phone and always raced to answer it–but he heard Soraya shout from the upstairs bathroom: “Amir, Can you get that? If it’s Katie, tell her I’ll call her back.”

He was having a good round, but the sound of the telephone bothered him, a loud and interrupting thing that only stopped with its unrelenting ringing when someone gave up on the other end or you picked up. He answered the phone.

“Hello?”

There was no one on the other end. From the bathroom, his sister shouted, “Is it Katie?”

Amir covered the mouthpiece and yelled back. “It’s no one. Nobody’s on the phone.”

He returned the receiver to his ear and heard an adult voice say, “Amir?”

The only people Amir liked talking with on the phone was his grandma and grandpa in the city, and this voice belonged to neither of them. He ran through family gatherings, trying to recall the voices of uncles, but most of his family was still back in Iran.

The man on the phone said it again: “Amir?”

He took a breath and said, “Yes.”

“Amir Nazari?”

“Uh-huh…”

Amir thought something went wrong with the connection, but the man on the other end eventually said, “Hello, Amir. My name is also Amir.”

“Are you a friend of my father?”

“I…I knew your father, yes.”

“He’s not home right now. And my mother is busy cooking dinner…” Amir’s parents taught him to make it sound like at least one parent was home, but busy, when he and his sister were home alone and somebody he didn’t know called on the telephone or came to the door.

The man on the other end was silent again. Amir thought he heard him sniffle and take a deep breath.

“Uhm…” the man said. “Do you have something to write with, Amir? I need to leave a message.”

“No.” The pen and notepad the family kept for such a purpose was by the kitchen phone, not the living room’s.

“Can you go get something to write with?”

“Okay. I’ll be right back.”

As he returned from the kitchen, Soraya came downstairs.

“Who was on the phone?” she said.

“Some man. He wants to leave a message.”

Amir’s sister took the pen and pad from his hand and went to the phone.

“Hello? Who is this?”

The man on the phone said, “Soraya?”

“Who wants to know?”

There was no response. Amir’s big sister looked at him and said, “Do you know who this is?”

He shook his head no.

“My mother and father are upstairs watching television and cannot be bothered. Call back tomorrow.”

Soraya hung up the phone, and then looked at Amir and said, “Stop talking to people you don’t know.”

* * *

Amir put the phone booth’s receiver down and wiped tears from his face. It was a futile battle, so he let go, not caring if someone happened by and saw him in the glass box on display, sobbing like a storm. When he was done, he looked at the phone. When he called his old number again, all he heard was static.

* * *

Amir moved through the next day tangled in a haze of memories and emotions. He woke up late and could not stop thinking about the call from the phone booth the night before. It really was Soraya. And he recognized his own young voice from an old recording of himself reading a Legion of Superheroes comic book on cassette. There was no explaining what happened; the best Amir came up with was his subconscious taking over. Still, it would be one thing to quickly drop a phone booth on a corner, but a complete impossibility to set up a phone that could call out of time. He logged into work, hoping it would give his mind something else to focus on. No matter how hard Amir tried distracting himself, though, his thoughts were pulled to the past. He emailed his manager, telling her he wasn’t feeling well and was going to take the day off.

Amir got dressed and and walked down the street. His neighborhood bustled with its usual morning activity, a stark contrast to the previous evening. His heart raced when he reached the corner where he encountered the phone booth. He felt his pulse pounding in his temples when he saw it wasn’t there. He trotted around the block and then the others, looking down streets at every corner. Nothing. He returned to the spot where he found the phone booth, hoping to see scratches where it might have been dragged away–any bit of evidence that he wasn’t losing it. His doubts about everything only grew.

 At the corner store, Amir bought a cup of coffee and a Hostess cherry pie. He waited until the short line at the register cleared before paying.

“Morning, Francisco.”

“Hey, my friend. Long time, no see. Watch anything good last night?”

“No. I ended up a bit distracted. Saw something interesting, though.”

“What’s that?”

“I know this might sound strange, but did you pass a phone booth when you closed last night? At Leland and Troy? It wasn’t there when I came by last night, but it was there when I was walking home. It’s not there now, though.”

Francisco shook his head. “I didn’t see that, no. I’ve not seen a phone booth in ages.”

“Same here. But it was there last night…”

“Like a full-blown Superman booth? Door and everything?”

“Yes.”

“That’s wild. And it’s not there now?”

“Nope.”

“Wow, crazy. Sounds like something from a story you’d write.”

“Yeah…”

* * *

When he wasn’t coding software enhancements for release sprints at work, Amir was obsessed with stories. As a kid, comic books offered something few prime time TV shows did: ongoing arcs and timelines. Aside from watching the occasional soap opera with Soraya over summer break from school, comic books and fantasy and sci-fi novels gave Amir what took decades to finally reach television. But once streaming services took off, Amir daydreamed about turning one of the old novels he’d written and put away in a drawer into a series.

He worked on writing in the cracks of life, jotting down ideas during meetings at work he wasn’t needed for, but that his manager insisted he attend anyway–just in case. Sometimes he was up early; other days he stayed up late, writing and piecing things together. Weekends were his escape into the life he wished he lived: up early to write, breakfast, and then more writing; researching for stories and how to sell the scripts he planned to finish. Perhaps that was the way to discern how a seemingly magical phone booth came to be: approach it like a story he was writing.

Amir spent the day in a notebook, jotting down ideas of who (or what) placed the phone booth on the corner. He worked out myriad explanations for how the call to the past could happen. By the afternoon, he had no acceptable explanation–only more questions. Sometimes life, like stories–Amir believed–benefited from a willing suspension of disbelief.

He stretched out on the couch hoping his subconscious would figure it out, but all his thoughts blurred into dreams.

* * *

It was dark when Amir woke up. His stomach growled, but it could wait. He put on his shoes and headed into the night.

The phone booth stood at the corner of Leland and Troy, just like the previous night. And just like the previous night, Amir stepped inside and dialed his old number.

* * *

Buffalo Grove, Illinois – 1983

Amir was brushing his teeth before bed when the telephone rang. He spit and rushed to the kitchen.

“Hello?”

On the other line, the man from the night before said, “Hi, Amir. I called last night. Are you in the kitchen or living room?”

“The…kitchen.”

“Good. Can you write something down for me?”

“Okay.”

“Tell you mother and father–“

Soraya picked up the phone in her room. “Hello? Katie?”

“No,” Amir said from a phone booth in another time. “I called to speak to Amir, but either of you can help.”

“Are you the guy who called last night?” Soraya said.

“Yes, I am.”

“You need to stop calling us or I’ll call the police!”

She hung up and charged downstairs.

Amir got as far as telling his younger self, “Tell your mom or dad to check–” before Soraya hung up that line, too.

When Amir called again, he was greeted by static.

* * *

The next morning, Amir emailed his manager, letting her know he was still not feeling well and taking it easy for another day. After that, he walked to the corner store for breakfast, again, taking a moment to look around to see if he could find any evidence of what happened the two previous nights. But he saw nothing out of the ordinary.

When he entered the corner store, Francisco said, “Good morning, my friend. Seen any phone booths, lately?”

Amir laughed and said, “No. But I’ve been thinking about it…like you said yesterday–it would make a good story.” He looked around to make sure they were alone. “I’m thinking it would be cool if someone could call back to their past to try changing something. But I’m not quite sure how to explain the phone booth just appearing…and why it would even work.”

“I don’t think you’d have to,” Francisco said. “That kind of thing gets in the way. Primer didn’t stop to explain anything, and it’s a great movie. Back to the Future doesn’t work when you think about it, but it’s a lot fun.”

It wasn’t the answer Amir wanted–he’d hoped his movie-loving friend would have enough answers to make sense of the past two days.

“What do you think about the idea of calling back in time?” Amir said.

“It’s good.” Francisco glanced up in thought. “I know there are stories like that with radios, but I can’t think of any with a phone.”

“Do you think someone could stop a bad thing from happening like that?”

“Sure. Not much of a story, otherwise.”

“Cool. I’m leaning toward someone saving people he loved who died when he was younger. If the main character pulled it off, do you think he’d get to see them again?”

“Maybe. If that’s what the story needed. It might be hard to explain, though. Or maybe he creates an alternate timeline where they’re safe.”

Amir nodded and paid for his coffee and fruit pie. “Thanks. See you later, Francisco.”

“Goodbye, my friend.”

* * *

As perplexing as the phone booth’s existence was to Amir, he knew one thing for certain: it was there in the evening, but gone during the day. All he had to do was wait.

At five-o’-clock, he brewed a small pot of coffee. He drank a cup and poured the rest into a water bottle. When it was cool enough to carry, he headed out.

The phone booth was not on the corner when Amir arrived. He surveyed the area for the best place to wait and watch. He considered standing on the corner, but if it took more than an hour, Amir was certain somebody would call the police, saying there was a suspicious person lingering in the neighborhood. He found a spot in an alley behind a dumpster where he’d be out of sight, but still have a view of the corner. He guzzled the rest of the coffee and waited.

Like watching the clock during a workday, watching the corner made time drag on. Amir wondered if a truck would pull up with a couple guys who’d open the back and put the booth on the corner, or if it would fade into existence like the TARDIS on Dr. Who. Around eight-o’-clock, Amir regretted drinking all his coffee. He shuffled side to side, fighting the urge to urinate. It was unlikely he’d be seen if he stepped fully behind the dumpster to empty his bladder, but he was not willing to risk it–not for fear of getting a ticket for public urination…he simply refused to let the corner fall out of view. When the urge became too much, Amir closed his eyes and took a deep breath to center himself. When he exhaled and opened his eyes, the phone booth was on the corner.

A moment before, the streets were busy with evening walkers. Now, they were empty. It seemed darker as well, like everything in Amir’s field of view had been caught in a spell. He didn’t care how troubling it was–he walked right into the booth, closed the door behind him, and called his old number.

* * *

Buffalo Grove, Illinois – 1983.

The Dukes of Hazzard had just started when the phone rang, startling Amir. His parents were out to eat, and Soraya was spending the night at Katie’s. He thought about letting it ring, but it was about the time his mother and father would be returning from dinner, and he wondered if it was them saying they’d be late. He got up, turned down the TV, and picked up the receiver.

“Hello?”

The man who called the last two nights said, “Amir, before anyone else picks up, I need you to tell your mom and dad to check the wires in the attic. If they don’t, you must insist, do you understand? There’s a bad wire in the attic, and I don’t want you to stop bugging them until they check. Do you understand?”

“A bad wire?”

“Yes. Go tell them right away.”

As soon as Amir said, “They went out to eat,” he panicked, wondering if he’d given too much away and was now alone and in danger.

“Then go tell Soraya. And then write it down: ‘Check the wires in the attic.'”

Amir almost told the man on the phone Soraya wasn’t home, either, but said, “Okay,” instead.

“Say it back to me, Amir. What are you going to tell your mother and father and Soraya?”

“To check the wires in the attic?”

“Good! I need you to go write it down, too. Okay? You can’t forget.”

“Okay.”

“It’s going to be all right, Amir. Don’t be scared. Can you go write it down right now?”

“Okay.”

Amir set the receiver down and ran to the kitchen. He wrote CHECK THE WIRES IN THE ATTIC on the notepad by the phone, and put the pad on the kitchen table. He ran back to the living room phone, but all he heard on the other end was static.

In the phone booth, Amir wiped the tears from his eyes. He didn’t care if he was seen–he stepped out of the booth, rested his cane against the side, and peed like he was putting out a fire.

* * *

The following evening, when Amir walked to the corner store for snacks, the phone booth was not there. Something told him he could wait every night for the rest of his life and it would never appear again.

When he entered the corner store, Francisco smiled and said, “I missed you this morning, my friend.”

“I was up later than usual.”

“Working on a story?”

“Yes…in a sense.”

“How’s it coming along?”

“Good. I think. I still have some questions about it I’d like to figure out, but I think it’s there.”

“What questions?”

“What would you do if you could call your old self back in time? What would you tell them?”

Francisco pondered the question a moment and smiled. “I would call my old number and tell my younger self to invest in Microsoft stock. Apple and Google, too. Not that I don’t like all this and the people I get to chat with every day, but…you know…”

“Yeah. That’s a good plan.”

“I agree,” Francisco said. “What about you? What would you do if you could call back in time?”

“I’d leave a message to my younger self to have my parents check the wiring in the attic of our old house.”

Francisco cocked his head to the other side and said, “Why would you do that?”

“When I was twelve years old, my house caught on fire. My bedroom was downstairs because…” Amir tapped his cane on the tile.

“I heard something hit the floor upstairs in my sister’s room so hard that it woke me up. I didn’t know at the time, but it was my sister, Soraya, passing out. I remember dreaming my mother was lost in a fog, calling our names. When I finally woke up, I smelled smoke. I grabbed my cane and checked the bedroom door like they taught us in school. It was cool to the touch, so I opened it. The smell of smoke instantly became heavier, and the night light in the kitchen glowed in a haze.

“I raced to the living room. Smoke rolled down the stairs in a dark column illuminated by orange sparks. I shouted for my parents and sister, but nobody answered. I went back to the kitchen and called the fire department. By then, the smoke was getting thicker in the rest of the house. I made it to the front room before passing out.

“When I woke up, I was in the front yard surrounded by neighbors and firemen. My family was nowhere to be seen. That’s when I came to the city to live with my grandparents.”

Francisco shook his head and sighed. “I am so sorry. I didn’t know. There are no words…”

“Thank you.”

“No, thank you. I’m glad I know this about you. We see each other almost every day, but most of what we talk about is movies.”

“If this were all a movie and I could warn my family, do you think I’d see them again?”

“It would depend on the story, I suppose. If it were a fun story, you could do anything–like Back to the Future. But if it were more realistic, it would probably be more like Looper or Primer. It would be nice to see them again, but unless you actually traveled back in time physically through the phone and could watch them from a distance, saving them in another timeline would have to do.”

Amir smiled and said, “Yeah, I suppose you’re right. I’m sure I’ll figure it out in do time. Right now, though, it’s time for some snacks…”

* * *

Epilogue – Buffalo Grove, Illinois – 2021

Amir’s grand-niece, Bibi, pumped her legs and shot high into the air on her swing set. She shouted, “Uncle Amir! Grandma! Look!”

She leaned back, gripping the swing’s chains tightly in her hands, and leaned back–hanging almost upside-down as she fell back to earth. She swung back up to a sitting position on the other end of the arc.

“Be careful!” Soraya said. She looked at her brother and playfully slapped his arm. “Why are you laughing?”

“You always gave Mom and Dad a hard time. Now you have a second mini version of yourself. I just think it’s funny.”

Amir’s father chuckled and winked at Soraya. They were all together at the old house to celebrate Amir’s birthday.

“I’m going to check on the food,” their father said.

When he was gone, Soraya said, “Well, you can laugh at me all you want, but at least turning fifty didn’t bother me.”

“It doesn’t bother me, either,” Amir said.

“Then why are you so quiet today? Thinking about your next book?”

“I’m always thinking about my next book. But that’s not it, either. I’m thinking about the phone call we got when we were younger. About the wires in the attic.”

Soraya took a gulp of iced tea and said, “Ah, yes. It’s that time of the year when you do this.”

“I just wonder who he was–how he knew? Why we shared a name? But it’s not even so much that this year. Maybe you’re right; maybe I am thinking a bit more about time this birthday. I wonder what happened to him.”

“He’s probably a lot like you,” Soraya said. “Eats too much junk food and watches lots of movies. You got a good book out of all this wondering–isn’t that enough?”

“Yeah. I guess it’s a thing I’ll just always think about.”

“I know. Sometimes I do, too. Not about who he was, but what might have happened if something bad happened back then.”

Soraya watched her granddaughter swing back and forth, higher and higher, until letting go at the apex and soaring into the air. She kicked her feet and righted herself just in time for a landing in the grass that would have wrecked Amir or Soraya’s knees.

Behind them, Soraya’s husband knocked on the kitchen window and waved them in.

“Bibi,” Soraya said. “It’s time to eat.”

She shot past her great uncle and grandmother and held the door open.

“Happy birthday, Uncle Amir.”

“Why, thank you.”

He scooped her up in his right arm and carried her into the house where he and his sister grew up.

* * *

Christopher Gronlund:

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks.

Theme music, as always, is by Ergo Phizmiz. Story music this time is by Gabriel Lewis, licensed  through Epidemic Sound.

Sound effects are always made in-house or from freesound.org. Visit nolumberjacks.com for information about the show, the voice talent, and the music.

Next time around, it’s a story that begins: “The Quaking Bog Man was gone, and Crazy Mike was found dead behind the maintenance barn, covered in grass pink and rose pogonia blossoms.” Who doesn’t love a mystery set in a bog in northern Illinois?!

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 inside look at episodes of Not About Lumberjacks and often contains spoilers. If you’ve not listened to the latest episode and that’s a concern, go listen and check this out when you’re done.

And now: onward!

* * *

“A Deathly Mistake” is a bit of a departure for me—not in the sense that, thematically, it’s about the struggle between day jobs and creative pursuits (that’s kind of my thing), but in having characters verbally espouse the philosophies they hold dear.

It’s important to know where characters stand on things, but rarely do I have them open their mouths and let their views spill out and rise in a flood to their knees.

I generally avoid that because people often assume everything mentioned in a story is the author promoting their beliefs. Trust me: I’m a liberal vegan atheist—if I used all my stories as a platform, it would be quite apparent.

Still, if you listen to more than a handful of stories on Not About Lumberjacks, certain themes become obvious.

* * *

As much as I’ve always wanted to write fiction full time, that is not my reality. And so, I take care of responsibilities most of us have through a day job. Technically, I have a career: I am a technical writer. But I see that writing as a means to an end—definitely not a thing I would do if I paid the bills with the writing I enjoy most.

I’m not a fan of the Monetize Me economy, where every hobby must become a dreaded “side hustle,” a thing often sucking the joy out of simple pleasures. With fiction, I’ve always pursued it knowing that if I sell a novel or script, it will be changed [perhaps drastically] during the editing process. And I’m fine with that; in fact, one of the reasons I started Not About Lumberjacks was to always have a place to share stories only I control.

For me, fiction straddles the line of something that makes me happy, but also something I’m willing to release if the money or creative view is right.

For me, fiction has always been more than just a hobby.

* * *

When I was twelve years old, I went into my backyard and taught myself how to juggle. And while I always dreamed of paying my way writing novels, I became a good enough juggler that it became a thing I also considered making my life’s work. In the end, though, the stories I have as a street performer are better than the money I made passing the hat.

At a certain point, juggling returned to hobby status—and I loved it even more.

* * *

At the time of this recording, I’m a month into my fifty-second year of existence. Two years ago, I picked up a mandolin. A few years before that, I picked up an ukulele.

Because I like listening to people talk about making things they love, I have been a fan of Adam Savage’s “Still Untitled” podcast since the beginning. During an earlier episode, he talked about keeping an ukulele in his office…just to strum a few chords while thinking through problems.

The thought of filling my office with simple music and thoughts appealed to me. So…I bought an ukulele with the goal of learning three chords to roll through while giving my subconscious problems to work out.

It is important to know this: my wife plays several instruments. Outside of a month of violin lessons in fifth grade, I have never played an instrument.

It turned out I wasn’t content just to play a few chords on my ukulele: I actually learned some tunes. Later, I wanted to play music with my wife, an Irish fiddler and harper.

A mandolin is tuned like a fiddle, so I figured that was as good as any instrument to pick up. If I got stuck, my wife could always help me.

* * *

I once watched the CEO of a company I worked for step down after decades of service. By all accounts, he was everything we’re told to aspire to: the little guy starting out at the bottom, who ended up shaping a company that shaped an industry.

But on the morning he stood before us saying goodbye, he said his final decision to retire came when his family begged him to stop answering text messages from work in the middle of Thanksgiving dinner. He was given an ultimatum by his family to not ruin Christmas by constantly working.

He broke down. Not just a sniffle, here and there, but full-on weeping. Why?

He told us, for all his accomplishments in business, that he missed his children growing up. He really didn’t know them, and he wondered what damage was done to his family in his pursuit of what society holds most dear: money and power.

He closed by saying something along the lines of, “And so, I’m retiring. But here’s what really scares me…I don’t know what I’ll do with myself.”

He talked about making up time with family, or maybe even writing. Perhaps he’d sit on the board of a charity he believed in.

Want to know what he’s doing today?

He’s the CEO for another software company.

(I hope he at least makes time for his grandchildren…)

* * *

What does all this have to do with “A Deathly Mistake”?

I wanted to write a story imploring people to do things they love, simply because it brings them joy. Not monetizing every pursuit or working 80 hours a week, only to one day look back and regret all the things never done.

And I didn’t want to be subtle about it—I would have the protagonists hide nothing in their conversations.

What better way to make a point by showing how, in death, there’s no more power. As an atheist, I obviously believe there’s no more anything, but that’s not much of a way to inspire an audience.

In the end, the regrets most people have are:

• Working too much.
• Living a life others expected of them—not the life they wanted to live.
• Not spending as much time with family and friends.
• And finally: Not doing the things they wanted to do.

* * *

I’ll be the first to admit it’s not always easy to work less, pursue what makes you happiest, and have time for others. It would be a smug assertion that just because I’ve sacrificed certain comforts and security to do those things that others should do the same.

At the same time, I wish others extended similar courtesies to those of us wired differently. I wish others understood that just because some of us are not willing to give our lives over to day jobs, that we can still be serious about the work we do. Instead, many managers act as though we should do as they say and consider ourselves fortunate to stand in their shadows.

For me, “A Deathly Mistake” comes down to two character quotes:

John saying, “The weird thing about having cancer and all that time to think were the epiphanies. You’d vow that if you made it, everything would change. You’d cherish every second of life like few other people could. Then you get through it and, at first, others are happy for you. You’re the center of attention. But that goes away so fast, and then you’re back at a job to make ends meet and no one cares. You know how fleeting life is, but you still have to survive, so you go back to living like nothing ever happened. Such a profound experience wiped away by the rush of everyday life.”

And then Tommy saying, “Figuring out how to find some kind of happiness in spite of all the shit we eat day in and day out…that’s the closest thing to enlightenment I know of.”

* * *

In “A Deathly Mistake,” John finally does something he always wanted to do: he learns how to play the mandolin. At first, he has a difficult time and feels a sense of shame. That shame is quite common in people who excel at their day jobs, but feel awkward struggling through something entirely new.

I’ve worked in factories and warehouses; as a consultant and in offices—and a constant in all those jobs was an expectation of a perfection that never existed (especially in the hurried and stressful conditions in which most people work). But people have a knack for convincing themselves that flipping a few digital switches for a salary makes them more important than people moving boxes. They have a difficult time not being perceived as essential, even though they are likely easily replaced. They cling to what they know, and don’t like feeling clumsy when exposed to new things.

In death, John is still bound by the fears of the living.

He worries that struggling when initially picking up the mandolin means he’s not good at all.

* * *

When I taught myself how to juggle, I had no idea what I was doing. I didn’t know the basic cascade pattern was a thing—my impressions of what I set out to do were shaped more by cartoons than actual jugglers.

I attempted to figure it out on my own, and it was frustrating. But then, on the afternoon it clicked, and I could keep things going, juggling became one of the things in life that saved me.

Juggling is a funny thing: to get good, you have to suck. A lot. You drop much more than you succeed. And if you’re wired a certain way, it’s humiliating—a thing best left on the ground and not pursued.

There was a time two years ago, when working my way through a beginning mandolin book, that I became that frustrated person. I wanted to throw my hands up in defeat. If I could have afforded it, I might have smashed the instrument like a rock star on stage.

But I know that’s part of the process, and I can now play a handful of Irish tunes with my wife.

* * *

I obviously chose to have John play the mandolin in “A Deathly Mistake” because it’s the instrument that I play. But still, there was a moment in putting the episode together that I was worried it would not come out the week I intended.

Originally, I hoped to get permission to use a tune I love by a musician I respect in many ways. That didn’t happen, though, so I had to learn something with a similar feeling at the last minute. My wife suggested Turlough O’Carolan’s Sí Beag, Sí Mór.

I learned how to play the first half of the tune, but the second section gets more complex. And because it was easier to record sounds for the episode than practice, I put things off until…one afternoon, the episode was almost complete. The only thing holding me back was the second section of Sí Beag, Sí Mór—the part with some notes that always give me trouble on other tunes I’ve learned.

I resolved to spend the evening—maybe even several evenings—working on the section I’d never attempted. I watched Baron Collins Hill play it on mandolessons.com (where I’ve learned most of what I know), and gave it a try.

Know what?

No section of new music ever came easier to me.

I set up my recorder and found myself with a problem I’d never had before with music: deciding which of the three good takes I laid down from the start to use in the episode.

I had my pick!

* * *

Earlier, I mentioned not using characters as mouthpieces, and I mean it. If John and Tommy dwelled on what I really believe—that most of humanity is miserable and suffering—a hopeful story would be dismal. There are writers who do a great job shedding light on human suffering, but I’m not one of them…at least not where that suffering is dark and deep. I believe that kind of suffering is common, but it’s not what I choose to write about.

If I can write a story that touches somebody in a positive way, even if it’s just a chuckle at one of my more crude or ridiculous tales, my job is done. And if I can inspire someone to something better, that’s an honor I hold dear.

I wish everyone could experience the joy I felt when I could finally juggle; the satisfaction I feel when putting together a story like “A Deathly Mistake”; the giddiness of recording part of a tune that worried me, only to have a hard time choosing in the end which take was the best.

I rarely ask anything of anyone, but I ask you right now: if there’s a thing you’ve always wanted to do, but haven’t: why not?

Maybe you have valid reasons—maybe you are the sole caretaker for someone in need and that’s not an option for you…at least right now. Or maybe you’re like Tommy in the latest episode: content to take care of responsibilities and then watch TV and play video games. (Nothing wrong with that!) Or maybe you’re like my wife and me and already doing plenty of other things—and lack the time and money for another hobby or pursuit.

But if you have the means to do something you repeatedly talk about doing, I hope you give it a try.

No matter what you believe comes after death, it would be a shame to meet your end full of regret, instead of carrying good memories of the things you loved and did during the time you had.

* * *

[Quirky music fades in…]

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.

In a month or so…well, it’ll probably be a story about a strange phone booth or a tale about a geeky teenager who finds something incredible while shopping in an antique store with his grandmother. (If you’re taking bets, it would probably be best to take the phone booth story.)

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 endings leading to new beginnings; a tale about finding joy in the darkest of places: Death.

Before that, though, a couple things. First: the usual content advisory. This story deals with a variety of topics, including sudden and drawn-out deaths (including the death of a child). It also includes discussions about cancer, drug and alcohol use, struggles with self-doubt, and—of course—the usual bits of swearing.

The second thing before we get to the episode is I’d like to tell you about a book series by my friend, Jennifer Moss.

If you’re looking for a fun and exciting binge, this is it—a series of mysteries with a metaphysical twist. The first is TOWN RED, in which Detective Ryan Doherty has to save his career by solving a double homicide of husband and wife entrepreneurs. During the investigation, he meets the mysterious Catharine Lulling—a psychic empath who knows just a little too much about the murders. As Ryan is drawn into Catharine’s unconventional world, he has to figure out if she’s for real…or the real killer.

Check out TOWN RED by Jennifer Moss—rated five stars on Amazon.com.

I’ll also be sure to include a link in the show notes.

All right—let’s get to work…

* * *

A DEATHLY MISTAKE

[Xylophone music plays.]

Death stood waiting at the foot of John’s bed. Despite being the model of health, a blood clot formed in his left leg days before would snake its way through his pulmonary artery and find its final resting place in John’s lung. Death had seen it countless times—frequently, the collected soul jolted upright in bed, trying to figure out what was happening in their final moments. Other times they barely moved, leaving Death checking to see if it was over.

“Excuse me. John…”

John stirred and then recoiled to the head of his bed when he saw the scythe-wielding, cloaked figure at its foot.

“Everything will be all right. I am not here to hurt you.”

“What the hell’s going on?”

“Unfortunately for you, I have come to collect your soul. You are dead.”

“Bullshit!”

“I understand the sentiment, but it changes nothing. Follow me…”

* * *

Death stepped from John’s bedroom and into the dining room of the tiny apartment. The small, round table filling the space was spotless, apart from a frosted glass vase housing an unused, chunky white candle. In most homes Death visited, kitchen and dining room tables served as a catch-all spot for mail, keys, books, and other odds and ends having their own place, yet seemingly drawn to the gravity of tabletops.

John stepped out and turned on the kitchen light.

“Can I at least get a drink of water before we go?”

“You are dead, John. You no longer require such things.”

“But I’m thirsty.” He opened a cabinet near the gleaming sink and removed a glass. Death watched John fill it with water from a filtering pitcher on the counter.

“You were a very clean person, Jonathan Paul Smith.”

“I like to think fastidious.”

“Well, for someone so…fastidious, you seem to be taking this quite well.”

“That’s because I don’t believe this is real.”

“Well, I assure you, it is. You are about to find out.” Death pointed a long, bony finger at the glass of water. “Drink up.”

John brought the glass to his lips and drained it in a few quick gulps. Death cocked his head to the side.

“What?” John said.

“That water should be on the floor.”

“But it’s not.”

Death crossed John’s living room and opened the front door. He poked his head out and looked around.

“What are you doing?” John said.

“It’s just…well…I usually walk the deceased through their home—kind of one last reminder of their mortal lives and possessions. Then I open the door and we go through the light. It is a thing I do.”

John joined Death and peeked outside. “Looks like an ordinary night out there to me.”

When Death closed the door and turned around, John stabbed him in the stomach with all his might.

“You should not have done that, John…”

* * *

This time, when Death opened the door, outside was gone and replaced by the brightest white light John had ever seen—brilliant enough that it should’ve hurt, but didn’t. As his eyes adjusted and he realized he was in the proverbial tunnel, a feeling of warmth and calmness flooded his every sense. It may have taken lifetimes before the light dissolved around him, or it may have taken only a fraction of a second, but when he blinked his vision clear, there before him stood the Pearly Gates. Death approached the old, bearded man guarding a thick book placed atop a lectern.

“Hey, Pete. I’m here to turn over Jonathan Paul Smith.”

“Which one?” the old man said.

“Uhm…five-thousand-one Maple Avenue. Apartment fifteen-twenty in—”

“That’s wrong!” John said. “I’m at five-thousand Maple Avenue. Five-thousand-one is across the street.”

“Oh, shit…”

Saint Peter double checked the massive book before him. “He’s right. You showed up at the wrong place. The Jonathan Paul Smith you were to guide is currently dead in his bed from a pulmonary embolism. There’s still time to go get him.”

“Wait!” John said. “So, I’m not dead?”

“Oh, you’re dead, all right,” Death said. “When you stabbed me, your hand passed through my body. Anything living touches me, and it dies. You really shouldn’t have done that.”

“I thought you were some costumed, nut-job intruder! I had every right to defend myself. That’s why I got a drink of water—that pitcher was right beside my knife set. And wht the fuck is up with your voice?!”

“Calm down, calm down…these things happen from time to time. It’s like how sometimes cops serve no-knock warrants on the wrong house and end up shooting people they weren’t even looking for—”

“But this is your fault! And you know it ’cause you went from all, ‘I understand the sentiment, but it changes nothing,’ to, ‘Oh, shit!’ just like that!”

“Nah, don’t worry—there’s a fix. You know how sometimes people report seeing the tunnel during near-death experiences? Once I take you back, that’s all you’ll remember. Unless, you know—you don’t want to go back? You have the option to stay here, now. We’ll give you a moment to think about it.”

It was a ridiculous notion: just a handful of seconds to weigh living against dying. It’s not that John’s life was bad, but it wasn’t very exciting, either. As he gave it greater thought, he came to the conclusion that living was a thing he did simply because he was there, so why fight it? But it was never something he would have chosen had existing been his choice. Still, he was never fond how his life had become a conditioned thing, with parents, teachers, and even bosses dictating its shape. But already, the After Life seemed like a continuation of the expectations of others. How could eternity in the clouds really be any better than the drudgery of an Earth-bound life?

“I hate to hurry you,” Saint Peter said, “but you’re holding things up.”

John turned around and saw a line thousands of souls deep…each escorted by an otherworldly figure in a black cloak.

“What’s up with all of them?”

“Ah, you think there’s only one of us,” Death said. “Makes sense. I can only do so much—there are scores of us, as you can see. Factor in other faiths and their versions of the end, and who knows how many Harvesters there are. Hell, this is just one version of the Christian end, but through stories, it still persists.”

“Harvester?”

“Yeah, that’s the job title. Every culture harvests something. It’s pretty universal.”

“So, how does one become a…Harvester?”

“By making the choice to do so. By not wanting to stay here or go back.”

“No job interview or anything like that?”

“Nope! But if you’re thinking about giving it a go, I ask you: why would you want this job? It’s not always easy.”

“Living’s not always easy. I got really sick a decade ago. I had a house, a good job…everything. But I had to declare bankruptcy, and now I obsess over my health so I don’t get sick again. I live in that tiny apartment because it’s all I can afford. And every year when I get a little bit ahead, rent and other things go up, and I can’t get out. It’s almost as tiring as having cancer was.

“You’ve seen my place: I’m organized. I sure as hell wouldn’t have been harvesting the wrong people like somebody I know.”

“Fair point. All right. Pete, do you have a Deceased Entity Asking To Harvest form handy?

* * *

Back in John’s apartment, he and Death sat on the couch.

“Can we move to the kitchen? That’s bugging me.”

John pointed to his corporeal body near the front door.

“If you want to be a Harvester, you can’t be bothered by that.”

“But it’s me.”

“It was you. In time, that body will decay enough that someone will smell it and a wellness check will be done and the cops will be confused as hell, wondering why there’s a body right by the front door with a knife beside it. But that’s not our concern.”

“Is that why you brought me back here? To teach me a lesson?”

“Nah.” Death pulled a pen from his robe and handed it to John. “You need to fill out that D.E.A.T.H. form.”

“Then what?”

“Then you’re my trainee. You’ll shadow me awhile before getting your robes, scythe, and assignments. Then I’ll watch you until you’ve got it down and are ready to work on your own.”

John worked his way through the Deceased Entity Asking To Harvest form, and when he signed it, the paper disappeared. He set the pen on his old coffee table.

“Hey, hey…that’s mine. These things aren’t easy to come by in the After Life.”

John picked it up and handed it to Death. “Sorry.”

* * *

The first body they harvested was the correct John Smith, an overworked consultant who was perhaps rightly incensed by his company’s new policy that everyone fly coach instead of business class on international flights. A cramped middle seat from New York City to London did him in.

“You’ll see quite a bit of this,” Death told John. “People who eat stress twenty-four-seven and barely move. It wrecks a body: blood clots, heart attacks, strokes, addictions—all those things…”

* * *

After the first few harvests, John noticed time seemed to expand and contract, just like in the tunnel of light. He and Death seemed to never slow their pace, but if John had a question or needed to clear his head, time seemed to accommodate his needs.

“So, what’s the deal with the scythe?” John said after a nursing home harvest. “Does it do anything?”

“Nah, it’s just there for looks. Imagery, ya know? It was supposed to remind people that time was fleeting—that they should make the most of their lives. As much as we like to sell that bullshit, it’s beyond the control of most mortals who just struggle to get by. But it’s what people expect, so I carry it. Really, it just depends on who I’m harvesting that night. Some people expect the scythe, so they get the scythe. Sometimes I get to be a big, glowing angel or someone’s most cherished relative, friend, or spouse showing them the way. It’s like Halloween every day. Hell, sometimes I don’t even need to show up…some people find their way on their own.”

“What about animals?” John said. “Do we harvest animals?”

“Nah, they don’t need us. They’ve always been good just knowing what to do. It’s humans who need rules and guidance.”

“All right. What about atheists?”

“They just die. Like, for real. They seem good with it, so why rub it in their faces?”

* * *

The last harvest of the shift was an auto accident—the deceased, a crushed five-year-old boy who didn’t survive the impact from a red-light running drunk.

John watched Death morph into the likeness of the kid’s father, who was unconscious at the wheel.

“Hey, buddy—sorry you woke up from your nap,” Death said while guiding the young soul away from the wreck. “Why don’t we go get some ice cream, huh?”

He took the boy by the hand and led him toward the light.

After processing the harvest, Death said, “Not as easy as you thought it would all be, eh?”

“No, that one was rough. Do you ever get used to it?”

“Used to it, no. But you come to accept it a little easier with time. All of it: hearing the cries from someone losing a spouse after six decades of marriage; the screams of a soldier on a battlefield swimming in their own guts—seeing their leg ten feet away before the world goes dark. Things even worse than that, where human cruelty is on horrible display, and you remember how unfair it can all be. Tyrants butchering people and never getting paid back for their horrors. The sickest minds doing even sicker things to innocent people. I’ll admit, I used to make notes and remember the worst offenders in life…scare them to Hell and back when their time finally came, but the novelty wears off. Perfect deaths, horrible ones, and everything in between…you may never get used to it, but you come to accept it. No one—not even us—has a say in the end…”

* * *

After the evening’s last harvest, John’s vision blurred for a moment. When focus returned, he was in an apartment not unlike his last mortal dwelling. It was a bit cluttered, mostly with books and electronics, but not dirty. Whoever lived there enjoyed reading, listening to music, playing video games, and tinkering with computers. An entertainment cabinet housed a handful of gaming systems, and the stereo setup next to it was ready to play records, cassettes, and CDs. A small pile of laptops and other computer components was stacked in a corner near the sliding balcony door. Outside looked like Bladerunner.

John watched Death pull his robe off over his head, revealing a person roughly his own age. With the exception of a scruffy beard, unkempt brown hair, and the beginnings of a slight paunch beneath a Body Count t-shirt, the person standing before John could have been his doppelgänger.

Death tossed his robe on the couch and said, in what John assumed was his real voice, “Can I get you a beer or something?”

John stared out the sliding door, at cars floating by in the sky.

“Pretty wild, huh?”

“What’s going on?” John said.

“This is my place.” He extended his hand. “Real name’s Tommy, by the way. Thomas, but nobody—not even my mom when she was mad at me—ever called me that.”

John shook his hand and said, “Why are we here?”

Tommy pointed to a thick book on the coffee table. “That’s the Employee Handbook. You’ll stay with me until you’re done reading it and pass the test. Don’t worry, it’s not like a sit-down thing full of stress. You read the book, and when it all settles into your head, that’s that—you get your robes and can set off harvesting on your own. Now, how ‘bout that beer…”

* * *

[Fade in to the sound of videogame music and sounds…]

In the days that followed, when he wasn’t watching Tommy harvest souls, John’s After Life was consumed by the Employee Handbook, a tome that read more like a psychology textbook and crash course in world cultures than a set rules. While his mentor did bong hits and played video games, John learned about more versions of Death and the After Life than he could have guessed existed. The only rules seemed built around being a Harvester: length of shifts, time off policies, and other guidelines one might expect from an ordinary job. The benefits package included a library where one could learn anything they wanted from a variety of experts. The Library also served as a center for recurrent training, keeping Harvesters in the know about how society had changed since the time of their deaths. Where Heaven, Hell, and all other things After Life were concerned, it depended on the person and their beliefs. But for Harvesters, the retirement plan came, in part, with shaping an ideal After Life of one’s own devising.

“Let me see if I have this right,” John said. “We harvest souls and, in our free time, work to discover what we want our own After Life to look like?”

Tommy finished a bottle of Miller Genuine Draft and said, “Yeah, that’s pretty much it. Not too difficult, unless you make it so.”

“But you don’t seem to be working toward creating your After Life.”

“‘Dude?! I’m living it! Look out that window—that’s the world from one of my favorite movies ever. I train people for a job I like..that I hope they come to like, too. And then…I have all this. Might not seem like much to most people, but it’s simple and suits me well.”

“You don’t want more than this? You can have anything.”

“Why complicate a good thing, man?” Tommy picked up his bong and took a long hit of OG Kush.

“When I was alive, I had a good job. I worked for an older guy who owned an electronics shop. He made the leap from fixing TVs and radios to computers. All day long, I was in the back of the shop with him and his daughter, fixing things while watching movies or listening to music. We ordered take-out and talked about whatever came to mind. I went in, did my job really well, and then came home and chilled. There’s nothing wrong with ambition, but there’s also nothing wrong with just finding simpler things and enjoying them. A good job and peace at home goes a long way.”

John knew people who tried convincing themselves they were content working and relaxing, but very few actually took it easy. Work was always within reach on a laptop or phone. Tommy, however, meant it. In life, he took care of responsibilities and reaped the rewards of a job well done. In death, his life was no different.

“How’d you die?”

“Wiped out in a tornado in 1995. We were all working in the back of the shop and FOOM! Last thing I remember were all those computers and tools coming at me right before the building collapsed. Fortunately, my boss and his daughter made it, but I sure as hell didn’t leave behind a pretty corpse.”

Nineteen ninety-five. The decor of the apartment and electronics now made sense. John was a toddler when Tommy died while living his best life. John wondered, were there people from prehistoric times in the After Life still trying to figure it all out?

“So that’s seriously it?” John said. “I harvest souls and work on my perfect self? My perfect place?”

The Employee Handbook disappeared from John’s lap.

“You’ve got it, dude. Only here you have better odds than you had in life. And if you have no idea what you want, well…you got nothing but time…”

* * *

In the time that followed, John waited for the job to grow monotonous, but it never did. While it became routine, delivering souls to their destinations never left him feeling flat. Seeing the subtle differences in people’s versions of Heaven always intrigued him. And even when shuttling souls to Hell, not all versions were like Dante’s Inferno. For some, it was an absence of seeing their god. For others, it was facing what they did to apparently deserve damnation. The Employee Handbook warned against interfering with even manufactured suffering where none should have existed. It didn’t seem fair, though, seeing kind people who did nothing wrong in life convinced by cruel people they were somehow unworthy of love and deserved an eternity in Hell simply for not being as cold-hearted as those they trusted.

Tommy reminded John: “We were all fucked up as humans, and we’re still fucked up as eternal souls…hopefully, just not as much. It’s not our place to try fixing things. Everyone gets to where they need to be in time. Nirvana and all those other states of perfection? Total elitist bullshit—some religions just market themselves better. ‘Oh, you’ve figured out all known things, so now you can ascend to a state of perfection…’ There’s no way to know everything, and to follow the rules of others to achieve a perfection that doesn’t exist is all-too-human. Figuring out how to find some kind of happiness in spite of all the shit we eat day in and day out…that’s the closest thing to enlightenment I know of.”

And that’s what John strived for. In life, he recognized that even the most droll corporate job meant something to somebody using a product, whether it was life-saving medicine or staying in touch with loved ones around the world. The spreadsheets and numbers behind it all may not have been very exciting, but the tedium he faced hopefully bettered the lives of others and gave him a sense of pride in his work. Seeing souls to their final destinations was even better.

If nothing else, it was easier than figuring out what his own ideal After Life would look like…

* * *

[Quirky xylophone music plays…]

When he wasn’t working, John spent most of his time visiting Tommy, going as far as taking an apartment next to his best After Life friend. During the occasional probationary shift, and then working fully on his own, John missed Tommy’s guidance and companionship. The task of Harvesting seemed to carry more weight when completely alone with a soul in between their final breath and eternity. It was a mixture of honor and anxiety, an important task he never wanted to fumble. Visiting Tommy after those shifts was always a relief.

“Rough day at the office, huh?”

“Yeah,” John said.

“I don’t want to make it worse, but I’m supposed to report back about how your After Life is coming along.”

“Oh…I’ve just been so busy with work. You know how it—” John stopped himself.

“Yeah, I know how it is. Always busy…but not really.”

“I hope me not moving along with my After Life doesn’t affect you.”

“Nope, I’m good. If it takes you a thousand years, that’s all on you. But it seems like you’re doing the same thing you did when you were alive. And if that’s what you wanna do, great! You’re a cool dude, and I love hanging out chatting with you. But something seems to be missing inside.”

After an exceptionally long bong hit, Tommy looked up and said, “What is it you always wanted to do, John?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s kinda sad, man.”

“It is. When I was sick, it bothered me that I wouldn’t leave anything behind. No kids, no art…nothing. The weird thing about having cancer and all that time to think were the epiphanies. You’d vow that if you made it, everything would change. You’d cherish every second of life like few other people could. Then you get through it and, at first, others are happy for you. You’re the center of attention. But that goes away so fast, and then you’re back at a job to make ends meet and no one cares. You know how fleeting life is, but you still have to survive, so you go back to living like nothing ever happened. Such a profound experience wiped away by the rush of everyday life.

“I know the way I lived prevented me from doing things I wanted to do, but the way my world was set up didn’t help matters any. It’s a nice thought to quit your day job and take that leap into the unknown, but most people who do that don’t make it. We just hear about those who did and are told that’s norm—not the exception.”

“See, this is why I like you—you’re a wise man when you want to be, Jonathan Paul Smith. I’ve got another question for you. The night I harvested you—”

“Mistakenly harvested me.”

“You’re never gonna let me live that down, eh? Okay, fine: the night I fucked up and harvested the wrong guy…why didn’t you say anything about the Pearly Gates? That was what that other John Smith believed—not you.”

“I just figured people believing that were right all along.”

“Did you always buy into what others sold you?”

“Yeah, I kind of did. It was just easier to do what my parents and others expected of me along the way.”

“Lemme ask you: what did you want to be when you grew up?”

“Huh?”

“Come on, almost every kid had a thing they really wanted to do before they were told to ‘grow up and be responsible.’ What was yours?”

“I wanted to be a musician.”

“Really? I wouldn’t have guessed that in all my time.”

“Yeah. When I was…maybe seven or eight? I snuck into our dining room, which had a view of the TV. I was supposed to be asleep. My dad was watching This is Spinal Tap for the millionth time—the Stonehenge scene. I assume you’ve seen it?”

“Hell yeah—I love that movie!”

“I figured—my dad loved it, too, which was weird because he was so straight-laced. But when Nigel started playing the mandolin—I know it was supposed to be funny, but I was enthralled. Just this little instrument cutting through it all, sounding like nothing I’d ever heard before. I checked out band and orchestra at school, but it’s not instrument they taught. I asked my dad where I could take lessons and he told me I’d do best to just do well at school. So that’s what I did.”

“What’s stopping you from learning now?”

“I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“You have access to The Library and its Librarians. There’s virtually nothing they don’t know.”

* * *

The After Life Library dwarfed any in the Living World, an imposing marble Beaux-Arts exterior that gave way to exquisite woods bathed in a misty glow from chandeliers hanging from a gilded plaster ceiling. When the spectacle of it all finally settled, John approached the mahogany research desk, a massive thing that made those behind it seem like judges on the stand.

“Excuse me,” he said. “I’d like to learn how to play mandolin.”

A tiny, gray-haired woman in half-moon glasses leaned over the desk and gazed down at John. Her smile was as kind as every grandmother John had ever known. Combined.

“Do you have a preferred style, dearheart? Classical, bluegrass, traditional Irish? Pop/rock? Something else?”

“I’ve not given it that much thought.”

The old woman flipped through a thick book and seemed to find what she was looking for faster than a computer. She filled out a slip, placed it in a carrier, and inserted it into a pneumatic tube. As John watched it race up a wall full of tubes and disappear into the ceiling, he wondered if, like so many other things in the After Life, The Library was shaped by his thoughts and desires. Did it look different to each patron, or this way to all?

“You can take a seat, dear,” the Research Librarian said. “Your Instructor will be with you in a moment.”

John plopped down in an over-sized leather lounge chair against a nearby wall. Another Harvester occupied the chair beside him. John nodded politely and folded his hands in his lap.

“Your first time in The Library?” the other Harvester said.

“Yes. You?”

“Oh, no. I’ve been coming here for hundreds of years. I passed in 1611.”

“What are you here for, then?”

“My quarterly update. In time, all we know falls away as society progresses. It is important to meet the needs of those we serve. There will come a time when the technology, art, and all other things once familiar to you will seem foreign. But should you decide to continue the path of a Harvester, the Librarians will be sure all you know is current. It is the best part of the job—the never-ending learning.”

The Harvester nodded to a middle-aged bald man with a goatee walking toward them, and then turned his attention back to John. “If you will excuse me, it is time for my appointment.”

John wondered what it took to become a Librarian and all they did. Was it like his old job where the recently-deceased were subject matter experts being interviewed by trainers who shared the information with others? Were there computers hidden away in The Library containing even more information than the Internet and all the libraries in the Living World? He considered getting up to ask the older Librarian who helped him, but a man with a long gray beard called to him.

“John?”

By the time he stood up, the man closed the distance and stuck out his hand. “Name’s Jeremiah, but you can call me Jerm.”

John shook his hand and said, “Nice to meet you, Jerm. I’m—well, you know who I am…”

* * *

Jerm led John to one of many doors along a wooden paneled wall. When they stepped through, the hallway reminded John of an English university, with marble floors, smooth paneling, and tall windows stretching to the ceiling, allowing columns of light to spill down upon them and illuminate the way. Another doorway led to Jerm’s office, a room that looked more like the interior of a cozy pub than a study.

“Would you like a beer?” Jerm said while pointing to a table.

“Sure. Please.”

Jerm stepped behind the bar and, after a bit of time at a tap, came to the table with two perfectly poured pints of stout. He raised his glass and said, “Sláinte!” After they toasted and took a sip, he said, “So…what is it you want from all this?”

“I don’t know,” John said. “I just…always thought the mandolin was a great instrument.”

“I agree with that assessment. Do you wish to play casually, or would you like to perform?”

John hadn’t given it much thought, but “Perform, I guess,” seemed like the right answer.

“All right. And would you like to just get there, or would you prefer the experience of actually learning.”

“Learning, I guess? I mean…that’s how it works, right?”

“Usually, yes. But if you want to walk out of here today knowing how to play, that can be arranged.”

“Let’s just start with learning.”

“Good. I was hoping you’d say that. We’ll get you started with some basics and then a really sweet little tune…”

* * *

Several weeks later, while John and Tommy hung out after work, Tommy said, “When are you going to show me what you’ve been learning? I’d love to hear it.”

“Trust me, you don’t.”

“Oh, that voice. What’s wrong?”

“I’m not very good.”

“No one is at first, I’d imagine. You’ve never played an instrument. Stick with it, though, and I’m sure you’ll get there.”

Tommy was right. Soon, the struggle of stilted notes, sore fingers, and missed strings gave way to something sounding enough like the song John was learning that he shared it with Tommy.

“That’s badass, dude!”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I know you have a ways to go before you get good enough to perform, but that’s a damn nice song.”

* * *

Every few weeks, John added a new tune to his repertoire, going from rough to competent—sometimes even good. His confidence, even when learning new tunes, found him comfortable enough to practice while Tommy played video games and got high.

“Ya know, I never had a roommate, or even a friend I spent much time with,” Tommy said. “I was really kind of a loaner when I was alive, but this is the best…just hanging out, doing shit we love, and BS-ing all night.”

John stopped and smiled. “It really is…”

He’d never had a roommate either—never spent much time with others. Just work and home…TV and reading and cleaning.” Even when young, he was socialized with adults—his parents and their dull friends—not other kids. And that made for a boring adult.

John never picked up on social cues others at work seemed born with. During quarterly team-builder events at the office, he sat on the outskirts of it all, watching the extroverts hold court. On the rare occasion someone proposed meeting up outside of work, he was a master of excuses, playing reasons he couldn’t do things like cards until the potential friend took the hint.

Tommy was different—someone who had a knack for pulling from John deep thoughts he’d long suppressed. But his best friend was much more than a therapist. Whatever strange forces aligned and brought the two together, one seemed to help the other as though they were brothers.

“I really love that tune…you’re getting good, Hoss.”

* * *

Jerm also seemed impressed by John’s progress, saying he’d seen few people as dedicated as him. John never had hobbies. No woodworking, camping, or painting; music, boating, or juggling. Nothing. The closest thing he had was exercise, and that was part of a routine he did after ending up sick—not a thing he did for any kind of enjoyment or sense of accomplishment. It made sense that he fixated on playing mandolin—it was the first serious hobby he ever had. And the better he got, the more he realized performing was not what he wanted.

* * *

[Xylophone music gives way to video game sounds.]

“I’ve been thinking about my upcoming performance.”

Tommy paused his game and put down the controller.

“You’re gonna tell me you’re backing out, aren’t ya?”

“Not backing out—just not wanting to do it anymore. I know that sounds like the same thing, but it’s not.”

“Definitely sounds like the same thing to me.”

“Yeah. But when I started playing, I thought that was the goal: to play for others and get good enough that people pay to listen. That’s what my parents and others would have expected from me. Now I’m not so sure.”

“What’s the goal, then?”

“I guess to just enjoy something for the sake of enjoying it. Not trying to turn everything you’re vaguely good at into money or fame. Filling your time with joy instead of drudgery.”

Tommy looked out the balcony door, seeming to ponder the glowing world just beyond the glass. After what seemed like a full minute, he nodded his head and said, “Yeah, I can dig that…”

* * *

During John’s next lesson with Jerm, it was like he’d picked up the mandolin for the first time. Instead of trusting muscle memory honed by a repetition he always worried bothered Tommy, John tried processing every note in his mind, resulting in missed strings and frustration.

“What’s wrong?” Jerm said.

“I guess I have a lot on my mind.”

“Ah. What’s bothering you?”

“I’ve been thinking about the performance.”

“What about it?”

“I…just…”

“It’s natural to be nervous,” Jerm said. “But it’s nothing to worry about. I’ve arranged for a handful of other Librarians to attend, and they plan to invite enough people to fill this little pub. And your friend, Tommy, will be there. You’ll be amazed by how much a familiar face to focus on can make even the most packed and rowdy room fall away.”

John strummed the edge of the table as if he were holding a pick and the table was a pair of strings, a nervous habit he’d developed since starting to play. He always told Tommy he was practicing tunes in his mind, even though he wasn’t.

Jerm got up and poured two stouts. When he returned, he set one before John and said, “You don’t want to perform, do you?”

“That obvious, huh?”

“It was a safe guess. But I’ve seen it enough that it was a safe guess.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?”

“I’ve disappointed you.”

“Nah! Not in the least. I just don’t want you to disappoint yourself. If you want to perform, give it a go—see if it’s your thing.”

“I thought it was…because that’s what I thought musicians did. Why practice a thing so much that you don’t do anything more with it? But I really just like playing here with you. I like playing for Tommy. And the whole performance thing seems kind of manufactured: me featured here for people you’re inviting probably as a favor to you.”

“Damn, your parents did a number on ya, huh? It’s no favor…that’s what people have done for as long as we’ve played music. You ask people you know if they want to come along and hear a friend play, sing, act…whatever it is they do. There’s no pity in that.

But I understand it feels weird. Manufactured, even—like you said. In many ways, everything for us in the After Life can feel manufactured if we let it. It’s why most of us keep going like this, instead of leaving it all behind for some idealized construct. Maybe some of the people who move on have it all figured out—I wish them the best. But for most of us, even in the After Life, life goes on.

If you truly don’t want to play, then don’t. You’re always welcome to drop in on Tuesday night sessions…have a few pints and play with the lot of us. I just want you to look me in the eye and tell me the truth about what you really want to do.”

John looked across the table, directly at Jerm. He took a breath and said, “I just want to play for the sake of playing.”

“Right, then. Sláinte!”

“Sláinte.”

“You still don’t look happy,” Jerm said.

“Huh?”

“There’s something more going on in those eyes of yours.”

“That obvious, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“I wanted to talk to you about something else…if you have a moment?”

“I have a whole pint of a moment—and even more time if you need it…”

* * *

“So did you tell Jerm you’re not performing next week?”

“Yep!”

“How’d he take it?”

“Fine, once he realized I wasn’t chickening out. He invited me to come play with friends on Tuesday nights.”

“You gonna take him up on it?”

“Yeah. You want to come along?”

“Sure—sounds like a good time.”

“Excellent.”

Tommy continued playing his game, but John didn’t pick up his mandolin.

“Lemme pause this,” Tommy said. “What’s up?

“I’ve been thinking. About my After Life. I enjoy Harvesting, but I think I might want to become a Librarian. Jerm said he’d help guide me. I’d still live next door, and we’d still hang out all the time. What do you think?”

“I think you’re a good guy, Jonathan Paul Smith. And as good a Harvester as you are, you’d make an even better Librarian. That’s what I think.”

“Yeah?”

“Hell yeah! Anything else on your mind, or can I get back to my bong and my game?”

“Nope. That’s it.”

“Cool. Can you play that tune I really like?”

“Absolutely…”

[Video game sounds as “Si Beag Si Mhor plays on mandolin.]

* * *

Christopher Gronlund:

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks.

Theme music, as always, is by Ergo Phizmiz. Story music this time is by Jerry Lacey, with Timothy Lewis providing the track for this episode’s blooper reel—which runs in a moment. Both artists’ music is licensed through Epidemic Sound.

The stumbling and intermediate mandolin tunes in this episode are played by me. The better version is by Candy Schell, one of my all-time favorite people, who also happened to be a badass musician. While Candy mostly plays the fiddle, she kicks ass at many things.

Sound effects are always made in-house or from freesound.org. Visit nolumberjacks.com for information about the show, the voice talent, and the music.

Next time around, it might be a story about a strange phone booth, a tale about a geeky teenager who finds something incredible while shopping in an antique shop with his grandmother, or something else that—right now—is little more than an idea.

One last thing: the rest of the year shouldn’t see such a long gap in stories. The pandemic year was—obviously—an odd thing, and another writing focus I had has run its course. I have a lot of cool things planned for the future of Not About Lumberjacks, including the possibility of finally starting the Patreon account some of you have requested.

Don’t be surprised if a very short episode about that pops up in your feed in the not-too-distant future…

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

[Listen]

It’s been a strange five months.

On New Year’s Eve, I sat down and recorded some thoughts in the moment about the year that was…and the year ahead. In that recording, I said, “I don’t know exactly what I’m going to do in 2021 with Not About Lumberjacks, but I do want to do more with it.”

I mentioned submitting my novel, A Magic Life, and expressing a bit of concern about what would come next if nothing happened while querying agents. While there’s still a possibility of an agent catching up on their inbox expressing interest in the book, I’m now done with commercial submissions. For short fiction, I have this site—and with more novels covering the story started in A Magic Life, I will likely release that here as well, making Not About Lumberjacks the exclusive home to all my fiction.

I sounded rather ambitious on that New Year’s Eve recording—going as far as saying I hoped to release eight stories in the current year, season, whatever it is we call my November to November cycle, here. With only two episodes released so far, I don’t think that’s gonna happen.

There is a new story ready to record, and I like it quite a bit. It’s a story—not surprisingly—touching at least thematically where I am right now when it comes to work and writing. It’s a story about death, acceptance, and finding the things that mean something to you, despite the struggles of the drudgery of days. There’s a musical aspect to it that I need to figure out, but I’d love to have it ready by the end of the month.

After that, I am not without ideas. Now that I’m vaccinated, I resumed the annual writing retreat I do with a friend. In preparing for the long weekend earlier this month, I looked at a file of story ideas I keep. I have 73 ideas waiting.

Granted, some of them have a thematic overlap, while others may never see the page, but I am not going to run out of ideas any time soon. It’s more a matter of making time to record and putting episodes together. With Not About Lumberjacks now seeming to be my main focus, I hope to get regularly moving on sharing stories, here, again.

Most of this update are things I think most people who follow me and the show know about, but there’s something new knocking around my head. I’ve had a good handful of people suggest I start a Patreon account for Not About Lumberjacks over the years. I always rejected that idea because I never wanted money to be tied to the stories I write and share.

But on the writing retreat with my friend, and in talking with people in recent weeks, family, friends, and fans have made it clear they want to help out, financially. All said they don’t expect any pledge to be connected to story output—they just feel I should be paid for the time I put into the show.

Looking at it that way, it’s something I’m open to. I have wanted to share more behind-the-scenes glimpses at my process and things I’m up to. So videos, blogs, updates like this one and the New Years Eve chat, and whatever else comes to mind would be the reward for support.

The Patreon thing is still just a collection of thoughts right now, but I also know I’d want everything open to everyone making a pledge. Whether someone offered a dollar a month—or twenty—they’d all have access to everything.

If you’re like me, when supporting someone online, it’s a thing done because you appreciate their work and efforts. Exclusive perks are nice, but I know some people (myself included) only have so much in their budgets.

So that’s what’s been up with me. I’m interested in hearing what you think, so leave a comment or email me at NALStories (at) gmail (dot) com if you’d like. That’s NALStories—all one word—at gmail.com.

Until next time: by mighty, and keep your axes sharp…

[Listen]

Hey, it’s Christopher and it is 6:54 p.m. on New Year’s Eve 2020.

I’m trying something totally new here: just sitting down in front of the mic and talking about the year that was. Normally, I usually have some notes about what I want to talk about, and, obviously, if I’m doing a story, I have the entire story printed out. But tonight I just kind of wanted to babble.

I wanted to kinda challenge myself to see how quickly I could turn an episode around…I came up with this idea probably about ten minutes ago. I grabbed an image for this entry, I got some water together, and now I’m sitting down and talking.

I think we can all agree that it was a crappy year. For me, it started with a hope that the novel I’m shopping around, which is called A Magic Life, would get representation and hopefully even sell. And I had reason to have those high hopes. When I started submitting the novel, agents were requesting full and partial manuscripts—and some of those agents were the agents that you send things to with the hope that, “Okay, they represent a lot of really great people—and maybe they won’t even pay attention to me, but they seem open right now.” So, when you’re hearing back from agents who represents some huge writers, you naturally feel good about the year.

Even after losing a job in early January of 2020, I had high hopes even there. I was working a contract gig, and the group that I was working with wanted me back. They thought they’d be able to bring me on board [in] March or April and then, of course, COVID hit. And with that, hiring freezes happened, agents kinda didn’t know what to make of things, and…it’s only been in the last week or so that I’ve seen some agents coming out and saying, “Yeah, like everybody, I did my best just to get through the year. And I’m sorry that I’ve not really taken on new writers.”

So, what started off a great and hopeful year with A Magic Life ended up kinda sucky. I mean, it really was just like that—I was getting good responses for my query, and then silence. And I don’t blame those agents. I think many of us, especially early on, we had no idea what this year was going to become. Some people thought, “Oh, you know it’s just gonna be a month or so.” And then others—probably more realistic—and said. “Eh, it’s probably going to be a year or two.” And as time went on in 2020 I started seeing savings dwindling because the job that wanted to hire me wasn’t hiring anybody. Suddenly things were being pushed back, and they were saying, “Maybe September? Uh…we have no idea.”

I did get lucky when things were about to begin totally running out, and in July. I did find another contract. It’s at the same company and well…I almost lost that contract in November; then again in December. And, fortunately, they’ve looked at what we’re doing and decided, “Well, we’ll keep him around at least until March—maybe longer—it just depends how everything goes in 2021.” And I guess that’s what made me want to sit down and talk about not about Not About Lumberjacks on the last day of the year.

No matter how bad things get, fiction is always there for me. Whether it’s novels, short stories, or coming up with adventures for Dungeons and Dragons for my wife, it’s a thing that I’ve always depended on. And with A Magic Life not really doing much, once the pandemic hit, the only thing I really had control over was Not About Lumberjacks. And in what was such a bad year for so many people became a better year for this show.

Maybe because of the pandemic, I saw the show grow a little bit—and again, it’s something I’ve talked about: I really don’t get lots of listens for the show. But I’ve at least seen maybe that forty listens that I get in the first week climb up to fifty and sixty even when releasing something like this. The Behind the Cut episodes usually get fewer listens than the actual stories—and now Behind the Cut is doing as well as stories used to do.

It’s still not enough that most people would continue with a show like this—especially when I consider all the hours that I put into it. But aside from time spent with my wife, time out hiking—Not About Lumberjacks is one thing that I could rely upon. And that makes me wanna do a bit more in 2021.

I’m still not sure, entirely, what I’m going to do. But I’ve had friends and even some listeners whom I don’t really know in real life say, “You know, have you ever considered setting up a Patreon? What about a YouTube channel?”

I do have a YouTube channel—I just don’t do a lot with it.

My wife had a good year as an artist, doing some artwork for an animal sanctuary she loves. Not directly affiliated with them, but a side thing that donates money to a sanctuary—and they embrace that. So, in the process of her year, she set up the ability to print t-shirts. And then one day she said, “You know, I can print a couple Not About Lumberjacks t-shirts.”

So she did, and we posted a couple of photos of those, and I was amazed how many people were like, “Print these! I want one!”

So, I don’t know exactly what I’m going to do in 2021 with Not About Lumberjacks, but I do want to do more with it. Something as simple as the bloopers that I put at the end of this year’s Christmas episode was a huge hit. I don’t know if I did a Patreon that would be like one of those little perks. I don’t know if I would do a monthly or even quarterly state-of-the-show video. I don’t know if I’d just sometimes out on a hike just whip out the phone and just throw down some thoughts. Or even more things just like this where I have nothing written—not even bullet points—where I just sit down in front of the mic and babble.

I’d definitely be lying if I said, “Twenty-twenty didn’t hurt me.” Seeing that cycle of savings from my day job and then losing a job and seeing those savings go away, whether it’s due to a layoff or some kind of health emergency—it’s gotten old.

It’s funny when people talk about the movie Up. That beginning where everybody’s like, “Man, that’s just so beautiful, but so tragic.” I mean that’s almost my wife in me, except we’re both still here. Fortunately.

Every time the jar fills up it goes away. If we wanted to have children, a health condition I have ensures that we couldn’t. So many scenes in that beginning hit home. But another aspect of that movie that hits home even—even though I’m not really fond of Up, is the thought that just sometimes everyday life has its own magic.

While I was unemployed, my wife and I found all these new hiking trails. We came up with some cool ideas this year. And even though the whole thing with submitting A Magic Life actually hurt—and why wouldn’t it? It seemed like this was gonna be the year, and now, it seems like I’ve gone through every option and I’m coming to an end.

If nothing happens with that book, there are two more after it. And I’m not the kind of person who just bails on a project and goes to the next thing that might make some money or might not. This is the story I’m invested in, so I’m going to write those other two novels no matter what. Maybe they get released here—maybe they just end up in a drawer. I don’t know. But every single time I said, “I don’t know,” about 2020 and even the future, the two things that I’m sure about are that my wife and I will always make it somehow. I mean, it’s just what we do. We’ve been doing that for twenty-nine years, and we always keep going. And as we’ve talked about 2021, both of us have some good plans.

As for me, one of those things is the other thing I can rely upon: this show. As I mentioned in the most recent Behind the Cut, I plan to release eight episodes this year—and by “this year,” I mean, the November-beginning of a new year for Not About Lumberjacks, to November of 2021. But that still means six new episodes before Thanksgiving next year.

Earlier today. When I was knocking around on Twitter, I saw somebody who posted the very last Calvin and Hobbes comic strip. It’s that one where Calvin and Hobbes—Hobbes is carrying a toboggan and Calvin is charging through snow. And he says, “Wow, it really snowed last night. Isn’t it wonderful?”

And then Hobbes, looking up in wonder, says, “Everything familiar has disappeared. The world looks brand new.”

Calvin stretches his arms out and says, “A new year. A fresh clean start.”

Hobbes almost throws out jazz hands as he says, “It’s like having a big white sheet of paper to draw on.”

Calvin, with his hands on his hips, says, “A day full of possibilities.”

They climb aboard the toboggan and Calvin looks back and says, “It’s a magical world, Hobbes old buddy.”

Off they go down the hill.

“Let’s go exploring.”

And I guess that’s what I wanna do in 2021—I want to go exploring. I wanna get out on more hiking trails—I wanna do more things that I don’t do. I want to spend even more time with my wife. And I wanna make next year’s writing better than even this year’s writing, which, even in one of the crappiest years ever, was better than the year before.

So, thanks to everybody who listens. I know I don’t have a big show, and it may never be a big show. Or maybe it’s the thing where instead of querying agents, that someday an agent comes across and says, “What’s up with the show—You have a ton of stories? And then you mentioned that you have novels and other things?!”

So who knows what the potential of the show is. But that doesn’t necessarily matter to me as much as every year piling up more stories, putting in the effort to record ’em, and then seeing if anybody cares enough to listen. And enough people do—so, again, “Thanks!”

Here’s to 2021.

Let’s go exploring…

[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 inside look at episodes of Not About Lumberjacks and contains spoilers. If you’ve not listened to the latest episode and that’s a concern, go listen and check this out when you’re done.

And now: onward!

* * *

In the second year of Not About Lumberjacks, I had an idea: take all those bits of stories I had tucked away—the kinds of tales that don’t merit a full episode—and release a handful of micro-fiction for the holidays.

I called that first episode “Stocking Stuffers,” because it was seven short stories instead of the usual bigger one. Anchoring that first effort was a story that begins: “It wasn’t Christmas Eve until Dad and Grandpa got into a fistfight.”

It was very loosely based on a true story about one of the few Christmases I spent with my dad after my parents divorced and went their separate ways.

The second episode of Not About Lumberjacks, “Pride of the Red Card,” was another blurring of the lines of truth and fiction where my father was concerned…that time, a tale centered around soccer.

The latest batch of Christmas stories is anchored by another narrative about my dad…this time, about one of the only Christmases I spent visiting him in Kansas after he and my stepmother moved from Chicago to the Sunflower State.

Of course, every one of these stories based on truth is full of lies. In the latest tale, I didn’t cut my finger on the trip back to Chicagoland. In “Pride of the Red Card,” there was no alcohol given to me as a reward for taking out a player on the soccer pitch. And the morning in that first Christmas story saw no family reconciliation…it was just awkward as hell…as it always was around my dad’s family. (And my grandmother was even still alive.)

* * *

The majority of stories on Not About Lumberjacks are completely made up…that is, they are not based on any actual realities. But fiction has a way of being quite true, even when it’s entirely fabricated.

If you listen to enough stories from the show, themes become apparent. As ridiculous as “Alone in HQ” is, the topic of overworked office drones living for a job they cling to comes up in my writing more than a couple times. Many people, like me, struggle with the job that pays the bills and the things they yearn to do full time. It’s a theme I deliberately throttle back, lest it becomes the driving storyline of every tale on the site.

So, what about the stories I’ve based on reality? A story like Bobo—the most factual Not About Lumberjacks story—could almost be considered an essay.

But I still see something like that as fiction. Here’s why…

* * *

When James Frey made news by admitting that much of his book A Million Little Pieces was fabricated, so many essay collections released in its wake contained disclaimers that things may not be as true as authors remembered. In other words, writers have a way of embellishing things. (If you can imagine?!)

Beyond that, people rarely talk like they do in stories. When talking with my wife of almost 29 years, conversations often begin with previous knowledge that, if I dropped it into a story, would be bad writing. A reader would have no context of what we were talking about much of the time, so you try providing that known information without sounding stilted. But no matter how hard you try, you usually do…at least a little bit. Add to that not remembering conversations from the past verbatim, and fiction always seems to seep in.

Let’s return to the story Bobo. The collection of facts it presents wouldn’t be as interesting without some flair in its telling. Everything in that story happened to me, except having a cheeseburger thrown at me while pumping gasoline by the same people who really did throw an apple at me while telling me to fuck off for being a clown.

But I still speculated that the poor kid I traumatized that day on her birthday would need therapy, and in the most recent tale about my father, the actual splinter removal mentioned wasn’t quite as terrible as I sell it. I mean, it sucked and there was blood, but there wasn’t as much blood as I made it sound.

I’ve always maintained those who say truth is stranger than fiction aren’t reading the right fiction. But even where I understand the point of the statement—with no ill intent on a writer’s behalf—even truth is usually exaggerated in its telling.

* * *

I used to be against letting any actual event I experienced find its way into the stories I write. While I still lean mostly toward pulling from my imagination with most tales, once I realized even the most ridiculous things I’ve written contain truths, I gave up pretending reality didn’t shape the fiction I write.

That’s not to say every character is a reflection of me in some way—a lot of people always think that. I can write a completely terrible character who has nothing at all in common with me, but I’d not include someone like that in a story if there wasn’t some truth important to me I’d hope a listener or reader would take away by the end.

When writers are advised to write what they know, it’s not about creating autobiographical works, but rather, presenting emotional truths based on experiences the writer knows well…in the hope of connecting with readers.

And by doing so, whether a story’s set in a past the writer never lived through or deep in the future on imagined planets, the truth shines through…even in the midst of the greatest lies ever told.

* * *

Hey, this is where I’d normally have the outro music fade in and wrap things up, but it’s the last episode of 2020…and I’d like to talk about plans for 2021.

I average six episodes of Not About Lumberjacks a year, but I’m shooting for eight in the November 2020 to 2021 season. That could, of course, change based on what happens with other writing, but in this crappy year that’s almost behind us, this show has been a bright spot for me and people who let me know they appreciate the effort I put into it.

Twenty-twenty-one will be a bit of a challenge because that six-episodes-a-year average is bolstered by a first season where I actually released thirteen episodes. Most years, five episodes has been the norm…and I think one year saw only four.

So why am I shooting for eight?

Because, when I look back at all I create in a year—even in the years I finish a new novel—few things mean as much to me as the stories on Not About Lumberjacks.

I’d love to say I can put out a story a month, and I definitely have enough ideas for that, but with a fulltime job that’s likely to end in March when my contract is over, other life things—and other writing—eight episodes might even be pushing it.

Still, it’s my goal for this year of the show. I hope you’ve already enjoyed “Geocached,” and this year’s Christmas episode—I’ll do all I can to keep you in stories in the year ahead…  

* * *

[Quirky music fades in…]

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.

In January, I kick off a new year with a story about Death! Don’t worry…it’s mostly light-hearted…

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 now-annual Christmas episode, which is always made up of several bits of micro-fiction…and then anchored by a story set during the season.

Before that, though, a couple things. First: the usual content advisory. The stories from this episode deal with a variety of topics, including the loss of a parent, alcohol consumption, vandalism, divorce, and minor gore. But hey, it’s nothing like a couple Christmases ago when the main story featured child torture, so that’s an improvement, right?! (We all felt almost guilty laughing at that one if you remember. Almost! [I mean, that kid was pretty shitty…]) Oh yeah, also—as always—there’s a bit of swearing.

The second thing before we get to the episode is I’d like to tell you about a book series by my friend, Jennifer Moss.

If you’re looking for a fun and exciting binge, this is it—a series of mysteries with a metaphysical twist. The first is TOWN RED, in which Detective Ryan Doherty has to save his career by solving a double homicide of husband and wife entrepreneurs. During the investigation, he meets the mysterious Catharine Lulling—a psychic empath who knows just a little too much about the murders. As Ryan is drawn into Catharine’s unconventional world, he has to figure out if she’s for real…or the real killer.

Check out TOWN RED by Jennifer Moss – Rated 5 stars on Amazon.com.

I’ll also be sure to include a link in the show notes.

All right—let’s get to work…

* * *

TRACKS

Two girls walk balanced on the rails of the tracks leading into town, holding hands in the middle for balance. Afternoon clouds pile up where land meets sky, things so thick and puffy, the two friends would not be surprised to see them leave behind mountains as they float by.

In town, there is an ice cream shop and a library; a hobby store where an even more ideal hometown made of plaster and paint snakes around the shop in HO scale. The tavern across the street from the lumberyard would look more at home in the English countryside than tucked away on the prairie. On a corner in what used to be a bank is an actual haberdashery that makes most of its money selling scouting uniforms.

In the community park, there are boys. The days of playing tag, climbing up slides the wrong way, and spinning on merry-go-rounds are behind them. They have reached an age where glances in the hallway become talking in the grass after school or wandering off to the creek cutting through town—not to look for frogs or crawdads like when they were younger, but to have a moment alone to navigate the labyrinth of young love.

A first kiss is had, and a heart is broken.

Two girls walk balanced on the rails of the tracks leading out of town, holding hands in the middle for balance. One girl talks in circles about the kiss by the creek; the other squeezes her best friend’s hand a bit tighter, knowing the long life she imagined together is over before ever beginning…

* * *

HOMECOMING

Callan pours a splash of Laphroaig scotch into an almost clean glass.

“Want some?” he says to his father, Sean.

“Nah. The scent is plenty. Your mother hated it…said is smelled like iodine and asphalt.”

“She wasn’t entirely wrong.” Callan raises the glass to his lips and takes a whiff. “Happy birthday, Dad.”

“Cheers, son.”

For a moment, the only sound in Callan’s childhood home is the sound of scotch sliding down his throat.

“So, what have you been up to?”

Callan rocks the glass of Laphroaig on the dusty table-top and says, “Just working. Pays for this.”

“Good point.”

“Also saving up for an RV like you suggested during our last visit. See if I can make it on my own next year, traveling around and writing. Worst case, I park it here for free while trying to figure things out.”

“That’s great! I’m happy for you, Cal.”

“Mom wouldn’t have been too thrilled about it.”

“True. But then—you never know…she just wanted you to be secure. You’ve always had a good head about things and planned better than any of us.”

“Thanks. I wish she were here.”

“I do, too. But some people settle after the end. I’m glad they let me back once a year.” Sean laughs and adds, “I’ll never get over how it looked like you were about to shit yourself when you saw me the first year after I died!”

Callan smiles and polishes off the scotch in the glass. “I thought someone slipped me something at the airport before I picked up the rental.”

He pours another dram, and the two chat about the last year of Callan’s life. Long into the night, Callan says, “Well, it’s getting close to midnight. I should get an Uber and get out of here.” He looks at the almost half-finished bottle of scotch. “I’m gonna leave this here. Let some teenagers acquire a taste for the good stuff…”

The image of his father on the other side of the table shimmers as Callan’s eyes fill with tears.

“You don’t have to cry, son. We’ll see each other again soon enough.”

“I know. But I miss being able to just pick up the phone and call. Or surprise you by taking a few days off work and stopping by. Every year I worry it’s the last year I see you.”

“I’ll always get to come back on my birthday. And the house isn’t going anywhere anytime soon. It might keep sliding out of shape, but it’s ours and going nowhere. You can still move in. Fix it and make it yours.”

“Maybe someday. Right now, though…just a lot of other plans. And this place is full of too many memories.”

Callan taps on his phone to request a ride. He stands up and looks at his father.

“I wish I could give you a hug.”

“So do I,” Sean says. “But we’re lucky to have this.”

“Yeah, we are.”

Callan looks around the old dining room, thinking about all the dinners shared with his mother and father at the table. “I think I know the answer,” he says, “But why’d you do it?”

“I hurt, son. I’m sorry. I just didn’t know how to be without her…”

“That’s what I figured. Just wanted to know for sure.” He looks at his phone: 11:59.

“I’ll see you next year, Dad.”

Right before fading away, Sean smiles and says, “I’ll be waiting…”

* * *

THE LAST WISH

I wished for all the money in the world, and the genie granted it to me as promised. Then, when nobody in the world had money but me, and I went out to buy something and people figured out what happened and came for me, I wished that things returned to the way they were before I had all the money in the world. I was determined to make the one wish I had left matter and stick.

First: you’re probably wondering about the genie. All I’ll say is it’s amazing the things one can find in out-of-the-way antique shops. I’m cleaning up an old lamp I bought and WHOOOSH, there’s a friggin’ genie in my living room.

Of course, it offered me the standard three wishes, and I went with one of the most common choices.

I’d always heard genies take wishes literally and do all they can to mess with the people they are in service to, but I was given exactly what I asked for. So, a word of advice: if you ever end up in my situation, just ask for a specific amount of money—not all of it. Still…the more I thought about it, the more I wondered if all those stories about genies screwing people over were true. With no way to undo what would be done with my third wish, I went to the genie and said, “Ya know what…I feel like no matter what I do, it’s gonna end up a double-edged sword. So, I wish you’d just do whatever the hell you want.”

It was a bold move on my part. For all I knew, the genie would become all powerful and enslave us all. So, I was pleasantly surprised when he fixed everything wrong in the world and asked if he could crash on my couch while figuring out what to do with his new life…

* * *

MONKEY-WRENCHING SUBURBIA

The day Jude finished reading The Monkey Wrench Gang, he attacked a Caterpillar Motor Grader in the woods behind our houses.

Our bellies were full of stolen wine, when—back in the day—our little town saw its first pangs of growth…and affluence seeped in at the sides. There were always open garages and refrigerators full of beer, white wine, and champagne waiting to be consumed by teenagers daring enough to take the risk.

We walked along the make-shift dirt road cutting through the small forest we claimed as our own, a scar of construction carrying with it the promise of new homes and more garages.

When we reached the machines, Jude pulled out a rolled-up towel from a small backpack he carried everywhere. Inside the towel: two adjustable wrenches. I refused to take part because I knew progress would win in the end. So, I drank wine and watched from a distance as Jude went to work.

I watched hydraulic fluid arc in a perfect stream in the moonlight, like a sacrificed creature bleeding out. I watched the front tires fold over as the massive machine gave itself to the earth. I watched Jude dance around like a mad ape, all but beating his chest while smacking the ground with his wrench. When I told him we should go, he knocked out a side window, letting the glass rain down upon him like diamonds. We went back to his house and listened to Black Flag.

It’s funny how a handful of years as best friends with someone when you’re young can create a bond of brotherhood lasting for life. When I found out Jude was dead, it hit me like we’d never parted ways. I still don’t know if the overdose was accidental or deliberate, and I suppose it doesn’t matter. Those times are gone, and so is he.

Sometimes, after visiting my mother on weekends, my wife and I drive through that old development that used to be our kingdom. And I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t live in that fucking neighborhood, if we could afford it, claiming the house on the very spot where all of Jude’s aggression was wasted.

* * *

CHRISTMAS IN KANSAS

My father thought the bridge over the Mississippi River between Illinois and Iowa was some kind of badlands where speed limits were null and void. I tried telling him our home state had jurisdiction over one half of the bridge and Iowa the other, but he claimed it was like International waters, where laws didn’t exist. Rather than explaining that one to him, I let him carry the fantasy in his heart.

The speedometer in the boxy ‘64 Ford van went to one hundred, and Dad had it pegged. He said we were going faster than that, though—my father was a mechanic and claimed to have modified the van for better speed. I believed him because the engine beneath the cover between our seats growled; I waited for it to throw pistons that would bounce around the inside of the van, killing us both.

Despite my fear, though, it was exhilarating—watching the pavement racing below our view through a windshield so large, I imagined we were a 747 coming in for a landing. Dad took his hands off the steering wheel and closed his eyes. Sensing I was about to protest, he said, “Just checking the alignment, bud.” Before putting his hands back on the wheel, he took a long draw from the Lucky Strike in his right hand and picked up the beer resting between his legs in his left. He took a swig and put it back, not caring if the condensation on the can made it look like he pissed himself when we pulled over for gas or to use a rest stop.

* * *

When I was five years old, my mother divorced my father. When I was eight, my dad moved to Kansas with my stepmom. Road trips from Illinois to Kansas became a summer thing each year after that. This particular trip was my first time going to the Sunflower State for Christmas.

Normally, I didn’t mind Kansas, but I wasn’t sold on spending the holiday there. While I loved seeing my stepbrother, I was even less a fan of my stepmother than I was my stepfather—and Christmas meant my summer-time friends, there, would be tied up with their families. Winter back home meant sledding, skating, and cross-country skiing; Kansas meant only the possibility of something icy falling from the sky and nothing fun to do even if it actually happened.

* * *

Driving across Iowa, my father and I settled into that part of the trip where silence covered us like the snow over the desolate fields outside the window. In the summer, tall rows of corn blocked views of the horizon; now, though, I had unlimited views across what I deemed the most depressing place on Earth.

I tried reading…even considered starting a conversation, but Dad was listening to his Skynyrd 8-track, and “Simple Man” was about to move on to “Freebird.” I ended up breathing on my window and quickly drawing things before they disappeared. When I was done, I looked at my fingers.

I don’t have too many memories of my mother and father together, but the night I got the scar on my left index finger will be with me to the end.

* * *

I had a splinter I couldn’t remove, but I’d had them before and knew they had a way of working themselves out. By morning, it would be ready to pull—if it hadn’t forced itself free in the night, lost forever in my Yogi Bear or Snoopy sheets. But my father saw me squeezing my finger and asked what I was doing.

“I have a splinter,” I said.

Next thing I knew, I was with him at his workbench in the basement.

To this day, roughly forty-five years later, I still get creeped out by basements. Part of it goes back to my older sister convincing me that monsters lived in our sump pump; that a whole host of undead beasties were waiting to kill me in the boiler room, from behind the furnace, or crawling out of the crawlspace above my father’s workbench. But I think the first time I ever equated basements with terror was thanks to my Dear Old Dad…

My father fancied himself a surgeon of sorts. He was terrified of doctors, opting to treat himself for every ailment, and even family if it was a non-emergency. The bright light above the workbench was like being on stage illuminated by a spotlight—at least I couldn’t see the rest of the basement in its glare, although hearing the creaking, hissing, and gurgling didn’t calm me any.

This is what I remember:

I remember my father passing a needle through the flame of his Zippo lighter…

I remember wincing and crying out as he dug for the splinter…

When that didn’t work, I remember him pulling out a pocketknife and passing the tip of its longest blade through flame…

I remember the pain, and I remember the blood…

(So much blood, or at least that’s how it seemed in the blaring white light from above…)

And I remember never ever wanting to go into the basement again—how even if it meant dying, I’d hide every ailment from my father for the rest of my life…

* * *

The Kansas visit that year was not as bad as I expected, but it still paled in comparison to Christmas back home. My father took a bit of time off work, which meant cold-weather fishing and visiting restaurants he liked during days we didn’t venture out into nature.

There was last-minute shopping and, for the first time in my life, putting up a fake Christmas tree. It was a foreign concept to me, putting faux branches that looked like they were made of green toilet bowl scrubbers onto a pole. But when it was done, it wasn’t as bad as I imagined. It was actually kinda cool.

On Christmas Eve day, we went to visit my step grandparents, where my stepbrother and my half-sister were given piles of gifts, while I got a toy Conoco fuel truck. My step grandmother worked at Conoco, and the truck was a freebie. She was never very fond of me and my sister because we weren’t blood-related in any way, and that Christmas was a reminder that I was not particularly welcomed into my stepmother’s extended family for my simple crime of merely existing.

That night, we got to open one small gift. My stepbrother and I opened identically shaped packages from his uncle who worked in Saudi Arabia. Swiss Army knives—not the one seemingly as wide as a Kit-Kat bar, but one still big enough that we had tweezers, a toothpick, scissors, a bottle opener, a magnifying glass, and even a corkscrew we’d never use.

After that, we left out beer and pretzels for Santa Claus. (My father said Santa liked that combination much better than milk and cookies.) Then it was off to bed.

I woke up a couple hours later when I heard something through the decorative air grate in the back room where I stayed when I visited. There were no ducts attached to a few of the older air registers in the house—they were open to the basement, a leftover from days before central air, when boiler heat rose up from below the house to the first floor. I crouched down near the baseboard and listened. I heard faint music, and I smelled smoke.

* * *

The basement of my father’s home in Kansas was not as terrifying as the one in the house where I was raised, but it was not without its horrors. Opening the creaking door was like cracking open an ancient crypt—it came not only with a smell of spiders, but also mummies, zombies, and anything else decaying and evil…at least in my imagination. My stepbrother once locked me in one of the side rooms in that basement for what seemed like hours, but was really only a handful of minutes. Aside from grabbing my big toe and rolling me around on the floor when watching TV, it was the only cruel thing he ever did to me.

The underlying scent of mildew greeted me when I opened the door, but it mingled with the odor of Lucky Strikes, peppermint, and some strange smell I couldn’t put my finger on.

“Dad?” I said.

“Yeah, bud.”

Even though it was my father’s voice, I still expected to see some hollow-eyed creature wrapped in bandages when I got to the bottom of the stairs and turned his way.

The basement was darker than usual, with only a single light above his workbench illuminating things. I’d later find out that he felt that light was a bubble where he could focus, but as a kid, it seemed strange to be in such a creepy space at all—let alone without turning on every single light. My Dad’s shadow on the far wall looked like that of a hunch-backed warlock at a table in his study. It straightened up when I approached.

As I walked toward the circle of light, I wondered why my dad was wearing cut-off shorts in winter. He quickly covered his leg with his hand.

“Whatcha doing?” I said.

“I’m kind of busy right now, bud.”

“Doing what?”

“Just please, go back to bed.”

That’s when I noticed the mason jar full of rubbing alcohol with something red in it.

The mass was about the size of a large marble, and it wasn’t all red; in fact, it was mostly white and yellow, like body fat. Fleshy protrusions sticking to the side swayed back and forth in the liquid, like some kind of sea creature. I swore that whatever was in the jar even had a vein in it!

I looked around the rest of his workbench, at the bottle of peppermint schnapps beside an empty half pint of Wild Turkey. The tape player near his wall of tools softly played Harry Chapin’s “If My Mary Were Here.” I knew that song meant he missed my mom. (Until his final days, he never fully got over my mother going her own way when I was five.)

“Are you okay?” I said.

He pulled his hand from his thigh. There was a three-inch gash that was partially stitched shut with dark, strong thread. That’s when I noticed the X-Acto knife on the workbench with a darkened blade from being held in a flame before Dad went in.

“It’s just a little cyst. Been driving me nuts for weeks. Merry Christmas to me, huh?”

He picked up the bottle of peppermint schnapps and, instead of taking a sip, handed it to me.

“Want some?”

I really didn’t, but I took the bottle anyway. I felt the burn of the sip the entire time I watched my dad finish sewing his leg shut in the glare of the bright light above his workbench in another creepy basement.

When he was finished, he took a sip of schnapps and turned off the tape player.

“Want to go upstairs and see what Santa Claus got you, bud?”

Of course, I did…

* * *

In the colorful glow of the Christmas tree lights, he pointed out all my gifts and told me what was inside each one. I was already a pro at acting surprised on Christmas mornings if I knew what something was because my sister had a knack for carefully unwrapping presents before the holiday and telling me what they were.

“You do know there’s no such thing as Santa Claus, right?”

“Of course,” I said.

“I figured. It’s just…with you not always around, I sometimes lose track of where you are in life.”

I knew any further discussion would result in him crying, so I got up, gave Dad a hug, and returned to bed.

* * *

There is a place in Iowa where you can see forever, land so flat you can understand why some in that part of the country believe the earth isn’t round. We raced back toward Chicago in Dad’s souped-up van, the snow shooting at us like we were traveling through hyperspace. During the crescendo of “Freebird” I pulled my new Swiss Army knife from my pocket. I opened the longest blade and sliced myself across the splinter scar on my left index finger, wondering what it took to cut into one’s own leg to remove a growth. Before my dad could notice, I grabbed a handful of McDonalds napkins from the bag on the floor and held them as tightly as I could to stop the bleeding.

Most people one day recognize just how flawed their parents are—how flawed we all are. I always had my suspicions where my father was concerned, but all his flaws became apparent that Christmas break. Still, in a strange way, knowing how broken he was made even the tiniest gesture of love and understanding from him bigger than intended…and he was always a very caring person.

I didn’t let go of those napkins until we pulled into my driveway back home, where Dad squeezed me so hard in a hug that I felt like I would burst. He looked confused when I handed him the wad of bloody napkins, but he asked no questions. For that one week Christmas break in Kansas, he was just happy to know where I was in my life, and the things said to each other in silence on that trip back home is a gift I carry with me to this day…

* * *

[Quirky music plays…]

Christopher Gronlund:

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks.

Theme music, as always, is by Ergo Phizmiz. Story music this time is by Johannes Bornlöf, licensed from Epidemic Sound.

Sound effects are always made in-house or from freesound.org…although I tend to not do much in the way of effects with some Christmas episodes, so it’s possible none were used this year. Visit nolumberjacks.com for information about the show, the voice talent, and the music.

In a couple weeks, we finally put this miserable year behind us. So, what does the first Not About Lumberjacks story of 2021 hold? How’s a story about Death sound?! (I promise that it’s mostly light-hearted.)

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

[Listen]

[Intro music plays]

Woman’s Voice:

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

[Music fades out]

Christopher Gronlund:

For this year’s anniversary episode of Behind the Cut, I asked listeners if they had any questions about Not About Lumberjacks, now that it’s crossed the five-year mark. I got some great feedback, and hope this even more-than-usual behind-the-scenes look at the show is as cool to you as it was to me.

As always, this is a peek behind the show and likely contains some spoilers. Also, I swear. You’ve been warned…

Now…onto the questions!

Question One:

Friend of the show, Curtis Hart, asked how I came up with the name, Not About Lumberjacks?

You’d think I would have covered this by now…

There’s a podcasting conference called Podcast Movement. The last time it was in Texas was 2015. I went into the conference knowing I wanted to do a solo show that would allow me to really focus on quality. A friend named Rick Coste does a show called Evolution Talk, and I’ve always loved the quality and effort of each episode.

One of the keynote speakers at Podcast Movement in 2015 was Roman Mars, who does 99 Percent Invisible. He mentioned that he’d love to see a show similar to his, but focusing exclusively on video games. Obviously, I’m not the person for that show, but I did think about creating a show like his, investigating the overlooked corners of things, but based on books. However…that would require a staff and a LOT of effort. Really, it would be a full-time thing.

The first podcast I ever did was recording and releasing my first novel, Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors, in 2010. Talking about Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors with people at Podcast Movement, I realized the new show I wanted to do would have to be fiction.

Because I was so focused on novels at the time, I’d not written short fiction for years. So, as I thought about it more, I knew I wanted to create a show focusing on my short stories…at least in part to get me back to writing short fiction.

Of course, it needed a name and tagline for each episode…and if you listen to enough things that I do, it’s probably apparent that I like strange names and taglines that become memorable. I do a podcast with a good friend called Men in Gorilla Suits, and our signoff is “Chill the fuck out, and make the damn thing.” People really like the name and that tagline. So I knew I wanted something sort of like that.

In 2015, the whole hipster lumberjack aesthetic was still kind of a thing. As I wandered the floor of Podcast Movement, the name popped into my head: Not About Lumberjacks. I wish I could say I put more thought into it and that there’s more purpose behind the name, but it just popped into my head. Something about lumberjacks, but not about lumberjacks.

And I knew I could play with that look for the site’s design…and maybe even do photo shoots in the woods in flannel shirts and stuff. It didn’t take long before the sign-off, “Be mighty, and keep your axes sharp,” followed.

I thought the name was funny because I could insist that I’d never write a story about lumberjacks, but each November, work in lumberjacks to the anniversary episode, while still not making the tale fully about lumberjacks.

Fans of the show love playing along with the name as much as I do, especially around people not familiar with the show.

So…with that much in my head, I left Podcast Movement early that Sunday and went home to brainstorm. That’s how it all happened.

Mary Salerno asked two things: One – Have you ever found yourself at a point where you should have a sound effect and you don’t have one ready? What do you do in a case like that?

And…Do you record sound effects and drop them in here and there? And if you do, how do you know where to drop them in?

Great questions, here!

Especially early on, I wrote stories, recorded them, and then…as I went through putting the audio files together and layering in music, I’d go to a site called freesound.org and get sound effects as I needed them.

Now that I’m more organized and familiar with the process, I read or listen to the narration track and make notes of sounds I might want to drop in. Where I can, I like recording my own sounds. A good example of this is in the recent story, “Geocached.”

There’s a scene where the main character finds a set of wisdom teeth in a metal container. I could have found a sound of something rattling in a canister on freesound.org…maybe even something being poured from the canister. But it’s a very specific sound effect.

The dentist who removed my wisdom teeth gave them to me after the surgery, and I kept them all these years, seriously thinking, “Ya know, one day, these might come in handy!” And they did.

I take the list of sound effects I need to make (and all the items I need to make these sounds), and I go back into a closet where it’s quiet and create these sounds. Later, I upload the sounds I make to freesound.org to return the favor.

Between sounds I create, some sound effects I have rights to, and freesound.org, I can always find what I need.

As far as knowing when to drop them in, I try not to complicate the sound design on Not About Lumberjacks. In the most recent episode, I could have layered in outside sounds and other effects. But I found that by adding just a few things, here and there, it keeps the imagination churning as though the listener is reading it.

I once read an interesting thing about the 60s Batman TV show…how they shot in an open space and created the illusion of rooms with fabrics and windows and doors, much like the set of a play. I kind of view my sound design like that. There’s enough to put the listener there, but not so much that it becomes distracting or leaves nothing to the imagination.

When I read or listen to the narration, certain sounds leap out at me: rattling teeth in a metal canister, footsteps, and opening letters from envelopes or Ziploc baggies.

If it seems like an important sound, I’ll include it. But I don’t approach it like one would a film, with layers of ambient sounds and every singlebreath.

If you hear a door open and some footsteps as a character enters a room, that’s plenty. Right there, you’ve put the listener in the place. I do admire those who create room tones and echo templates to create a sense of every single different place in a story, but at the same time, I often find it distracting. As a listener, when there’s that much sound going on, I focus on it instead to the story.

 In my mind, it becomes too much, like a Web designer in the mid 90s using the blink tag everywhere, or that manager who thinks every fly-in animation and sound is great in a PowerPoint presentation.

And so…I try dropping in just enough to put the reader in the story, but allow their imaginations to fill in the gaps.

Cynthia Griffith wonders if I’m planning on doing more with promotion, including something with Instagram? She likes Instagram Stories as a way to keep something more lively out there all the time. So…here are my thoughts on past, present, and future promoting:

In the past (and even presently), I’ve never really promoted Not About Lumberjacks; in part, because I had two reasons for creating and releasing the show:

One—I wanted to get back to writing short stories. And two—I wanted a body of work out there that I could point to when querying agents and others in publishing with novels.

Because of that, whether people listened or not didn’t really matter to me.

Now, though, the show has become very important to me. I’ve enjoyed few creative endeavors as much as I’ve enjoyed putting together episodes of Not About Lumberjacks. So, I finally do want to promote it more.

Of course, I’m doing well to keep chugging along with my day job, having a life, writing novels, doing Men in Gorilla Suits, and writing and producing episodes of Not About Lumberjacks.

Adding a YouTube channel or something on top of that would be even more. So…I’ve kind of avoided it, even though it’s something I’d love to do.

But I should promote Not About Lumberjacks more. Like Cynthia, I enjoy Instagram Stories. I have friends who enjoy discussing Not About Lumberjacks on Facebook, and I’m lucky to chat on Twitter with others creating audio fiction and audiodramas.

I’m friends with Sean Howard, one of the snazzy minds behind the audiodrama Alba Salix and the actual-play podcast, The End of Time and Other Bothers…among many other things. Sean’s a ridiculously busy person.

Sean is also the kind of marketer the marketing industry needs: he’s genuine and generous. He shares sooooooo much about how they promote their shows and all that they do on Patreon.

For years, I’ve always been a bit contradictory when Sean says all people creating shows must advertise them. Not necessarily paid advertising but promoting them and making an effort to track growth…and what causes those increases and drops.

Because my goal has always been using the show to keep me writing and presenting a body of work, none of those things mattered to me at the time. But now…as more people listen and let me know they enjoy the show, I want to do even more with it.

So, I do want to promote it more in 2021. I’m still not sure to what extent and on which platforms, but Sean’s right: if you’re putting a thing out there, why not put a little bit more effort in to let people know it exists?

I can point agents and others to the show as a body of work, but it would be even better if I could also point them to a following eager to support all I write and record. So, much of what I plan to do the rest of 2020 is thinking about how I’m going to promote Not About Lumberjacks in 2021. If you have any ideas, let me know.

Mark Felps asked a trio of questions:

• One—How long does editing take?
• Two—What’s the most common editing procedure?
• And Three—What software do you use?

All great stuff, here.

If I think about the time I put into episodes and weigh it against what people would normally consider a return on investment (that is, does it make money, raise one’s profile…stuff like that), I’d be wise to quit doing Not About Lumberjacks.

With thirty-three episodes, I’ve probably put one-thousand six-hundred hours into the show. On average, most episodes get 40-50 unique listens in the first week, with most creeping up a little above 100 downloads. Quite a few of the older episodes are over 200, and the few most popular episodes are up around 300 unique listens. (It’s a good thing I’ve not been after a large audience these past five years.)

So…specifics. Okay, writing a story usually takes me eight to forty hours, depending on length and complexity. If it’s something literary, it takes me a lot longer than something like “Geocaching,” [sic] which I almost knocked out in a day.

Recording usually takes me one to two hours…and then cutting all the takes and closing gaps up to make it sound like I read out loud much better than I actually do can take four to eight hours. (Reading out loud is very difficult for me, and sometimes it takes a dozen tries to get through certain lines.)

Finding and layering music usually takes an hour or two…and sound effects can run two to four hours of searching or making them…and then dropping them in.

I spend probably two to four hours on transcripts, and then another one to two hours working on processing things and getting it all online. So, it can take 20-60 hours in total to produce an episode from idea to getting it in your ears. (And that doesn’t even account for these behind-the-scenes episodes, supporting each story.)

It’s likely that I could get some of the editing done faster if I used a better program to put things together. I use an open-source program called Audacity, which does the job, but there are much better programs out there. I wouldn’t recommend the way I edit things because I cut everything from beginning to end and Audacity is a destructive program. By that, I mean if I cut some sound, it’s gone…whereas most audio programs allow you to remove unwanted takes and trim bits in chunks, but get things back easily if you need them.

When I see others share their editing processes, I see all these pieces of audio that are easy to move around if you need to insert something new. It’s likely that Audacity can shift all the tracks into alignment if I drop something in later—not just the one track that I add to—but I’m very cut and paste in putting things together.

My process looks like this (again, I don’t recommend you do things this way): I have one longass audio track of the narration. I open the previous episode’s mix and save that file with a new name. I cut out the previous narration track, sounds, all those things…leaving just the intro and outro music and sounds. (Yeah, I know I should have a template with those things already set up. This is just the way I do things.)

I paste the current narration track in and then…I start at the beginning and think, “Okay, I need music here…I need it to come in, fade out, and then linger until going away at this point…” I drop sound effects on other tracks and, if needed, paste in room tone (which is essentially silence in my case), that extends the gap in narration if a sound takes up some space and runs longer that the pause in narration.

On the rare occasion I’m like, “Oh, shit, I forgot something major and I must put something new in at this point!” I paste in the same amount of silence on every single track so everything shifts farther down in my timeline. And then once it’s in place, I trim all that until everything’s back in alignment. (Seriously, don’t do things the way I do!)

I often think about changing to a better program or spending more time learning all I can do with Audacity, but my time is limited. I know that I’d save time in the long run, but it would also mean quite some time spent learning instead of releasing more episodes…and I’d rather get new stories out than spending even more of my free time working on the show.

With a few exceptions, most people I know who become obsessed with productivity tinker to the point they never produce much—if anything at all.

It’s always been my nature to jump in and figure things out on my own, and rarely is the way I do something ideal. But…despite that, I usually have a larger creative body of work than most people who tell me to try doing things their way.

So again…while I wouldn’t recommend my process to anyone, it works for me. (At least right now.)

Finally, Jennifer Moss asks two questions:

What fiction podcasts and novels do you enjoy listening to and reading? And…Is it easier to do a solo episode or have guest narrators?

Good questions…

I don’t listen to a ton of fiction podcasts. When Rick Coste was producing audio fiction, I was a fan of what he did—particularly The Behemoth and its sequel, Izzy; Bryar Lane, which is my favorite piece of audio fiction I’ve ever listened to; The Fiona Potts Interview; Inhale, which is a really cool superhero tale; and Pixie, which is so damn charming. I’m also a fan of Fable and Folly’s, The Axe and Crown, which is the kind of tavern you hope to come across when playing Dungeons and Dragons.

When it comes to narrated fiction, Levar Burton Reads is always great. And even though it wasn’t a podcast, when Ben Loory was reading fiction live on his Instagram account, I loved that. Also, I think Taylor Zabloski’s The Dog is Dead is the most overlooked fiction podcasts ever! Seriously, go listen to it. It’s fourteen stories told in second person, which isn’t easy to pull off, and then a really cool fifteenth episode where he shows how all the stories tie into each other.

Mostly, though, when it comes to podcasts and fiction, I listen to far more interviews with writers, with Brad Listi’s Otherppl being my favorite podcast. I prefer reading fiction, which brings me to the novels Jennifer asked about…

Novels and short stories influence Not About Lumberjacks more than anything. The show is very different than others in that it’s not based on genre or following any particular theme. There’s a fair bit of literary fiction on my show, and literary fiction tends to not do so well when recorded…unless, of course, it’s Levar Burton narrating a more famous work.

My favorite novel is Robert Olmstead’s A Trail of Heart’s Blood Wherever We Go, and I’ll always adore Jeffrey Ford’s The Portrait of Mrs. Charbuque. In fact, I adore everything Jeffrey Ford does because he could write genre fiction and then turn around and write one of the most literary things you’ll ever read.

Looking at some recent books back here in my office (and on my phone), there’s stuff by Peg Alford Pursell, Chuck Wendig, Tayari Jones, Stephen Graham Jones, Natalia Sylvester, Rubén Degollado, Alex George, Ann Patchett, Jess Walter, Charlotte McConaghy, and Peter Geye. Currently, I’m finally reading On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous by Ocean Vuong, which is just so damn beautiful.

But I’ve also been working through Fritz Leiber’s Lankhmar novels again and, when I just need a random short story, I read the next thing in The Big Book of Modern Fantasy, edited by Ann and Jeff Vandermeer. Also, until my end, I will always maintain that comic books and graphic novels are some of the best things ever created!

I do lean toward literary fiction with quirky—or even outright fantastic elements woven in—but mostly, I just grab what sounds good to me. (I’ve found so many good books just by picking up something I never heard of.) It’s rare that I’ll read for escape, but not everything has to challenge me, either.

Regarding solo episodes or guest narrators, uhm…

The goal since the start has always been to feature my own writing. I’ve had people ask if I’d publish their stories on Not About Lumberjacks, and the answer is always going to be a resounding no! What makes the show its own thing is it’s a place for my quirky or sometimes serious little stories.

So, while all the stories are all my own, I’ve never been insistent on being the sole narrator…especially when a story features a female protagonist.

The first Not About Lumberjacks story narrated by someone else if the fourth episode, “Horus,” about a writer’s assistant who gets more than she bargained for with her boss’ parrot. My wife, Cynthia Griffith narrated it because…it seemed weird for deep-voiced me to narrate a story in which all the characters are women. Nobody wants to hear that!

There’s another reason I like having others narrate stories: I’m dyslexic. I have a very hard time reading out loud.

So…making the solo episodes is not easy for me, but I like having control over sound and schedule. With Cynthia narrating, it’s still done in-house, so to speak, so it works out well.

But, obviously, I’ve had others narrate episodes. In some ways it’s easier because, like I said, narrating isn’t easy for me, but in other ways it’s harder because there’s more to organize. In episodes like the annual Christmas show I do, where there are a handful of stories, if I use different narrators, the stories sound different because they used different microphones and they’re all in different spaces.

There’s an anniversary episode, which is an audiodrama called “Waking the Lumberjack,” that I both love and hate. I loved working with a cast of voice actors, but…I hate that the quality of some of the recordings didn’t match up. Even having help equalizing everything, it sounded disjointed to me, even when laying in more sounds to mask these differences.

But I do love working with others and seeing how they interpret something I’ve written. There are a couple moments in the latest story, narrated by Jesse Harley, that I definitely couldn’t have pulled off as well as he did.

I recently asked people online if they like episodes with other narrators, or if they prefer me telling my own stories. Results were mixed, with a preference toward me narrating my own stories.

So, I’ll likely pull back most narration to my wife and me…especially for the more heart-felt stories I guess I’m kind of known for. Stories that seem more “me…” even though it’s an effort for me to narrate, are still—in many ways—easier to do on my own (or with Cynthia). I can record and edit according to my schedule, and there will always be a consistent sound from episode to episode.

But other times, I’m not the right voice for certain characters. So even though it can be a bit more difficult working with others, it’s worth it to me to have a story seem more genuine when narrated by the right person.

Ideally, I’d love to be able to bring narrators in and record on my gear while I run sound. I’ve had some narrators run through some recordings because sometimes life gets in the way of things…or I find myself spending more time cleaning up plosives—those little p-p-pops—because someone narrating didn’t use a pop filter or decent windscreen.

But none of my recordings are perfect. I record in a space that has some echo, which is something I want to fix with a portable sound booth soon. So, I don’t mind that some episodes sound different than others.

This is all a very long way of saying I prefer doing everything on my own, but that also, I do love working with friends. I find it easiest to do all on my own, even when guest narrators deliver solid narration with no mistakes…while I might read the same line a dozen times before finally getting it right.

Maybe if this were a fulltime thing, I’d find it much easier having others narrate—even though there are more logistics to consider. There are times day job responsibilities pop up and even get in the way. Being able to adapt and create the show around life’s demands is easier than giving someone a deadline and then realizing I have time to get ahead of schedule, but…I can’t expect others to adapt to my schedule during those times.

If I weigh all the pros and cons, it’s easiest to do it all on my own, but probably not as fun.

Thanks for the questions, everybody. Here’s to the next five years!

* * *

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.

The now-annual Christmas episode is right around the corner. It’s four somber tales with a light-hearted story about a genie breaking things up. Seeya in December!

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 Not About Lumberjacks’ anniversary show, the most Not Not About Lumberjacks story of the year!

When Wayne finds strange items in geocaches along the old lumber roads of northern Minnesota, he becomes obsessed with discovering who’s leaving the items behind. What he discovers changes his life forever…

And now…the usual content advisory: This story deals with divorce. There’s also swearing and some crude humor.

All right—let’s get to work…

* * *

Geocached

On Saturday morning, Wayne pulls a dildo from the ammo container nestled against the base of a white pine. He looks at the blue dick in his hand and drops it when a thought occurs to him: “This might be used.” He instinctively sniffs his hand, which fortunately smells like cardamom—not silicone and a moment of pleasure. He gets the toe of his trail runner beneath the rubber penis and kicks it as far as he can into the woods, watching it wobble in the air and out of view.

He shakes his head and thinks, “What sort of person leaves such a thing in a geocache?”

* * *

Wayne’s therapist suggested a hobby, something that would get him out moving his body after the divorce, rather than sitting at home and feeling sorry for himself. He’d overheard two guys in the cafeteria at work talking about geocaching, and he figured that was as good as anything. He quickly discovered it appealed to his sense of wonder, each new cache holding the promise of logbooks full of signatures and—sometimes—key chains, tiny plastic toys, or stickers and patches from state and national parks. The surprise of what might be found keeps him going.

In return, Wayne leaves behind coins from an old collection he’s had since childhood—nothing worth too much, but still…things rare enough that he imagines the surprised faces of people finding Mercury dimes from the 1920s.

* * *

A half mile down the trail he comes to another cache, something only a day old. Wayne puts on a pair of garden gloves and digs through the leaves at the base of a paper birch. He comes out from the debris with a small metal cylinder with a screw-top cap. It’s not much larger than a pen. He lightly shakes it side to side and listens to something rattling inside.

“Probably some stones,” he thinks—a fairly typical find. Instead, after unscrewing the cap and rocking the opening toward his palm, out roll four human teeth like dice. Molars. He pokes the tip of his tongue into the void in his mouth where, twelve years ago, wisdom teeth presided over the back.

With the second strange find of the day, he decides to call it quits.

* * *

Sunday morning, Wayne finds a Ziploc baggie containing a logbook and a wad of hair. It’s soft and red, like an Irish setter’s fur, but upon closer inspection it’s definitely human. It smells of cardamom.

Wayne looks through the logbook and doesn’t notice anything strange—just the usual names and dates people leave behind as proof they were there. It’s been over three weeks since the last entry.

At the end of the trail is another cache, a fake, hollow rock held shut by magnets. Inside is another mass of hair, about the size of an egg. Wayne pulls on a glove and, using his thumb, separates the mass. Inside, he finds a tiny bone. It looks like something from the inner ear, and he panics, wondering if a serial killer is leaving behind pieces of his crimes in geocaches. It would be easy for someone to step out from the trees and take Wayne’s life while he focuses on strange items he’s found over the weekend. Even if he screamed for help—out deep on trails and old lumber roads—even if he was heard, it would take time to reach him. By then, his throat could be slit, he’d be dragged deep into the woods, and his thumb or big toe could end up in the next cache.

He’s relieved when he notices a clump of feathers and a tiny, mouse-sized leg bone. Wayne is far from an outdoorsman, but he knows enough about wildlife to realize he’s holding the regurgitated contents of an owl’s gizzard in his palm—another peculiar thing to place in a geocache.

The rest of the morning’s finds continue the path of oddities: a pocket watch that runs backwards, a small silk pouch of what appears to be toenail clippings, and—in some ways the strangest find of all—a copy of Herbie Goes Bananas (on VHS tape).

* * *

In the week that follows, it becomes an obsession. Vacation days are taken in the hope of catching the culprit leaving behind doll heads, a vial of coyote urine, and a glass eye featuring the Ace of Spades instead of an iris and pupil. A week later, he finds an actual monkey paw in a capped length of PVC looking like a pipe bomb.

Wayne reads through the list of recent finds he keeps in a small notebook he carries everywhere, hoping to find some connection. He wonders if it’s a puzzle—are all the items somehow related? What would he win if he could figure it all out? Or maybe it’s just a running prank. Perhaps he’s being recorded at each geocache and is now a minor YouTube celebrity—“DildoMan” kicking a rubber penis into the woods in slow motion for the amusement of teenagers.

The most perplexing thing of all is the occasional whiff of cardamom…in the geocaches, but sometimes Wayne swears he smells it on the breeze. He wonders if it’s all in his head, like how some people say they smell toast when having a stroke. What bodily function fails and triggers the smell of cardamom, he wonders?

* * *

It is a morning of lumberjack finds when Wayne comes across a letter.

The first cache of the day held Paul Bunyan and Babe the Blue Ox figurines in the olive-green Tupperware bowl everyone seemed to own in the 1970s. After that, in a tiny metal box hanging from the branch of a white spruce like a Christmas tree ornament, he found a vintage button for the Lumberjack World Championships in Hayward, Wisconsin. Then: wrapped in plastic and placed in the crook of a silver maple, a copy of a book called The Art of the Lumberjack. But it’s what Wayne finds in a baggie weighed down by a pile of perfectly stacked rocks that startles him.

He examines the baggie, wondering how to pull it out from beneath the waist-high stone tower without toppling it. Through the clear plastic, written in gold calligraphy: WAYNE.

They know his name! Maybe his initial thoughts about a serial killer were correct after all; maybe some giant man with a coarse beard and perfect handwriting is about to step out in a knit cap, checkered shirt, and an ax. The Lumberjack Killer, the news will call him—a crazed man of the Northwoods who shouts, “Tim-ber!!!” as he cuts his victims to pieces.

Wayne kicks the stones over and picks up the baggie. He unfolds the piece of paper and reads:

Dear Wayne,

I know you are trying to catch me, and that makes this all the more exciting. The two of us out in the forest playing cat and mouse. You, wondering if there’s a reason to any of this—and who could blame you? Yesterday, it was 80s hair bands on cassette tape. Today, it’s all about lumberjacks. I wonder what tomorrow will bring? Any requests?

Sincerely,

Me

There is no clue to who left the letter by the handwriting, but Wayne has known more women to practice calligraphy than men. For a moment he wonders if it’s his ex-wife toying with him, but Patricia hated being outside—restaurants, stores, and hotels were her style, not old lumber roads in middle-of-nowhere Minnesota. Besides, calligraphy is not a thing she would have ever deemed worth doing.

Wayne looks at the last line of the letter—Any requests?—and smiles.

He licks the tip of the golf pencil he keeps with his pocket notebook and writes: An Old Plaid Thermos.

Wayne puts the letter back into the sandwich bag and places the largest stone from the stacked tower on top. Then he goes to work collecting the stones he kicked away. He piles them one on top of the other, until it looks like a good clearing in which to practice yoga beside balanced stones.

* * *

Since childhood, Wayne has lived by the Boy Scout motto: Be prepared! He hikes back to his car to retrieve a sleeping bag and his store of emergency food and water. When he returns to the stones, he half-expects the letter to be gone, already retrieved by whomever has been teasing him for weeks. But it’s still there when Wayne comes back to the clearing. He hides in the trees, wrapping himself in the sleeping bag as he waits for the prankster. He finally falls asleep around two in the morning.

Wayne opens his eyes at the first light of day, a blue light before the sun climbs above the horizon and trees. It’s always been his favorite time of day: a head still hazy from dreams—a daily do-over every twenty-four hours.

He slowly makes his way toward the teetering stone pillar, keeping an eye out as he goes. The letter is gone. On the side of the stones opposite his view he sees it: an old plaid Thermos and something wrapped in Christmas paper.

* * *

Wayne picks up the Thermos and sees the Post-it note stuck to its side. In perfect calligraphy, two words: DRINK ME.

He sets it down and then unwraps the gift, revealing what might be a first edition of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. A smaller sticky note marks a spot in the book. Wayne flips it open and reads two underlined passages:

It was all very well to say “Drink me,” but the wise little Alice was not going to do that in a hurry. “No, I’ll look first,” she said, “and see whether it’s marked ‘poison’ or not.”

And…

“What a curious feeling!” said Alice; “I must be shutting up like a telescope.”

Wayne removes the cup from the top of the Thermos and unscrews the cap. One of his favorite things about cool mornings is how every sense seems heightened—particularly one’s sense of smell. The clearing fills with the scent of cardamom coffee.

Poisoned or drugged coffee be damned, he does as commanded and takes a sip straight from the Thermos. Wayne waits a few minutes and then pours a cup, savoring the rising vapor as it cools. It’s the best cup of coffee he’s ever had.

As he drinks, he ponders the opening of the book: Alice chasing a rabbit down a hole. Alice drinking a potion that makes her tiny enough to pass through a small door into Wonderland. Is there some bigger meaning to all this, Wayne wonders? Patricia always said he lost himself in his obsessions, never content to simply let a thought go until rolling it around from every direction and understanding everything about how it worked. Down his rabbit holes and locking himself behind his tiny doors.

When the sun is fully up and he’s consumed too much coffee, Wayne goes home, showers, and eats a proper breakfast. He laughs while looking at the Thermos on his kitchen counter.

* * *

Wayne is at Annie’s Attic antique shop the moment they open. In much the way surprises found in geocaches appeal to him, the random finds in antique shops have always had the same pull. What stuck in his memory most from his last visit to Annie’s Attic was the plaid Thermos, just like the one his grandfather used for work and brought along on fishing trips.

“Good morning,” Wayne says as he enters and goes straight to a shelf in the back of the shop. The Thermos is not there—the bait was taken!

“Excuse me, I was here the other day, and you had an old plaid Thermos in the back. It’s not there. Did somebody buy it?”

“Let me ask my wife,” the man behind the counter says.

“Annie? Did we sell that Thermos?”

“What Thermos?” a woman says from another part of the shop.

“The plaid one. Gentleman up here is asking about it.”

A woman in her 60s approaches. She smiles and says, “I remember you.”

Wayne nods and says, “Thank you. I like shops like this.”

“You’re looking for a Thermos?”

“Yes,” Wayne says. “But it appears to be gone.”

Her eyes widen. “We’ve not sold it. Let’s go have a look.”

As she leads Wayne to the back of the shop, it occurs to him the only time the person who left the note in the clearing could have read his request for the Thermos and then purchased it was when he went to his car for provisions and his sleeping bag. They had to have been right there the whole time. He wonders if they are watching him now.

“It was right here,” Annie says when they reach the back corner of the shop. “That’s strange.”

On a closer look, Wayne notices the envelope on the shelf where the Thermos should be. He hands it to Annie, who opens it and pulls out a note and two twenty dollar bills.

In calligraphy:

The Thermos that was here cost twenty dollars. Here is forty.

“How strange,” Annie says.

* * *

Wayne returns to the clearing and shouts, “I know you’re here! Show yourself!”

He pauses and listens, hearing only the calls of crows and pipping of cardinals.

“Who are you? How do you know my name?”

Nothing.

He looks at the stone pile and notices another note. This time, in a woman’s handwriting:

Wayne,

We don’t know each other, but I saw you mention your divorce on a geocache forum a while ago. It’s not hard to discover things about a person by piecing together a few things online.

I guess we all look for things to pass the time when we’re sad. I lost someone very dear to me last year. I guess I needed the laugh, but also, I wanted to honor his mirth.

My husband was a fan of leaving things behind: notes tucked in places all around the house, some that I’ve only just found while packing to move away from here. It wasn’t just for me, though. In bookshops, restaurants, or just while out hiking, he left behind notes and strange little trinkets, hoping to inspire people…or at least make them smile.

I’ve missed smiling and laughing, and it seemed like it’s been a while for you, too. I’m sorry if you’ve felt picked on—that’s not been my intent.

To make up for it, get here quickly: N 47°25’39.1″ W 93°36’36.3″.

Rebecca

* * *

Wayne steps off the Soumi Hills Trail and finds a small wooden box hidden beneath some ferns on the shore of Hill Lake. Inside is another note and two coins: nineteen-hundred Liberty head twenty-dollar golds. He looks around, making sure he is alone before admiring the coins in the sunlight. Holding them tightly in his left hand, he unfolds the paper and reads:

Wayne,

I found two of your Mercury head dimes and figured leaving these for you was the least I could do for all the trouble I may have caused. My husband collected coins; I’m sure he’d be honored these found their way to a keeper who respects them for what they are and not their worth. But if you need money, do not feel bad selling them. Or cash them in and use the money to make somebody’s day better or different.

That’s what I hope for you: better days full of unexpected surprises.

Thank you, and goodbye,

Rebecca

Before placing the note and coins back into the box, Wayne inhales slowly, savoring the faint scent of cardamom from inside.

He knows what he must do…

* * *

It doesn’t matter where Rebecca is going or what Patricia is doing—Wayne lets it all go. Still, he wishes he could thank the woman who sent him on a chase for weeks. The best he has, though, is hoping she knows she changed him and pulled him from a rut. His actions will have to suffice.

Wayne places the dildo into the ammo container and nestles it against the base of a white pine.

He shakes his head and smiles, now knowing what sort of person leaves such a thing in a geocache …

* * *

[Quirky music plays…]

Christopher Gronlund:

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks.

And a huge thank you to Mr. Jesse Harley…one half of Canadian Politics is Boring, a history and comedy podcast. Find it wherever you get your podcasts, or just go to canadianpoliticsisboring.com.

A little bit more about Jesse:

When he’s not singing sea shanties at kitchen parties or streaming video games, he can be found flipping and tumbling all over the piers of Halifax. And I’m not kidding about the flipping stuff…he can really tumble and do all kinds of cool acrobatics stuff, to the point I’m positive, if he so desired, he could become Nova Scotia’s premier breakdancer.

But what Jesse really does best is make movies, and that’s pretty impressive because whatever he puts his mind to, he really does well. His films have won multiple awards and allowed him to travel all around Canada and the United States. So really, you should check out at least a couple things Jesse does, because he really is a great person.

All right, onto the rest of the end credits…

Theme music, as always, is by Ergo Phizmiz. Story music this time is by Headlund, licensed from Epidemic Sound.

Sound effects are always made in-house or from freesound.org. Visit nolumberjacks.com for information about the show, the voice talent, and the music.

December brings the annual Christmas episode: a handful of micro-fiction anchored by something a bit longer. There’s a tale of friendship, a story of a strange reunion, a genie story, something about suburban vandalism, and a somber Christmas story because that’s what I do.

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:

I should probably begin episodes of Behind the Cut with a spoiler alert. Something like, “Behind the Cut is usually a behind-the-scenes look at the latest episode of Not About Lumberjacks and likely contains spoilers of the latest episode. You’ve been warned…”

* * *

I didn’t like my latest story, “The Cold of Summer,” until its final days.

I mean, I loved the idea of it—a group of strangers contracting a virus that allows them to share dreams? What’s not cool about that? But it became a story that seemed to do only what was expected of it: hitting all the right points, but feeling rather stale in doing so.

For me, a story that goes through the motion of its telling with little more than the effort leaves me flat. And for much of “The Cold of Summer’s” creation, it was that kind of story. It’s not that there was anything really wrong with it, but it definitely lacked that certain je n’est sais quoi.

* * *

Writing is an act of discovery, and for me, I often go into stories with no idea how they end. In the writing world, I’m what’s called a pantser, someone who writes by the seat of their pants…not according to any plan.

Because of this, I often put a great amount of trust in myself and the story…believing it’ll all come together through the effort of putting my ass in a chair and writing.

It’s not that I’ve never tried planning, but I can’t truly know a story until wading in and spending time with it—no matter how much I try. Writing begets writing; ideas lead to more ideas, and it’s often during that effort that the best pathways appear. (Sometimes, granted, too many trails at once, but you work with it and trust the journey.)

* * *

One of the problems with “The Cold of Summer’s” creation was how it quickly bloated. The structure was there: people contract a virus, they get sick, they have dreams, we see how it affects them, and…there, well…I planned another round of full dreams in which the characters crossed over into each other’s dreams.

It was a neat idea, but aside from adding to the story’s length, it became strangers helping strangers in dreams. It all seemed too forced, like, “Hey, I don’t know you, but aren’t you the person I saw the other day in line at the pharmacy? Here, let me fix all that’s wrong in your life…”

Okay, maybe it wasn’t that bad, but it was definitely not good.

* * *

The first time I really considered scrapping the story, I did what I usually do in that rare instance and I sat with it. And in doing so…I knew the old woman needed to play a bigger role. But I had no idea what that was until, in another rare instance, I talked about a story in progress with my wife.

She said something to the effect of, “Maybe the old woman is full of regrets…?”

I ran with that idea, but I still had the bloated dreams issue—and all the stuff that I came up with for the old woman seemed hokey. (Even now, her line about the ripples in the final dream still seems very on the nose to me.)

But those are things that can be fixed. I’m sure some people would have liked seeing the characters crossing over into each other’s dreams instead of the quick info dump, but here’s the thing with any story: any decision you make along the way will be liked by some and hated by others. (I mean, some people like chocolate, others like vanilla…and then there are people who are like, “Oh, yuck!” to it all and want something savory.)

So, the second round of dreams was cut short and the old woman offers some pat advice we all already know, but ya know, hey: sometimes you do that in a story. And in making those decisions, the ending seemed more realistic to me: It wasn’t rushed—it was four strangers who haven’t quite come to grips with what just happened to them, and they’re all like, “Now what?” instead of things concluding in a neat little package where everything is resolved.

* * *

Another thing I need to remember when a story seems off is the stories on Not About Lumberjacks are heard—not read. (Although I’ve been catching up on providing transcripts for people with hearing impairments or those who would rather read fiction than listen to it.)

Lines that might seem a bit heavy-handed while writing can be tempered through narration. Sounds fill in the gaps, and sometimes a music bed can do more for a piece than trying to describe it in greater detail.

When all those elements finally come together, I’ve enjoyed all the stories on Not About Lumberjacks even more.

* * *

I also need to remember these stories are not for me. Sure, obviously, I write the things I want to write, but once they’re out there, they belong as much to the readers as much as they do to me.

I recently shared the opening story of December’s Christmas episode with someone…and they saw in it something totally different than my intent. But, once I think about it, I’d argue that their view is even more valid than mine because they lived through the very subject of the story in a way I never did.

I’m not precious about controlling what people take from the things I write. If I wanted to control it all, I’d not share the stories at all…or I’d only share them with people primed to see in them exactly what I see in them.

Fortunately, the people I hear from—people I know and even a bunch of strangers—like what I’m doing. And when they talk about liking stories I’m apprehensive about, I see those stories affected listeners and readers in ways I might never have imagined.

It’s in those moments that I’m happy I let something go, even if I wasn’t sure about it…because some of the things that have entertained and even helped people are not always the stories that mean the most to me.

And that makes the effort worth it every time I sit down to write and record a story for the show…

* * *

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.

Later this month, a guy down on his luck who takes up the hobby of geocaching begins finding the strangest caches out along the lumber roads of northern Minnesota. So strange, in fact, that his obsession with them changes his life forever. Oh, and of course, since it’s November and the anniversary episode of the show, I PROMISE…there is no mention at all about lumberjacks!!!

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