[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!

[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, four strangers are brought together when affected by a strange virus.

And now…the usual content advisory: This story deals with illness, including mentions of COVID-19. It’s also not without moments of anxiety, regret, abandonment, nightmares, and even death. I know that makes it sound like it’s a rough tale, but this is still a story of hope.

Oh—and just like almost every episode—there’s some swearing. You’ve been warned.

All right—let’s get to work…

The Cold of Summer

The old woman in line at the pharmacy couldn’t stop coughing. During cold and flu season, it would have been bad enough, but in early summer during an expanding pandemic, it was cause for alarm.

The two people in line who were keeping their distance stepped back ever farther, while two others appeared to regret crowding the old woman seemingly on the verge of producing a lung from the depths of her torso and letting it hang from her wide-open mouth.

“I’m so sorry,” she said between hacking fits. “I’ve had a catch in my throat for weeks that just won’t go away.”

Meesha Salib pointed to the mask she was wearing and said, “Madame, you should be wearing one of these.” Before vowing to come back when it was less crowded, she pointed at the other two and said, “You, too, as well. I am not angry—just concerned.”

“Well, you should be angry,” Todd Bancroft said from the back of the line. “We should all be angry thatthere are still people not wearing masks. They’re putting us all at risk.”

“I forgot mine,” Darnell Walker said. “Seriously…it’s just been one of those kinds of weeks.”

Todd’s mask inflated as he let out a dramatic sigh.

“I’m so sorry,” the old woman said to the remaining three in line.

Keighla Murray said, “It’s okay,” and took another step away.

* * *

Meesha Salib was lying on the couch before bedtime when she started to sniffle. She didn’t feel right—like a balloon was slowly expanding in her head and on the verge of popping.

She got up and raced to the bathroom, head tilted back and continuing to sniffle in an effort to make it to a piece of Kleenex before having her nose run everywhere. Her skull pounded as she blew.

She grabbed the box and headed to bed.

* * *

It felt like a bloody nose when it first hit Todd Bancroft. He was at his desk, posting on Twitter about how rude people were at the pharmacy earlier—how an old woman was likely to give him COVID-19; how only one other person in the pharmacy line even wore a mask. Right before clicking the Tweet button, his nose ran, falling from his face and onto his keyboard.

“Shit!”

He pinched his nostrils together and ran to the bathroom for a wad of toilet paper. Pressing it to his nose, he grabbed another wad and returned to his desk, trying his best to clean what he could reach on his keyboard. It would take more to clean beneath the keys, but as his head began to pound, he said, “Fuck it,” and went to bed.

* * *

Darnell Walker’s nose ran into the open copy of Biochemistry & the Molecular Biology of Plants resting on the kitchen table. He’d been struggling to keep his eyes open through a section about using biotechnology to create genetic diversity in plants for an hour, wondering the whole time why he thought returning for a master’s degree was a good idea. But he wasn’t the first parent with two young kids and a busy job to put in extra time in the hopes of a career that would afford him more time doing what he preferred—not what he had to do to make ends meet.

“Aww, fuck!”

As he rushed to the kitchen and wiped his nose with a paper towel in the kitchen, his wife, Kara, wandered in and said, “Did you say something, babe?”

“Yeah, I just…my nose ran into my book. I’ve felt kinda crappy all day. Think I’ll clean up and head to bed…”

* * *

Keighla Murray was binge-watching the second season of Stranger Things for the third time when her nose began to itch. On screen, as Steve was surrounded by monsters in a junkyard, her nose began to run.

She wiped it with the back of her hand, but it wouldn’t stop.

“Dammit!” She picked up the remote and paused the episode before stepping to the kitchen and grabbing a paper towel. It felt like sandpaper as she wiped at her nose, as though every nerve in her face had poked through skin and invited the pains of the world into her head.

She turned off the TV and went to bed.

* * *

Meesha plops down on the floor with a handful of loose papers, a pencil and pen, and a set of thin markers. She feels like a kid as she draws panels and thumbnails for the next page in a comic book story about a girl whose curiosity shapes the world around her. Her super power: if she wonders why people are cruel to each other, after rolling the reasons around in her head for a bit, the problem is solved.

She’s moved beyond the grand designs, and is now left with smaller stories. In them, she sees the greater purpose of the comic book: a character who can see how people feeling like they need permission are given the freedom to pursue their dreams, all from a seemingly chance encounter with a stranger who appears, helps them, and moves on.

It’s better than superheroes beating each other up and rescuing weaker people in need of their help. What’s more heroic, Meesha believes, than helping others help themselves?

The colors of the markers bleed through the paper, staining her older sister’s copy of COSMOPOLITAN used as both a drawing surface and something to catch color instead of the floor. Zahra will throw a fit when she sees another one of her magazines covered in marker colors, but none of that matters. Right now, Meesha’s made something from nothing. A story of hope.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” her mother says.

“What?”

“Wasting your time drawing cartoons.”

“They’re comic books.”

She knows her mother doesn’t see a difference.

“Your sister might not amount to much, but your father and I except better from you.”

“But Zahra’s is popular, Mother; she has it made.”

Something about Meesha’s childhood home does not seem right. It’s a feeling more than anything tangible, like something bad lives inside the walls…like the house itself is alive and ready to close in on them all.

Meesha’s mother says, “It wasn’t easy for us, you know?”

“I know.”

“We just want what’s best for you. You have opportunities your father and I never had. You’d do well to read or study—not draw your little cartoons.”

The room seems darker than it should be. The nearby dining room is lost to moon glow, even though it’s the middle of the day.

Even something about Meesha’s mother seems off. She looks no different, but some primordial instinct deep down says, “Run!”

She wakes to the bright light of a new morning.

* * *

The moving truck pulls away from Todd’s fifth childhood home. There are no friends to say goodbye—no neighbors gathering to wish his family well as they move to a new military base. “What is it like to stay in one place for more than a couple years?” Todd wonders.

He watches the moving truck climb up the street and disappear from view as it turns left at the stop sign. Looking back toward the house, his parents are gone—the family car is nowhere to be seen. Todd tries the front door, but it’s locked. Peeking in the front window, something moves from the living room to the hallway.

He bangs on the front door.

“Mom? Dad?”

He tries the doorknob again, and the door opens wide.

Of all the houses he’s lived in, this one let in the most light. But the house is dark, like twilight settling in, even though it’s a bright morning outside.

Todd hears the door to the basement close.

“Dad? Are you here?”

He wanders the house, listening to his steps echoing in the empty space. It doesn’t even smell like they were ever here. He finds himself in the short hallway, staring at the basement door. He reaches out.

A must settles in his nose. One more breath, and it’s joined by the stench of burned plastic and ozone, like insulation scorched from a wire. Todd descends the stairs by the light of a flickering TV.

It’s not the basement belonging to the house. It’s the basement of the first home he remembers, when his father was stationed at Great Lakes Naval Training Station, in Illinois. A large room with a musty red and black, indoor/outdoor tartan carpet covering hard concrete. A blue couch shoved against one wall, and a TV on an old dresser against another. Metal groaning from the utility room on the other side of the cheap door at the bottom of the stairs.

Todd sees someone sitting in an oversized chair just feet in front of the television. He can almost hear his mother say, “Toddy, you need to move farther back so you don’t hurt your eyes watching shows or playing your games.”

He spots his old Nintendo precariously situated on the dresser beside the TV. The screen is now black, except for Mario’s score, total coins collected, which world he’s in, the time, and the words GAME OVER. It’s funny how much illumination a few white words on a black screen on an old tube TV can give off.

A frail, adult hand holds the game’s controller. Todd moves around from the side of the chair and looks at the hunched frame sitting alone in the basement.

Todd is forty-five years old, but if he had to guess what he’d look like in twenty years, it’s exactly like the dead man in the chair.

He wakes up in bed, covered in sweat.

* * *

Darnell rushes through proofreading a study about improving drought tolerance in corn. He looks at the only personal thing on his desk at work: a photo of him with his wife, Kara, son, Myles, and daughter, Zoey. They keep him going on days like today, when everyone in the lab seems on edge, even though there are no funding issues or pressing deadlines. But somehow, Darnell always has pressing deadlines; the newest person on the receiving end of the all the things at work others believe are beneath them.

Words run together as Darnell watches the clock on his computer creep toward five-o’-clock. He’ll grab a bite to eat on the way to his kids’ school, where he’ll take a saved seat beside Kara and watch a group of sixth graders struggle to play a selection of popular tunes Darnell wouldn’t recognize if they were played by professionals. Zoey will have her moment on bassoon, an instrument Darnell has come to love when he’s not busy trying to cover its honking during practice sessions conflicting with his studies.

“Walker,” his boss says, “when you’re done with that, we need you to take a look at these.”

His desk vibrates as a stack of paper several reams thick is plopped down.

He points at the lower right corner of his computer monitor. “I have to leave by five today.”

“We need this reviewed before you leave, today” his boss says.

“I can’t miss another thing with my kids.”

“You either want this, or you don’t. We’re paying for you to finish school. I understand that family’s important, but family doesn’t pay the bills.”

Darnell thinks about how he imagined it would be: no more field studies. Lab work and then jumping to a museum that would allow him evenings and weekends with his family.

He runs a finger along the stack of papers and picks up his phone.

He types, “So sorry—I have to work again.” and sends the text message.

When he arrives home, the house is dark. No dinner left out for him, just a note from his wife reading, “It’s getting old.” He sees pillows and a blanket tossed on the couch.

He looks at Biochemistry & Molecular Biology of Plants on the dining room table, but he’s too tired to study tonight. He opens the refrigerator door, but nothing looks good.

He goes to check on Zoey. She stirs and sits up as he cracks the door and peeks in.

“Daddy?”

“Yeah, sweetie,” he says. He sits on the edge of the bed and pats her arm.

“I’m sorry I missed your solo.”

He listens to her sniffle and force an, “It’s okay,” meant to make him feel better, even though they both know it’s not.

It’s dark, but Darnell can make out something wrong with Zoey’s face. Her mouth is a black hole.

“What happened to your teeth?”

“They fell out, Daddy.”

“What? What happened?”

“I was playing bassoon and saw you weren’t there and they started falling out. Everyone laughed at me. They said I ruined the concert.”

Darnell rubs her arm; skin flakes off in big chunks, like dry, cracked earth. Before he can say anything more, Zoey is reduced to dust, and he bolts upright in bed.

* * *

It’s such a slow morning at Crofter’s Crafts that a fourth cup of coffee does nothing to help with Keighlas’ focus. The empty cups in the small garbage can by her feet—hidden away from the view of customers—remind her nothing will help get her through the long day ahead. One register over, Haisley Nash watches TikTok videos at full volume, despite being told by their manager not to. When Manager Brad walks the floor near the registers, a burst of adrenaline from the anticipation that Haisley is about to actually get in trouble—maybe even fired—does more for Keighla than caffeine.

“’Mornin’, Haisley,” he says.

She stops smacking her gum long enough to say, “Huh?”

“I said good morning.”

“Oh…yeah.”

As he walks off, Keighla calls after him. “Hey, Brad?!”

He turns back toward the registers, and Keighla points at Haisley.

“Oh, yeah.” He walks to Haisley’s register. “I’d normally have this conversation in my office, but…we’ve decided to give you a two-dollar-an-hour raise.”

Haisley pops her gum and says, “Cool,” and then returns to her phone.

Keighla chases Brad down as he heads toward his office.

“You gave her a raise?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“She deserves it.”

“What?! Why?”

“She’s our best cashier. We’d hate to lose her.”

“She’s the worst! She ignores customers and blares her phone all day. She smacks her gum and takes breaks whenever the fuck she wants to.”

Brad’s eyebrows come together; his face turns red.

“You need to get back to your register.”

“There’s no one here, Brad. We need to have this talk.”

“You need to get back to your register…now!”

“Or what?”

“Or we’ll have to let you go.”

Back at her register, Keighla breathes deeply—in and out; in and out. Between Haisley’s phone and Brad’s chiding, she realizes maybe the four cups of coffee did have an effect.

When Keighla’s nerves settle, Haisley turns down her phone and says, “So what did you do this weekend? Did you work on that novel you’re always talking about?”

Keighla’s face grows warm; she tugs at a burning pink earlobe. “Yeah.”

“Did you really?” Haisley says.

“Yes, I did!”

“Don’t lie to me, Keighla. I can see in your face you didn’t do shit this weekend.”

Keighla’s earlobe droops. She brings her hands to her cheeks and feels loose flesh. She pulls her phone from her pocket and opens the front-facing camera. A face lined with wrinkles; hair brittle and white.

“You’re never going to finish that book,” Haisley says. “If you’ve even started it at all.”

She turns the volume on her phone back up, and Keighla wakes up covered in sweat.

* * *

Meesha rarely called in sick to work, even though a teaching assistant could always fill in for her. She had her father’s work ethic and a strong desire to make her mother proud. This cold, though…she knew it made no sense that she could get it that quickly from the pharmacy line. COVID took days—even over a week—to appear. This was a matter of hours.

She thought about keeping her work laptop on after sending email to the department head, telling them she would not be in. There seemed to be no line between work and life now that she was home all the time on lockdown. But she logged out and closed her laptop, tucking it away into the backpack usually used when going in.

Meesha made a cup of mint tea and headed back to bed. From her nightstand, she pulled out a pencil and sketchbook. She wondered if her parents were right, that she wouldn’t have the life she had if she had kept drawing all the time. She did everything she was supposed to do. But as she drew a woman sitting on a tree stump on the sketchbook page, she wished she knew how her other life would have turned out, had she not done all that was expected of her.

When she was done with the drawing, she set it in her lap and cupped her hands around the warm mug. She brought it near her face and inhaled, letting the steam soothe her; for a moment, taking away all the pain from whatever it was she picked up at the pharmacy.

Is this what days could have been like? Slowly waking up instead of rushing to the university? Time to ease into the days before doing what she always wanted to do, rather than all she did for others?

She placed the mug and sketchbook on the nightstand and stretched. It didn’t take long before she returned to sleep.

* * *

Todd typed, “COVID dreams” into a Google search and was not surprised to see a list of results. The first thing he read: “People are reporting strange, intense, colorful, and vivid dreams—and many are having disturbing nightmares related to COVID-19.” Another link, and he was surprised to find a WebMD article that didn’t attribute a condition to cancer. Ten minutes later, after scanning several articles, he was convinced he didn’t have the virus—but he definitely had something.

The dream seemed so real, and the lingering dread didn’t ease its grip on him. He hated moving so often while growing up—not having a sibling or any friends. The closest thing he had, now, were a few people on Twitter who were as ready to pounce on others as him.

He did another Google search: “Fisher Vitale.” The first search result displayed a Facebook link. The second: an obituary.

He clicked the Facebook link. Todd hadn’t seen Fisher since fifth grade, but from what he was able to see, it looked like what he’d imagine one of the few friends he ever had with a few decades added on. He saw old photos posted by Fisher’s longtime friends with messages about missing him. Birthday wishes, even though it looked like he’d been dead for three years. One photo in particular caught Todd’s attention: a group of kids at a birthday party he attended. There were comments below the image about how much fun that day was; how great it was being a kid. They were right: Todd remembered how excited Fisher was when he unwrapped the Grimlock Transformer Todd bought him with his saved allowance.

And then he saw it: a comment from someone he didn’t remember and a response from Fisher:

“Who’s that kid on Mikey’s right?”

“Oh, man…I can’t remember his name. His dad was in the Navy, and he moved away that year. He gave me a Grimlock Dinobot. I bet it’s still in my mom’s attic…”

The day seemed already done, so Todd went back to bed.

* * *

Darnell wandered out to the kitchen, where Kara was making a pot of coffee.

“You okay, babe?” she said.

“Yeah. Just wiped. Why?”

“You were doing that weird dreaming snore where I know you’re alive, but you were kicking and muttering and doing that nose whistle thing.”

“I had a bad dream.”

“About what.”

“Just…” He didn’t want to talk about it. It was one of those dreams that seemed so real, the kind that take over all thoughts the rest of the day. “I don’t remember much about it, other than it was bad. I’m so damn tired. I’m not going into work today…”

“Want me to make you breakfast?”

“That sounds great, but I think I’m going to call Tom and head back to bed…”

* * *

When she woke up, after checking her phone, Keighla called her boss. She was happy to get his voice mail.

“Hey, Brad…It’s Keighla. I’m sick and I won’t be in today.”

Not a minute later, her phone buzzed. She thought about not answering, but not enough time had passed to say she fell back asleep and missed the call. At least she didn’t have to put on a fake sick voice.

“Hello.”

“Hey, Keighla—what’s up?”

“I’m sick.”

“Can you try making it in today? We really need you.”

“I have the Coronavirus.”

“What? Have you been tested?”

She hadn’t, but she still said, “Yeah.”

“How long ago?”

She wanted to say, “This right here? This is why no one likes you, Brad.” Instead, she said, “Last week.”

“What?! You’ve thought you had COVID for a week and you kept coming into work?!”

“Well, Brad, it’s not like you let us use what little time off we have. People gotta start their pandemic scrapbooks while the rest of the world burns.”

“You need to fax me the results?”

It came out of her mouth before she could stop it. “Who the fuck has a fax machine in their house these days, Brad. I’m sick! I’m not going out to fax anything. I’m going back to bed…”

She hung up, not caring if she’d still have a job when she was better. She wondered if she actually did have the virus. It wouldn’t be so bad, being so sick that in days, she might go to sleep and not wake up.

She put her phone back on the nightstand and closed her eyes.

* * *

The dreams continue for days: struggles with desires versus expectations; a lifetime of abandonment; time always seeming to slip away; trying to figure out what to do with a hollow life.

Meesha is shocked when the man without a mask at the pharmacy steps into a dream one night and tells her mother to let her be. In return, Meesha’s there for him the following day, telling him to relax and breathe during a nightmare—that soon, he will have more time with his family. Todd apologizes to Keighla for his outburst in the line at the pharmacy, and she tells him she was also raised by a parent in the military and understands. 

None of it makes sense.

* * *

On the final night of the cold, the old woman stands in a sunlit meadow in an otherwise dim forest. Her hair is loose, long and gray and hanging down to her thighs. Before her on the stump is a dark-gray stone basin. Meesha, Todd, Keighla, and Darnell approach to see what she is looking at. The basin is full of water, the color of the stone dark enough to create a mirror effect on the surface. The old woman from the pharmacy smiles when their four faces come into view of the water’s reflection.

“I’d like to show you something,” she says.

She touches the center of the water with her fingertip, sending out ripples to the edge of the basin. They bounce back, and when they meet in the center, the water swirls in a kaleidoscope of colors. Minds are awash in the strange haze of dreams, where understanding is compressed by time, where a lifetime can be felt and comprehended in a moment.

The life of the old woman unfolds before them: her mother telling her only good girls find good husbands; they see no friends outside of her family. All the hard work she put into keeping a home that, in the end, became an empty vessel holding only regrets.

The colors in the water basin stop swirling. The old woman turns to the group and says, “None of you need permission. But if you feel you do, I give it to you. In the end, the happiness you feel and the ripples you send out is what really matters. I wish I had known that sooner.”

She touches the water’s surface again, and the four others feel it’s where they belong.

“I’m going to sleep, now,” the old woman says.

For the first time in days, they awaken feeling refreshed.

* * *

Meesha Salib was looking at a cluster of flowers along the side of Hosack Meadows Trails when Darnell arrived.

“Claytonia verginica,” he said. “Virginia spring beauty. It’s one of my favorite flowers in the area.” He pointed to his face. “I remembered my mask this time.”

Keighla arrived next, kicking her way through the long grass ebbing and flowing like a green tide. Her eyes crinkled into a smile when she spotted the other two.

“So this is for real?” she said from behind her mask. It wasn’t a question—it was a lifetime of hoping one day something bigger would happen that would change the way she looked at everything.

“So it appears,” Darnell said.

Todd Bancroft lumbered his way along the trail, huffing the entire time.

“Do you still have the cold?” Meesha said.

“No,” Todd replied. “I’m just that out of shape. I need to get out more.”

After giving Todd a moment to catch his breath, Darnell said, “All right—question: how did you all know to come here?”

“I don’t know,” Keighla said. “I had a dream last night about the old woman from the pharmacy. She touched a bowl of water on tree stump in the dream. I just knew to come here.”

Darnell looked at the other two. “I assume we all had the same dream?”

Todd and Meesha nodded. When they all turned to look, growing from the stump’s center was a red and yellow flower that looked like a tiny fire in the breeze.

“That shouldn’t be here,” Darnell said.

Meesha was the first to approach. “What is it?”

“A pine lily. They don’t grow up here.”

“Her name was Lily, wasn’t it?” Todd wasn’t alone in the knowledge.

“This does not make sense,” Meesha said.

Darnell crouched down for a closer look at the flower. “And yet, here we all are.”

“So, what do we do now?” Keighl said.

Meesha pointed down the trail. “I suppose we go for a walk and figure it out.”

“That works,” Darnell said. “But first, I think we should all agree right now to stay out of each others’ dreams…and if anyone gets sick…stay the hell away from the rest of us…”

[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 Oscar Colling and Ethan Sloan, licensed from Epidemic Sound. Haisley’s tune is “Toss the Salt” by Sionya, featuring Emmi…also 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.

November’s tale is Not About Lumberjacks’ anniversary episode, which is always the most NOT about lumberjacks story of the year. It’s narrated by Jesse Harley, an award-winning filmmaker and one half of Canadian Politics is Boring, a history and comedy podcast.

You probably want to know what you’re in for, eh? Well, 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 the way he looks at life…

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:

In the mid-80s, a friend had a cassette tape of the Dead Milkmen’s Big Lizard in my Backyard. Before long, I had one, too.

My introduction to punk rock mostly came in the form of humorous bands, with the Vandals and The Dead Milkmen at the top for me. A borrowed copy of The Vandals’ Peace Through Vandalism lived in my car’s tape deck, and that friend and I almost wore out our copies of The Dead Milkmen’s Big Lizard in My Backyard.

When the Dead Milkmen released their second album, Eat Your Paisley, I was ecstatic. To this day, I still love every tune on that album. The ninth song on it is called “The Thing That Only Eats Hippies,” a tune about a kid who makes a monster in his bathtub for a 4-H project. The monster breaks loose [in the middle of the night] and then, well…true to the song’s title, it runs around eating hippies.

There’s a lot to like about the song; it’s one of many by the band that still finds its way into my head, where I never mind the earworm. The concept of a kid making a monster in his bathtub stuck with me for years.

Jump forward some time, and that seed of an idea came together one day when I sat down to write. I thought, “What about a story about a kid making a monster in his bathtub to take on a bully…and then things going terribly wrong?” It wouldn’t be the thing that only eats hippies…it would be a lonely kid’s only friend. Then I had to think, “Why is the kid so lonely?” Well, he’s in a messed up, broken family. He’s tired of being picked on by a kid named Chad Earnst. All that, and face it: junior high school sucked!

Making a monster in his bathtub makes perfect sense! And so, Booger became more than just an idea.

* * *

I really released my inner twelve-year-old when it came to the sound design for Booger. I’d seen a video about the sound effects behind one of the Mortal Combat videogames. In the video, the sound designer showed someone at Vox just how gross chewing a banana close to the mic could sound. He showed him how ripping apart green peppers can sound like a chest cavity being torn open with the right surrounding sounds. It was enough to get me really thinking about the sounds in Booger when it came time to record.

One night while cooking dinner, the sound of stirring rice and beans caught my attention. I grabbed a portable recorder and recorded the sounds, but it’s not used in Booger because the ambient sounds of the kitchen really stood out. Still, I knew a similar sound needed to be in the recorded story.

And so, one morning my wife shook her head as I went into a quiet closet at the back of the apartment with some sound gear, a banana, a bowl of oatmeal, and a glass of water with a straw. (Now, my wife’s a very patient woman who often takes part in helping me create sounds, but it still cracks her up at times, the efforts I go to record what I hear inside my head.) I thought the resulting sounds were funny. I figured as ridiculous as Booger is, why not go all-out with vile sound design?

* * *

Sound is a strange thing. You can shoot a mediocre video, but if it has great sound, it’s watchable. But if you watch a strong video with terrible sound…well, most people will move on. Good sound design often goes unnoticed because it helps people lose themselves in a story…whether it’s an audio tale like those on Not About Lumberjacks, or a multi-million-dollar movie.

While I thought the sound design for Booger was simply fun and funny, it really got to people. I heard from more listeners about Booger than perhaps any story I’ve ever told on Not About Lumberjacks. One morning alone, several friends messaged me about how gross the story sounded. During a recent board game night with friends, one of them mentioned about how hard it was for him to listen to, and another friend admitted the sounds got to him as well.

I listen to every story on Not About Lumberjacks multiple times before I let them go online. The reward for me is listening with my wife. By the time we sit down together, it’s more a visual thing for me because I’ve heard the story so many times. I don’t like hovering when people read a story I’ve written because I know it makes them nervous. But watching my wife hear a story for the first time is one of the reasons I do this show.

Watching her listen to Booger, though…I realized what I’d grown used to really was really quite vile. Seeing her face twist into shocked expressions with each new layer of sound made me wonder if I’d gone too far. I don’t talk about it, much, but I’m in the process of querying agents with a “serious” novel. I almost didn’t post Booger in fear that, no matter how strong an agent might feel the accompanying sample of the novel was…if they did just a little bit of research, they’d find Not About Lumberjacks, click the top story, and think to themselves, “Oh…oh, no. No. This cannot stand…This is a very wrong person!”

At the same time, I often think about my life in these terms: would younger me like the adult I grew up to become?

I think younger me would be quite impressed to see that we’re finally skilled enough to pull off the kind of serious fiction we were never quite sure we could write, but aspired to nonetheless. Younger me would be happy to see that we still play Dungeons and Dragons and that we can finally play some musical instruments with at least a vague proficiency. And younger me would think the sound design in Booger is the greatest thing ever!

So, if Booger grossed you out, blame the awkward kid I once was…and, of course, The Dead Milkmen.

* * *

[Theme music fades in]

Christopher Gronlund:

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 two weeks, it’s the November anniversary episode in which I go beyond my normal promise to never – ever – tell a story about lumberjacks. Join Cynthia Griffith and me for a tale called…The Lumberjack of Williamsburg.

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:

I wasn’t sure about releasing Under the Big Top. Not only is it almost twice as long as the longest episode of Not About Lumberjacks, but it breaks a lot of rules for mysteries.

It’s an older story I’ve let sit for some time, thinking the day would come when I’d trim the long opening and get into the story quicker. I’d tighten up some of the writing that seemed off and improve some issues with its flow.

But I’ve not released a story in some time, so I released it as-is. I figured I could use this episode of Behind the Cut to talk about how good enough is often, well…good enough. (Or to say, “Hey, some of my older writing had issues, but you get better with practice…”)

A funny thing happened with this episode, though: people really seem to love it. Where I see room for so much improvement, others see a story that took them away from everything for an hour. I feel mysteries have an inherent problem of deception, with red herrings and other misdirection placed there for no other reason than to give readers and listeners more to consider, but that’s a big part of the fun for many.

I’ve released other Not About Lumberjacks episodes I wasn’t so sure about, only to realize, when I sit down and listen to them with my wife, that I like them quite a bit.

Sitting down with a splash of bourbon and listening to “Under the Big Top” with my wife reminded me what we’re not-so-sure about often isn’t as big a deal as it can be in our minds.

* * *

While I believe all stories are mysterious—at least in the sense we don’t know everything about them and how they will end—I’ve not read many actual mysteries. A few Tony Hillerman novels, and a couple other things, is about it.

Oddly, while I’m not much of a mystery fan, my second novel—which I tucked away in a drawer—is a paranormal mystery set in Chicago in the 1920s. Two novels ago, it was a story about a recently divorced celebrity chef who moves to a small town in northern Wisconsin right about the time the town’s most-hated resident goes missing.

I think the reason I rewrote the Wisconsin story until it felt right, but shelved the Chicago story, is the point of that one was the mystery. (The Wisconsin story was about so much more…)

When the mystery is the point, stories often feel forced to me. Characters are placed there to give readers options to roll over in their minds. If an investigator is looking for just one person we know did it…well, it’s not very mysterious, is it?

None of this is to knock the genre…it’s just not my preference.

And maybe that’s why I was never so sure about “Under the Big Top”: it’s not the kind of story I normally write. Most tales shared on Not About Lumberjacks have a quirky side to them…and I understand those stories, like mysteries to me, might not be one’s preference.

So why did I write “Under the Big Top”?

It was a challenge in my old writing group. I wanted to see if I could pull off something I wasn’t sure about. Because here’s another thing about mysteries and me: while they are not my preference, I respect good mysteries as much as I respect anything.

I know there’s a different craft that goes into them. In many ways, they’re harder to write than the kinds of things I normally write. There are more rules to follow…and to learn which to bend or break. Mysteries require a different kind of effort than most of the things I write.

* * *

One of the other reasons I don’t prefer mysteries is I don’t like trying to figure things out when I read. This might sound strange to some, because often writers say they can’t enjoy reading or watching movies because they can see where a story is likely to go.

I prefer to lose myself when I read, so thinking, “Whodunit?” is not my thing.

* * *

I have a general rule about stories: I only discuss stories I’m not fond of with a couple close people. I don’t see the point of talking about something you didn’t like in the open when you can spend that time talking about something you loved.

But I’m going to break my own rule and talk about a story, at least in part, that left me flat. And maybe it’s that, “at least in part,” aspect that makes me feel like it’s okay to talk about Dennis Lehanne’s Mystic River, which I largely adored. (Maybe part of where it lost me was in the marketing, which billed it as a master work of mystery and not a literary novel about the past haunting the future.)

The actual mystery aspect of Mystic River felt a bit like a cop-out. The writing and overall story was great, but it was also like, “The murderer was really only there in a passing scene…” (Then again, maybe that’s my fault for expecting certain things from mysteries.)

In “Under the Big Top,” if I had a passing character, say a ticket-taker at the circus, take Crawford’s and Dessner’s tickets and not really give them much more time in the story than that, but later have them confess to crimes…it would seem almost unfair to the reader. It would be like a shoddy magician pointing to the wings on stage, saying, “Oh my God—what’s that?!” and throwing something in his hand to the other side while the audience’s attention is elsewhere.

It seems like a reader should at least get a chance to guess whodunit with enough information to piece things together—not just, “Ha! It was that person you barely saw and learned nothing about!”

In fairness to Mystic River, when I gave it more thought, the mystery wasn’t so much the point. It was more about how a choice made in childhood by several friends came back in adulthood and affected almost every aspect of those characters’ lives. The tragedy of what one old friend does to another hinges on that passing scene where we’re briefly introduced to who killed one of the main characters’ daughter.

* * *

While I don’t like the almost inherent things one must do when writing a mystery (the red herrings and other efforts to avoid revealing whodunit until much later), I understand why mysteries are so loved. I liked the Hillerman books I read because I loved the protagonists. And I even loved many of the characters the reader must consider if they’re trying to figure out who committed an act worthy of writing a mystery…and why they did it.

Again, I cannot profess to be a deep reader of mysteries. I’ve read more than those I’ve mentioned, but not enough that I’d consider myself any kind of expert. But I’ve watched enough cozy mysteries with my wife and my mom to know how important characters are to the genre.

In the end, as much as many like the challenge of figuring it all out and seeing if they’re right, just as many people simply love getting to meet interesting characters.

And there’s no mystery to that.

* * *

I appreciate that people seem to love “Under the Big Top.” In fact, it’s done better than most episodes of Not About Lumberjacks in its initial weeks than most stories, here.

In the world of podcasting, many would say that I should now change my focus and turn the show into a vehicle for mysteries in order to get more listeners. But I will continue telling whatever story bubbles up enough in my head that it gets finished, recorded, and released.

Still…if you hope for more mysteries from me, while it might be some time before I release another, you’re in luck. I have a Halloween-themed mystery in the works tentatively titled “Stopping Monsters,” and another that begins with this line: “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 knows…maybe I can warm to mysteries after all…

* * *

[Theme music fades in]

Christopher Gronlund:

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, episodes, and voice talent.

In a few weeks—FINALLY—it’s the strange father and son tale I’ve been talking about for…well, way too long. But it’s in production as I speak, features several cool people lending their voices (most notably, Rick Coste), and I’m told it’s a bit of a tear-jerker by those who’ve read the story.

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:

My good friend, Curtis Hart, requested this episode of Behind the Cut. He noticed there are times I tease an episode and then…well…I release it much later than planned.

Perhaps the best example of this is “Alone in HQ,” a post-apocalyptic office story I mentioned at the end of episodes for well over a year.

Curtis wanted to know what’s behind those lags in planning to release a story…to actually sharing the story with you all.

The simple version is I do this for free, in addition to working a full-time job. On top of that, while I’m not the most social person, I do spend time with friends and family—most notably, trying to visit my mom every week and then spending every other Saturday playing Dungeons and Dragons, which, right now during the current pandemic, I’m seeing everybody online. But when we when I get together with friends in person, that’s an evening dedicated to hanging out. And when it comes to Dungeons and Dragons weekends, it’s safe to say two Saturdays a month are consumed by that…and I can get a lot of writing, recording, and editing done on a Saturday.

I also produce another podcast called Men in Gorilla Suits. It’s a thing I do with a friend—and while its production is very streamlined and nowhere near as involved as Not About Lumberjacks, every other week, it still requires hours I could dedicate to this show.

And, of course, I do write other things.

* * *

To that point, let’s talk about novels. I’m currently shopping a novel around to agents and writing another. Because it’s a story requiring great amounts of research, time is also spent reading books pertaining to the story—and finding videos, photographs, and other material. And it’s a literary story, which requires more focus from me than putting a short story together in chunks.

I’m also a technical writer by trade, and that means I often focus on work a bit more around the software releases I support. Technical writing pays the bills, so it takes priority. And when my day job is more demanding, I’m not as able to focus on short stories AND novels.

Sometimes I spend more time on Not About Lumberjacks; other times, I dedicate all my fiction-writing time to novels. Especially during those times—with novels—it means I’m less likely to put out a new episode of Not About Lumberjacks.

* * *

Granted, there have been times I’ve put in overtime at work, time toward a novel, and still released episodes of Not About Lumberjacks. Here’s my not-so-secret: I started the show with a backlog of stories mostly (or completely) ready to record.

“Pepper” is the 31^st story I’ve released for the show. If you factor in the Christmas episodes, with their multiple shorter works, 41 original stories exist on the site.

Of those, roughly half were already written. Meaning, if I needed to get an episode out during a busy point in my life, I could grab an old story and be well ahead in the most-lengthy part of most productions: the writing!

I’m now at a point that I have no old stories to record. Everything is new, so…I no longer have the luxury of planning an episode, realizing life is getting in the way, and falling back on an existing tale.

With very few exceptions, writing is the longest part of the process, and sometimes I’m not able to focus on new Not About Lumberjacks stories because I’m busy with work or other writing at the time.

* * *

When I factor in the time writing new stories, figuring out the production, recording, editing, creating and finding sounds and music, and then putting it all together, some episodes of the show have likely taken 40-60 hours to produce from that initial idea to something you can listen to for free. On average, I’d guess most take 20-30 hours.

I don’t view the creative things I do like a corporate return on investment. I have fun creating episodes, so…I make them. But when you factor in 40-60 hours spent on a thing that usually gets 40 listens in its initial weeks of release and then creeps up to maybe 75-100 listens—with rare stories listened to by 200 people—it’s not like there are throngs of people banging on my door, demanding episodes.

And while I care about every listener, Not About Lumberjacks comes with a certain reality for me: as much as I’d love it to be my day job (in addition to writing novels), it’s unlikely to ever happen. And that’s not me being gloomy—it’s just a fact: most people who set out to write fiction full time never will. You can wish to be a bestselling novelist all you want—even doing all you can to make it happen—but it’s like being a professional athlete: even some of the best in their fields never realize that dream.

And so…some days when I’ve been working long hours on a release at work, the last thing I want to do is eat dinner with my wife and then sit down to write stories and work on recording them until it’s time to go to bed…only to get up early and write at my day job the following morning.

More times than not, I just want to hang out with my wife. Sometimes I want to meet up with friends on a Wednesday or Thursday night. And other times, I just want to do nothing at all.

Sometimes, you want to have a little break.

* * *

All this is a way of saying that sometimes, stories just require more time.

I try keeping episodes of Not About Lumberjacks around thirty minutes or less. With the story “Alone in HQ,” there was so much more I wanted to do. Because it was framed as both an homage and a parody of Ayn Rand’s ANTHEM, I originally brought in a female character to match the protagonist of that story meeting a woman. But once I did that…I needed to build the relationship up more to pull off the planned ending.

And that added too much to the story, and took away much of what seemed to make the story charming.

In the end, I removed that story line entirely. But I struggled with the decision because there did seem to be something more with bringing in another character. I loved some of the scenes I wrote with the two characters, and what more I was able to say about corporate life with her presence.

But it would have meant the story bloating into novella range, much like the story it was framed around.

* * *

Sometimes it’s the writing that takes a long time. But other times, like “The Other Side,” it’s coordinating with other people and creating more involved effects that adds to how long it takes to create an episode. Mostly, though, it’s just a matter of wrapping up more pressing projects that get in the way of scheduling and releasing episodes.

I’d love Not About Lumberjacks to come out at least every other month. I’d love for the show to be my full-time job.

But that’s not my reality…

Effort doesn’t equal success. If it did, Not About Lumberjacks and everything else I do would be paying the bills.

Right now, the best I can hope for—and you as well—is that stories will come out when I’m able to make something new and set it loose upon the small following the show has.

And if that’s as good as it ever gets, that’s plenty-enough for me. I hope its good enough for you, too…or that at least you understand why it sometimes takes a while to get an episode out.

* * *

[Theme music fades in]

Christopher Gronlund:

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, episodes, and voice talent.

I’m not sure what story’s coming up next, but it’s likely going to be about a virus and dreams…Unless, of course, as I’ve discussed here, that story takes more time than expected and I work on something else in the meantime…

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

[Listen]

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 strange father and son tale I’ve talked about for some time. A big thank you to Rick and Mandie Coste for helping my wife and me out on this one! And an extra thank you to Rick for putting this whole episode together.

And…the now-usual disclaimer: This story contains swearing and discussions about family death. You’ve been warned.

All right—let’s get to work…

Pepper…

* * *

Joey Palermo swore he heard his father call his name, but when he turned around, all he saw was the Boston terrier. It sat on the sidewalk, looking up at him as though he were some kind of god. Its tongue curled in and out of its mouth as it gasped for breath; its bulging eyeballs looked ready to fall from its tiny head like sticky marbles.

“You’re a funny looking thing.”

“Must be genetic,” the Boston terrier said in Joey’s dead father’s voice.

Joey looked at the coffee cup in his hand, wondering if somebody slipped something into the drink at Starbucks. Never one to use drugs, he couldn’t blame it on a flashback. He looked around to see if anyone was recording him–it seemed like something a YouTube prankster might do for views. But it was just him and the dog.

“You’re not losing your mind, Joe. It’s me, Dad. I’m back. You’d be amazed at all I went through to find you.”

Joey crouched down to the dog’s level. He read the tag on the Boston terrier’s red collar.

“Pepper?”

“A little girl named me. You know how it is. Remember when you were little and wanted to name the cat Flipper?”

Joey Palermo went through a phase as a kid when he was so enamored with reruns of the TV show, Flipper, that when his mother got a new cat, he begged her to name it after his favorite dolphin. No prankster would know that.

“Follow me.”

Joey led Pepper to the stairway leading up to his apartment. After making sure no neighbors were around, he said, “Can you climb stairs?”

“Yeah, but if you were about to offer carrying me up, go for it. It’s a wonderful way to get around.”

* * *

Inside his apartment, Joey set his father terrier down on the floor before plopping onto the couch. Pepper struggled to leap up beside his son. His stubby front legs searched for a grip on the cushion, while his back legs kicked against the side of the couch. Joey leaned forward and hoisted the dog up the rest of the way.

Pepper looked up at his son. “Thanks.”

Joey shook his head. “This can’t be real.”

“What can’t?”

“This! You! Coming back.”

“It’s real, Joe.”

“All right, so let me guess, then: you’re here to make amends for being a shitty father so you can move on or come back as a human again or something?”

“Nah, it’s not like that. You get a choice to stay or come back. You can come back as a human, an animal…whatever you want. It’s not like serial killers come back as bugs as punishment. What the fuck could a bug learn, ya know? ‘Oh, hey, I’m a mayfly for a day and I finally figured it all out! Just like that–enlightenment!’ Good people, bad people…all offered the same deal. Part of the deal is, if you come back as a human, your memory is wiped. But come back as an animal, and you get to remember your previous life. You get to see the people you left behind if you can find them again–that’s why there are so many strays.”

“If that’s how it worked, the world would be full of talking dogs and cats. Animals don’t talk.”

“True. Most don’t, anyway. I never saw the power or powers that be, but he, she, it–whatever it is or they are–has a sense of humor. Every once in a while, they send someone requesting going back as an animal the ability to talk, just to mess with people I guess.”

“That’s shitty.”

“I guess gods sometimes get as bored with their existence as the rest of us.”

“All right–if you had your choice, why did you come back as a Boston terrier? Why not something majestic, like a German shepherd or an English mastiff?”

“‘Cause Boston terriers are funny. You can’t be sad when you’re around a Boston terrier. I figured you’d be surprised if I ever found you–maybe even mad. Who could get mad at a face like this? Besides, it fits my accent, don’t you think?”

Joey slid his phone from his pocket and started dialing.

“What are you doing?”

“Calling in sick to work. If there is something in my coffee, and this is all the result, it will wear off at some point. But if it’s real–and I’m starting to think it is–then we have a lot of talking to do.”

* * *

In the hour and a half that followed, it became clear to Joey there was nothing in his coffee. According to the Boston terrier at his side, it was his father getting another chance at life. The tiny dog told him only stories his father would know. Pepper told him how he strayed from family to family in an effort to find his son…how happy he was to discover Joey hadn’t moved since his father’s human form died.

“I’m a creature of habit,” Joey said. “I drive into ‘Frisco for work, and come back to this side of the bay the rest of the time.”

The two were talking about one of the few Christmases Joey’s father was home when Pepper said, “Hold that thought–I gotta pee.”

Joey carried him downstairs and set him in the grass. His father rooted around like a tiny pig.

“You should smell this. It’s a whole other world.”

“Dad, shh!”

Pepper sniffed around until finding a spot near a holly bush, where he lifted his leg. Figuring that was it, Joey started toward the stairs. It wasn’t until hearing a neighbor say, “Well, aren’t you a little cutie?” that he turned back and realized his father had more business to attend to. He was squatted in the grass, dropping a load from his backside. Pepper looked up at the neighbor across the way Joey only chatted with in passing. Joey knew her name was Andrea and that she cut and styled hair.

She looked at Joey and said, “It doesn’t bother me, especially with a little dog like this, but property management will come unhinged if they see you out with an unleashed dog.”

Joey didn’t know if Andrea was saying, “Leash your dog, asshole,” in the nicest way possible, or genuinely warning him. It hadn’t dawned on him until then that Pepper was likely there to stay. His life would no longer be his own–he had a new live-in roommate who would require his assistance for so many basic things, all without contributing to bills or much else around the apartment.

“I just found him this morning. He’s a stray.”

Pepper finished making a pile on the ground. He turned back and sniffed the heap before leaning forward and quickly raking his back legs through the grass, kicking up tiny bits of clippings and leaves.

“I hate asking this,” Joey said. “But can you watch him for just a moment? I thought he just needed to pee. I need to get a bag to clean that up.”

Andrea bent down to pet Joey’s father. “Sure.”

In his kitchen, Joey rummaged for something to clean up his father’s mess in the grass downstairs. He wished he used and saved plastic bags from the grocery store. His only option was a Ziploc sandwich baggie from the pantry. He was happy his father came back as a Boston terrier and not as a Great Dane.

Back downstairs, he turned the baggie inside out and picked up the Pepper pile. The warmth of his father’s feces repulsed Joey as he turned the bag back out. He zipped the top shut, imagining molecules of waste covering his hands, seeping into his pores. Seeing the shit so clearly through the plastic, he understood why most dog waste bags were colored. He wondered what he looked like to Andrea, standing with the pile on display, but she was too busy petting Pepper to notice. Or maybe she was trying to make the whole scene a little less awkward.

“It’s so weird,” she said. “The way he looks up at you…it’s like he’s about to say something.”

“You have no idea…”

Back upstairs, as Joey opened his balcony door to set the baggie outside, Pepper said, “This is great–you cleaning up after me! My revenge for all the diapers you filled.”

“I thought you just needed to pee?” Joey said, while closing the door.

“So did I, but these things happen.”

After washing his hands in the kitchen sink, he plopped back down on the couch. His father looked up at him from the floor.

“One of the first things I’m buying at the pet store later today is a set of little doggie stairs so you can get up and down.” With each new thought, Joey realized just how much he didn’t know about tending to a dog’s well-being…and just how much his life was about to change. “I don’t even know what you eat.”

“Dog food. I’m a dog. But I love table scraps.”

“Doesn’t dog food taste like…dog food?”

“Yeah, but it’s not so bad when you’re a dog. My tastes and sense of smell are so different, now. Enough about all that, though…who’s the girl?”

“What girl?”

“The one downstairs. The one who watched me when you came up for my poop baggie. She was something.”

“She’s just a neighbor.”

“What’s her name?”

“Andrea.”

“Knowing her name’s a good start.”

“For what?”

“Getting to know her better.”

“I’m not interested in that.”

“If there’s something you never told me, Joe…I don’t care if you’re a man’s man. I just want you to be happy.”

“I just don’t want a relationship.”

“Get in the way of work?”

“Part of it. It’s just not something I want right now.”

“Gotcha.”

Pepper hunched over and licked his crotch.

“Jesus, Dad–that’s nasty!”

“Gotta clean up, ya know? And trust me, if you could lick your nuts, you would. All day long. It’s a dream come true.”

* * *

It didn’t take long for Joey and Pepper to fall into a routine like roommates; that is, if one roommate were almost wholly dependent on the other for survival. In many other ways, Pepper was better than Joey’s house mates in and after college: quieter, with much more in common than where they went to school. Joey grew used to Pepper teasing him each time their paths crossed Andrea’s. Pepper enjoyed lazy days alone in the apartment, napping, eating, and even crapping on a pee pad in the bathroom.

At least twice a week, he said, “Watching you clean up after me will never get old.”

Their lives settled into a rhythm…until an otherwise typical Wednesday night when Joey’s phone lit up and chimed with a reminder.

“Oh, shit!”

“What?”

“I totally forgot. Mom’s coming over on Sunday for lunch and the 49ers game.”

“What’s so bad about that?”

Joey looked at his father and raised his eyebrows.

“What? I can be quiet and behave.”

“Yeah, but it’s weird. The thought of you and her in the same room again.”

“I suppose.” Pepper got the faraway look that made Joey turn to see what he spotted. It turned out to be an old memory. “How was your mom, ya know…after I died? Was she sad?”

“Of course. She didn’t hate you–she just wished you were home more. She…mourned like I guess people mourn after someone they loved, but rarely saw, mourned. For the record, I was sad, too. But it was weird at the same time. It was like losing an uncle you rarely saw than a dad, ya know?”

“Yeah.” Pepper put his paw on Joey’s leg. “I want you to know something. For all the years I was on the road, I stayed loyal to your mother. I may not have been the best father or husband, but everything I did, I believed I was doing for you two.”

Joey scratched his father’s head.

“I know, Dad.”

* * *

Pepper followed Joey around more than usual as he prepared the apartment for his mother’s visit. It wasn’t that his mother was a clean freak, but he knew she worried about him–even though there was no reason for concern. He carried no debt, saved for the future, and had as bulletproof a job as one can have in technology.

As Joey put the final touches on a football lunch spread in the kitchen, Pepper said, “I’m surprised she didn’t drive down for the game.”

“She used to,” Joey said. “At least until the fight that got her banned from Memorial Coliseum. You know how she is.”

Pepper nodded. “The nicest woman on the planet, until somebody comes between her and her beloved 49ers.”

“Yep. A stadium mostly full of Rams fans is not a good place for her to be.”

When Joey was done in the kitchen, he wandered to the bathroom. He turned to his father and said, “Do you mind?”

“What…? Oh! I thought you were cleaning. Ya know, it would be a shame to mess up such a clean toilet before I get a chance to drink out of it.”

“Tell me you don’t drink out of the bowl, Dad.”

“I’m joking. The urge is there, though…it’s just a thing with dogs. Probably a good thing I’m so small and can’t reach.”

“I’ll be out in a minute,” Joey said.

His father looked up at him. “But you get to watch me shit all the time.” When Joey stared, Pepper’s whole head cracked into that goofy grin with the curled tongue he’d grown to appreciate. “I’m fucking with you, Son. I want none of that.”

* * *

When Joey’s mom knocked on the apartment door, he turned to his father on the floor and said, “Remember…behave.”

“Mom! So good to see you.”

His mother stepped in and kissed him on the cheek.

“It’s been too long. You work almost as much as your father did.”

She removed her San Francisco 49ers jacket, revealing an old Joe Montana jersey beneath. Joey hated the jersey–it was a reminder he was named after her all-time favorite football player. She handed the jacket to her son and looked down at Pepper.

“Aww! And who do we have, here?”

“That’s Pepper.”

No sooner than he turned to put his mother’s jacket up, he heard her say, “Well, he sure is a frisky little fella.”

Joey closed the closet door and looked down at his father locked onto his mother’s foot.

“Pepper! No!”

His father’s front legs had a grip on his mother’s foot, while his back legs kicked and slid across the entry way tile searching for leverage as he humped away!

Joey kicked him off his mother and said, “I’m so sorry, Mom. I plan to call the vet tomorrow to set up an appointment to have him neutered.”

Pepper’s bulging eyes looked ready to pop, wondering if it was a threat or reality.

Joey’s mom bent down and scratched the nape of Pepper’s neck. “This is why I preferred cats. Remember when you wanted to name Boris Flipper?”

Joey nodded and invited his mother to sit down. “Yes. It seems I’m destined to never live that down…”

* * *

After lunch, Joey’s mom turned on the 49ers/Rams game. His earliest memories were of his mother screaming at the TV. Over the years, nothing had changed.

“OH, COME ON! THEY PAY YOU TO CATCH THE GODDAMNED BALL, PETTIS! DEEBO’S GONNA HAVE YOUR JOB IF YOU KEEP THAT UP!”

And then, like the most caring mother to ever grace the planet, she turned to her son and, in the softest of voices, said, “How have things been? I worry about you.”

“There’s nothing to worry about, Mom.”

“You work so much. I worry you’ll…” She trailed off.

“I’m not Dad, Mom. My heart is fine. I work out. When I’m home, I relax more than most people I know. Even when I’m working, it doesn’t stress me out–you know how I’m wired. Except when we hang out on game days, I eat healthy. I–“

“WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU KEEPING HIM IN THE GAME, SHANAHAN?! YOU CAN’T CATCH FOOTBALLS WHEN YOUR HEAD’S UP YOUR ASS…!

(sweetly)

…You were saying?”

“I’m fine and happy. I almost have enough saved for a small house. Outright. And as far as Dad, the heart attack wasn’t even what killed him.”

“You’re right. But don’t you think all that stress from always working–how poorly he ate for decades on the road–contributed to his cancer?”

Joey nodded. “But like I said, I don’t stress about much at all. Maybe you didn’t hear me because of the game, but I eat well. I get a discount on my health insurance at work because I’m so healthy. I’m fine.”

“Okay, Honey. I’m sorry. I just–OH, FOR CHRIST’S SAKE, GET HIM THE FUCK OFF THE FIELD!!!

(sweetly)

… I just want you to be happy.”

“I’m happy, Mom.”

“That’s good. … I’ve always wondered if your father was happy.”

“I’m sure he was.”

“It seemed like he was running from things. From us. It made me feel like I wasn’t a good wife–like I’d done something wrong and drove him away.”

“You didn’t drive him away. He loved us.”

“You’re probably right. I’m sorry, Joe. I don’t mean to be a Debbie Downer.” She looked at Pepper. “Shit, I even made the dog sad…”

* * *

When the game was over and Joey’s mom had left, Pepper looked up at Joey.

“Did you see my little red rocket?”

“I’m not talking to you.”

“Oh, come on. It was funny.”

“You assaulted Mom’s foot!”

“Wouldn’t be the first time. Just call me Tarantino…”

Joey locked the front door and plopped down on the couch. Pepper climbed up the doggie steps and sat beside his son.

“I’m sorry, Joe. I thought it was funny. I thought you would, too.”

Joey cracked a grin.

“I suppose it was a little funny. It was just…weird. This whole thing is. Sometimes it all seems so normal, and that makes it even weirder, ya know?”

“Yeah. It was so hard not to say something when she was right here. I know I got off on the wrong foot–literally–but even seeing your mom yelling at the TV…I miss all that. I wanted to tell her how sorry I was. How sorry I am.”

            (beat)

“She’s right though. Your mom.”

“Huh?”

“You work too much, Son.”

Joey sighed and said, “You’re one to talk.”

“I know, I know. But that was my big regret in the end, that I wasn’t there for your mom. That I didn’t see you grow up. I convinced myself I was providing for you guys out on the road and that it was enough. It wasn’t. Missing out like that…most people I talked to when I died and was waiting to come back…that was their biggest regret in life, too. Probably why so many don’t choose to come back when the offer is extended to them: they’re ashamed.”

“Well, fortunately, I don’t have a wife and kid.”

“True. But you have a world to explore outside of a cubicle.”

“I work in an open office.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Those things are hell.”

“Yeah…”

“But what about Andrea? Don’t you have at least the slightest urge to get to know her a little better?”

“It’s too much of a hassle.”

“That sounds like the kind of thing someone with a bunch of relationship problems behind him would say.”

“No problems. I just…”

“You just have so much work to do?”

“Yeah.”

“Hear me out on this. What happens when your job goes away? It’s not like it used to be where you worked someplace until retirement. Giving up your life for a place that’s going to eventually show you the door is a dead way of life.”

“I’m aware of these things, Dad. Like I told Mom, I’m nearing a point where I can buy a house outright. I will likely be able to retire early if I want. I’m doing fine.”

“All right, lemme put it another way. Did ya ever make a mistake at work?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“And did you ever see someone else about to make the same mistake, so you stepped in to tell them the lesson you already learned?”

Joey thought about all the people he’d helped at work over the years–how he always took the time to assist anyone willing to ask for a hand.

“I see what you’re getting at. But what nobody seems to get is I actually like my job.”

“I’m happy for you. But don’t you love other things, too? You used to always talk about big adventures.”

“Yeah. But I was a kid, then. Kids are told to think big…and then told by the same people to have more realistic dreams and get a good job. That’s what I did.”

“What are you afraid of?”

“What?”

“What are you afraid of? You act like the only safe places are work and home.”

“I don’t know. I guess…I was pretty much a latchkey kid. I didn’t have a ton of friends because I was scared I’d fall out of trees or drown or something doing all they things they did. If I’m being honest, I guess the world kind of scares me when I don’t know how something works.”

“Andrea’s not scared.

(beat)

If you only had one trip to take in your life, where would you go?”

“Iceland.”

“Really? Same here! I’ve heard it’s beautiful. You should go, then.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

            (in unison)

“Because of work…”

            (beat)

“There’s nothing wrong with being scared, Son. But don’t make the mistake of not seeing someplace special with someone you love.”

* * *

As weeks turned to months, the living arrangement between Joey and Pepper settled into a routine both enjoyed. There were after dinner talks in which all of Pepper’s sins as a father were forgiven. Stories shared and weekend outings. The loneliness at the end of each day keeping Joey at work sometimes late into the evening became a thing of the past; most days he left work on time, even though he still worked from his phone while watching TV with his father.

It became so familiar that it seemed like the way it always was…until one afternoon when Joey came home and said, “So Dad…uhm…”

“What’s up, Joe?”

“What do you think about spending a week in a nice kennel? Like one of those doggie day spa kind of places?”

“Why would I do that?”

“Work needs me to go on-site in Dallas for a week next month.”

“Gotcha. Why do I need to go anywhere? Just leave food and water out. I’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, but that’s a week of pee and poo. This place will reek by the time I get home.”

“Fair point. But I don’t want to go to a kennel. I’ve done time in a few along the way in finding you. They’re loud and uncomfortable. But…I have another idea.”

“What’s that?”

“Have Andrea watch me. Even if she just comes over a couple times a day around her work schedule to let me out and feed me.”

“I’d feel weird asking her.”

“Why? She thinks I’m adorable. Have you ever noticed how she conveniently has to run an errand or something when you take me downstairs?”

“That’s just likely odds. You shit a lot, Dad. So of course there are times we cross paths as much as we go down there.”

“Nah. Sometimes it’s by design. The way she comes over and chats and lingers. I don’t know what she sees in you–maybe it’s just me and my charming ways. But I guarantee this: if you go across the way and ask her to watch me, I’ll bet you a hundred dollars she will.”

“And where are you going to get one-hundred dollars if you lose?”

“I’ll borrow it from my beloved son…”

* * *

Pepper was right—Andrea was happy to watch him while Joey was away. She sat on the couch next to Joey’s father when he returned home from his week in Dallas.

“Oh, hi,” he said. “So…how’d everything go this week?”

“Great. He’s the easiest dog to care for. I hope you don’t mind, but I brought him over to my place the last two nights. I just felt bad leaving him alone.”

“No, that’s okay. Did he behave?”

“Yes. We did yoga together. He’s like a little shadow, following me around everywhere. I had to close the door when I took a shower before work. I know it’s no big deal, but sometimes you look into his eyes and it’s like he understands everything like we do. Anytime you have a work trip, I’d be happy to watch him.”

“I appreciate that.” “I know you refused to take any money when I asked you to watch Pepper, but I really feel like I should pay you for all you’ve done this week.”

Andrea smiled and said, “How about this. You treat me to coffee or a beer sometime soon? Maybe even dinner…?”

It was not the answer Joey expected. He surprised himself by saying, “Sure, that sounds great,” without giving it a second thought.

When Andrea finally left, Pepper said, “See? Told ya she wants to get to know you better…”

* * *

With each successive work trip, Joey and Andrea spent more time together. Soon, she was a regular around the apartment, even when Joey wasn’t away. When their relationship became more than ordinary friendship and Andrea suggested they spend the night together, Joey said, “Can we go to your place?”

“Why?”

Joey cocked his head toward his father.

“We can close the door, Joey.”

“I know. But still…it’s just…weird thinking about him on the other side of the door.”

In time, there were long weekend trips to Big Sur, Yosemite, and Tahoe, places where they could all be free from cramped spaces and enjoy time away from the rush of busy lives. During a trip to the Redwoods, Joey stopped Pepper from humping a cabin neighbor’s pug, half out of embarrassment–half wanting to ensure the strangest sibling he could imagine would never be loosed upon the world. And work became a thing Joey now did to save and pay the bills; it was no longer a sick refuge from all in life that scared him.

* * *

While Joey did all he could to get his 40 hours in each week and put work behind him, there were still occasional week-long trips to other cities required by the job.

Joey’s heart raced when, after landing following a week of work in Chicago, he saw the text message from Andrea when he got off the plane: “We need to talk.”

Despite a life of recent bliss, he reverted to the terrified fragment inside himself he still could not fully expunge. He texted back: “Are you breaking up with me?”

His phone vibrated. “NOPE! We’re stuck with each other. Maybe even more after today.”

In the Uber on the way home, Joey was so nervous that he spent the time doing breathing exercises Andrea had taught him. When he entered his apartment, Andrea and Pepper were on the couch with the television turned off. The world seemed to fall away beneath his feet when Pepper looked at him and said, “Hey, there’s Daddy’s little boy! Why didn’t you tell me Andrea could talk?!”

As Pepper and Andrea laughed, Joey said, “How much do you know?”

“Quite a bit. Scared the hell out of me when he started talking. I thought someone slipped something into my coffee, but the more we talked, the more I knew it was real. Leo broke the ice the night you left for the trip. We figured we’d wait until you were done in Chicago before saying anything.”

It was strange, almost jarring, to hear somebody use Joey’s father’s name. His mother always referred to him as, “your father,” and what family Joey had was small and old and on the other side of the country.

“Why did you tell her, Dad?”

“Because it’s clear you two are serious about each other. It’s not a secret we could keep forever…”

* * *

Leo “Pepper” Palermo was right: without the secret revealed, seeing where Joey’s life with Andrea could go would always have a little drooling black and white bump in the way to bigger things. Their wedding was small–just the bride and groom, Joey’s mother, Andrea’s brother, and Pepper. The day of the service, Pepper said, “Can we tell your mom about me?”

“No,” Joey said.

“Not today–this day belongs to you two. I mean sometime soon.”

“It wouldn’t be fair to her, Dad. She’s moved on…”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

* * *

As the years moved on, Andrea opened her own salon. Joey began consulting on contracts, leaving him more time to spend with the two people he loved most. A small place to call their own was purchased outright, and plans were in place that work would soon become a thing done because they wanted to–not because they had to.

It was a perfect life until the day Pepper wandered into Joey’s office and said, “Hey, Joe. We need to talk…”

Joey saved the file he was working on and said, “What’s up, Dad?”

“I’ve been a bit quiet about it, hoping it would go away, but…I’ve not been feeling so hot, lately. I know this feeling—I think I need to see a vet…”

The vet confirmed Pepper’s worries: cancer. When Joey got the call confirming their fears, he remembered the first time his father had the disease. How he stayed on the road as much as he could, claiming he had to keep providing for his family in between chemotherapy and radiation treatments, despite Joey and his mother doing well on their own. How it seemed like he worked even more, all in an effort to hide his pain from family. When he could work no more, he came home and slept–until the day came when he couldn’t even manage that. He was already mostly a memory in the lives of his wife and son, just a guy from Boston who had a knack for sales–moving up from selling encyclopedias door to door and later, car crushers–who ended up in San Francisco selling software. It wasn’t that Joey didn’t miss his father when he died, but aside from seeing him wiped out from a disease, it was already like he was never there.

But this time it was different; this time, good memories had been made. This time it hurt.

* * *

When the medicine no longer took the edge off Pepper’s discomfort, Joey asked his father, “What’s it like?”

“What’s what like?”

“Dying.”

Pepper looked up, pondering the question a moment. Then he looked at his son and said, “It’s like vomiting. You hold on, refusing to empty your stomach. You bargain and fight against it. Maybe you get comfortable for a moment and think it’s all okay, but that feeling comes back. It’s terrible, but you don’t want to let go. But then that point comes where you do finally let loose, and it feels good when you’re done–so good that you promise yourself the next time you’re sick that you won’t fight. I don’t want to fight this, Joe.”

* * *

On the morning of Leo Palermo’s second death, before the vet arrived at the house, Pepper said, “You know the saddest thing about all this?”

“What?” Joey said.

“That we don’t offer this same dignity to humans. I would have taken this option first time around, before it got so bad and we all suffered.”

“It’s an option, now. At least here in California.”

“That’s good. Needs to be everywhere.”

“It’s still hard, though,” Andrea said.

Pepper looked up at her with his wide eyes. “It is. I’ve loved the hell out of this. Getting to know you. Hell, getting to know my son. It’s weird how normal this crazy-weird life feels. Like this is the way it was always supposed to be.”

Andrea smiled. “Yeah. You may not have been the best father the first time around, but you’re the dad I never had.”

“Same here,” Joey said. “I love you.”

“I love you, too, Son…”

* * *

It was better than Joey imagined: a black beach winding along the crags like a pathway to a magical realm. On closer inspection, small volcanic stones instead of sand. Columns of basalt rose up against the peaked cliff behind, like massive steps meant for an ancient god to ascend to the top of a rocky pyramid. Was that grass or moss growing on the stone walls disappearing high above into layers of mist? A line of white-capped waves formed between the black beach and gray waters of the north Atlantic, dividing earth from ocean in a monochromatic splendor. Stone spires rose up from the water like the hard bones of a dragon that had crashed down from the heavens eons ago. With open water in front of Joey and Andrea, and rock behind, the wind undulated like some unseen force of nature breathing in and out. They waited for a rush of wind to return to the ocean; when it did, they stepped calf-deep into the frigid water and scattered Pepper’s ashes.

The mortal remains of Leo Palermo looked more like kitty litter than the fine dust Joey expected from a cremated Boston terrier. Part of him seemed to dissolve into the water, while larger pieces tumbled along black pebbles before finally being sucked deeper into the ocean. When the wind raced back toward the cliffs, it whisked away tears shed by Joey for his father’s second death. In time, there was nothing else to see; no more tears to be shed. Joey took Andrea by the hand and walked back to collect their socks and shoes.

Andrea was quick to dry her legs and feet with a small towel. When her shoes were back on, and her pant legs rolled down, she hugged herself in attempt to get warm.

“I’m sorry I made you stand out there as long as we did,” Joey said. He stood up and held her, hoping all his warmth would transfer to her. He wanted to feel the biting cold for days, to remember how strange and wonderful the last several years had been. How amazing it was to finally get to know and love his father–and be loved back in return.

“You gonna be okay?” Andrea said.

“Someday. It was a lot harder this time.” He stared at the water, wondering how far Pepper’s ashes would travel. He imagined them circling the globe, but always coming back to this point. “It’s funny how we both always wanted to see this place. I had no idea.”

“That’s because he didn’t.”

Joey gave Andrea the same cocked-headed look his father gave them at times when the dog ruled the man inside.

“He knew you wanted to see it in person, but were always too busy. He told me when he died, he wanted to be scattered here–not because it meant anything to him, but because it seemed to mean so much to you. I guess you mentioned it at some point, and he told you he wanted to see it, too. But he couldn’t care less about this place, other than he knew you’d need a push to finally visit. He said a body is a body, and that you could always visit his human remains in Colma, or come here and think about how strange and beautiful life can sometimes be. He knew you’d only make this trip if you thought it meant something to him.”

Joey shook his head in disbelief, half grinning, but also fighting back more tears.

“And it did mean something to him, I suppose. At least in the sense that he wanted you to finally take this trip.”

“He told you all that, huh?”

“Yep.”

“I love that you two were so close.”

This time, it was Andrea’s turn for tears.

“So am I…”

When Andrea had nothing more to give, she dried her face with a clean, dry corner of the towel. Joey opened their day pack and stuffed it inside. He came out with his father’s dog collar and closed the pack. He watched the name tag flip about in the breeze, a ridiculous name for a father, but a great name for a Boston terrier. He kissed the tag and said, “He was a good dog. A good dad.”

Andrea took Joey’s hand, letting the collar rest across their fingers like a shared bracelet.

“He was, indeed,” Andrea said, before the two turned away and walked off along the Pepper-black sand.

* * *

Hey, this is Rick Coste…I did the voice of Pepper, and my wife, Mandie Coste, played Joey’s mom. I also put this episode together from Chris’s story and narration. His wife, Cynthia Griffith, played the part of Andrea.

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks.

Theme music, as always, by Ergo Phizmiz. Story music this time by Chad Crouch, also known as Poddington Bear.

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

I’m not sure what Chris has planned next. It might be a story about four people who get a strange sickness while in line at the pharmacy, or it might be a tale about a novelist who moves into her mother’s unfinished house as she struggles with a follow-up to a bestseller. There’s a story in the works about a rag-tag group of warehouse workers, and another about Death making an embarrassing mistake. There’s always something up Chris’s sleeve.

So, no idea which it will be, or when it will be released—Chris is also working on a novel, and he just started a new job. (Congratulations, Chris!) For what he has in store for us? I guess we’ll wait and see…

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

[Listen Here]

[Music Fades in]

Female Narrator:

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

Christopher Gronlund:

I’d be lying if I said there never comes a point each year when I feel like I’ve forced myself into having to write two episodes of Not About Lumberjacks: the November anniversary episode (that is always the most not about lumberjacks tale of the year) and now — the annual Christmas episode. But when it’s over, I’m always proud of the efforts.

I started the Christmas stories on a whim…just throwing out seven very short stories in 2017. Most of ‘em aren’t even holiday related in any way – I mean, hell, there’s only one in the bunch.

Last year, it was two out of three stories that could be deemed holiday-worthy in any way.

This year, the three tales are all based around Christmas.

More than that, this is the first time I’ve not narrated any of the stories. Last year, my wife narrated the first story, and Patrick Walsh of the Screamqueenz podcast narrated another. I narrated the final story.

This year, I was lucky to get three great narrators: Dr. Michelle Booze, Art Kedzierski, and Jennifer Moss.

It was only after listening to the entire episode that I realized it’s one of my all-time favorite episodes of the show. I knew the stories were solid, but it was only after hearing them narrated by others that I realized how strong the episode really is.

I liked the three stories, but I have a confession: every story you hear on the show is a rough draft with a polish. I’m not sure I’ve ever done rewrites on a short story. (What you hear is largely a first draft…or, at most, my wife might catch something and say, “Ya know, this part doesn’t make sense to me,” and I fix things.) The stories knock around my head for a little while, and then sometimes they explode onto the page with little effort, but most times it takes a bit of shaping. Once all the pieces are down, though, the story is all there, and it gets cleaned up a bit…and then I call things done.

Working this way, piecing things together mostly on lunch breaks at work…it can sometimes be hard to know if a story is working or not. Often, it’s only when listening to a narrated episode that I can tell the efforts were worth it.

This year’s Christmas episode was definitely worth it. I was lucky enough to be present as a couple people listened, and my only regret is not putting a little more space between the first and second episode to account for people tearing up at the end of “My Grandmother Wrestled Bears.”

* * *

I’m not sure what 2020 holds for Not About Lumberjacks. I’m wrapping up a story for later this month, and I have a rather long mystery I’ve toyed with releasing. (If I do, it would be the longest episode to date…perhaps twice as long as whatever the current longest episode is.) And I have bits and pieces of other stories in various states or work.

But as I’ve mentioned during the endings of recent episodes, I need to turn my focus back on a novel—the second in a series. (The first is currently being submitted to agents, and I’ve been surprised by some of the interest people have had.)

So Not About Lumberjacks may go on hiatus for a handful of months while working through all that’s going on with books. Of course, it’s entirely possible nothing happens with the novel currently being submitted. If that’s the case, Not About Lumberjacks will likely become the writing focus in my life. (I mean, hell, at that point, you might even get a second feed for serialized novels if that’s your thing.)

It would be very easy for me to view 2020 as a do or die year for my writing. Common sense says if the first book in a series doesn’t sell, you drop the rest of it and you work on something else that might. But the story I’m working on is something I must see through, no matter what…even if it’s only read by a handful of people. And after so many close calls over the decades, you reach a point where you think, “I’ve grown so tired of the chase…”

But I don’t view 2020 as the year writing things happen or I give up not only the chase but writing itself. Because I enjoy writing and…here, I have a place for the stories I write. Going back to common sense, I mean hell, common sense also says Not About Lumberjacks is a futile endeavor. Most people stop a thing that takes the effort this show takes without any compensation. I can’t even say I do it for a large following because it seems there are maybe 50 die-hard listeners…and maybe 100 – 150 over time. (Only a few episodes on the site have over 200 listens.)

It would be easiest for me to just write stories and share them with a handful of friends and family. No effort into narrating and sound design. None of that.

There are moments in every episode’s production when I think, “God, I hate this part of the process…it’s such a slog. Why do I do this to myself?”

But then I hear something I’ve written come to life in a manner it would never sound like in my mind. And I hear from a small group of people about how much they loved it.

I work with narrators who put their own cadence and inflection into these concrete stories I’ve written, shaping them into remarkable constructs I could never imagine them becoming.

This year’s Christmas episode was one of those kinds of shows.

And that’s quite a gift for a writer knocking out stories on his lunch break at work…

And so, here’s to a good year…

* * *

[Outro music fades in…]

Christopher Gronlund:

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, episodes, and voice talent.

At the end of the month it’s a strange father and son tale featuring a handful of narrators.

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