[Listen]
[Sound of an ax chopping wood. Quirky music fades in…]
Christopher Gronlund:
I want to make one thing perfectly clear: this show is not about lumberjacks…
My name is Christopher Gronlund, and this is where I share my stories. Sometimes the stories contain truths, but most of the time, they’re made up. Sometimes the stories are funny—other times they’re serious. But you have my word about one thing: I will never—EVER—share a story about lumberjacks.
This time, it’s the annual Christmas episode! It comes in at three tales this year:
- “The World Beneath Her Brush” is about a globemaker—and I really like it!
- “The King of French Fries” is not only a story from the point of view of a parking lot-dwelling grackle, but it’s also accompanied by an original song. (Fortunately, not sung by me! Trust me: no one needs to hear me sing!)
- And the anchor to this year’s Christmas episode is called “Suburban Home.” It’s about aging punk rockers battling their homeowners’ association over Christmas decorations.
But first, the usual content advisory…
“The World Beneath Her Brush” and “The King of French Fries” barely merit content advisories. At most, they are about personal struggle in the hope of having a better life.
“Suburban Home” deals with pettiness, arguing, the effects of family expectations, and a slight bit of depression and anxiety mentioned in passing. Oh, and some swearing!
Finally, don’t forget that I’m doing a Not About Lumberjacks t-shirt giveaway in honor of last month’s 50th full story episode.
Remember: all you have to do is email NALStories@gmail.com and tell me a favorite episode or something about the show for one entry.
Let me know you shared it online or told someone about it, and you get a second entry. (And I’m not gonna verify it…I trust you.)
And Patreon supporters get an instant third entry.
This also applies internationally.
Check the episode show notes for more info.
All right, let’s get to work!
The World Beneath Her Brush
The world turns before her, and in one confident move, the equator is established. Continents are smoothed beneath her fingers, coastlines colored by hand. She dreams in pi, has touched every corner of the globe. Like a goddess perched on the edge of an empyrean throne, she sets to work on her latest creation.
* * *
When she was young, she spent Sunday afternoons visiting her grandparents and staring at maps. Her grandfather’s atlas kept her lost in distant lands for hours, while adults talked about old times at the dining room table. In elementary school, a group of girls played “spin the globe,” a game in which someone whirled the planet while another closed her eyes and stopped it with her finger. Where it landed was the place—it was said—one would find their true love. W hen a turn was forced upon her, she reached out and felt the world come to a halt beneath the pressure of her index finger. She pulled it back and read, “Calama” in Chile.
* * *
Free time was spent not with peers, but in her father’s woodshop—at first, helping him measure boards and then later, learning to build furniture. He said she had the hands and patience of a surgeon.
“Is that what you want me to do?” she said. “Become a doctor?”
He smiled and shook his head. “I just want you to be happy.”
* * *
After high school, she pursued an art degree, until competition inside the program destroyed that dream. After moving back home, she pulled her grandfather’s old Atlas from a bookcase in the living room. When she felt lost, she found herself again in maps. She flipped through the pages, amazed by how much a world can change in just a fraction of a lifetime: political borders, names of places, even geography. And then she saw it, on a two-page spread of Chile turned on its side. Circled in red pen when she was younger: “Calama.”
* * *
It was a ridiculous notion to travel someplace so unknown on a whim. Patagonia made sense—a place people dreamed about visiting. But a small city in the middle of such a barren landscape?
Three months later, she arrived.
Three days after that, she wondered if she’d made a mistake.
Lost in a working city, rather than a place tailored for tourists, left her thinking about all the other places where her finger might have stopped on the globe when she was younger: London, Paris, or even further south, in Santiago, where there would be more to see and do. She considered excursions to other places in the region, to at least feel like she’d made the right decision to take such an unorthodox trip, but she was always one to stick to processes—to commit to the bit.
* * *
She found her true love on a Tuesday morning in a nondescript white stucco building on one of the city’s many side streets. The wooden sign hanging from a weathered copper brace over the door read: CARTÓGRAFO.
Vicente was a lithe old man with a beard and mustache that reminded her of paintings and drawings she’d seen of Don Quixote. The walls and tables in the small shop were covered in hand-rendered maps—a half-finished globe the size of a bear-hug rested on a tall stock pot in a back corner near a door. She was happy to discover his English was much better than her high school Spanish.
The maps were unlike those in her beloved atlas, or any cardboard globe in school: works of art with tiny details defining places in minute illustrations. The kind of art one would return to time and again. And she did. Most days, even if wandering into the Atacama Desert for its geysers, lagoons, and moon-like terrain, she stopped by Vicente’s shop. She told him how she spent days poring over atlases, how she worked in her father’s shop and studied art in university, until dropping out. At the end of her two-week visit, she didn’t want to leave.
“Then stay,” Vicente said. “I will teach you.”
* * *
When the paperwork for a longer stay was complete, she eased into a new life. The maps Vicente made were mostly created for families, with custom paintings denoting where ancestors started and settled. Jobs, hobbies, and life events painted in tiny details along the way. She took to it quickly, with Vicente telling her she was a natural at what took him years to master. It was a quiet way of life, the two working for hours in silence in the back room of the shop, only stirring when someone wandered in, or to share work or brew mate in the afternoon.
One day, she finally asked about the unfinished globe.
“That…requires much more time,” Vicente said. “More supplies. Few people have the money to make it worth my time.”
“What if I finished it?”
“We need to focus on work that pays.”
“What if I did it in my spare time?”
Vicente shrugged. “Up to you…”
* * *
In the months it took to finish the globe—matching Vicente’s touch, palette, and style—she understood why he stopped. It was slow work, with few people able to pay to make it worth one’s time. But the process of moving a world in her hands, spending time in every place on its surface, satisfied her like nothing else she’d ever done.
When the globe was coated in resin and she called it done, she set to work on the base, putting to work everything learned in her father’s woodshop. When the stand was complete, she worked with Vicente on the copper meridian, punching and engraving it by hand.
“We can set up a website,” she said one day during lunch. “Find people around the world who can afford custom globes.”
Vicente shrugged. “Up to you…”
* * *
The globe sold for $7,500 to a businessman in the United States, a tiny sum for someone who already seemed to own the world. A small wave of inquiries followed. She set to work figuring out how to make the process more efficient, printing the planet in 24 strips, carefully stretching delicate paper over a sphere waiting to be painted and illustrated by hand. The venture did well enough that two local artists were hired to help keep up with demand, while Vicente continued working on maps.
A phone call changed everything.
“Hello?” she said.
“Hi, yes. I’m inquiring about a world…”
She’d been reading books set in Brandon Martin’s Cosmeros setting her entire life. The opportunity to create a massive globe based on the series was an even greater thrill than the price. It took almost a year and a half to finish the 127 centimeter orb based on maps and descriptions from the books and TV show.
The pay was enough to buy a house with enough space for visits from family and friends.
* * *
When Brandon Martin shared the Cosmeros Globe on social media, she purchased a two-story open warehouse with frosted windows on the long sides to let in natural lighting—reaping the benefits of living in one of the sunniest places on Earth. More local artists, along with a dedicated woodworker and coppersmith, were hired to keep their little world turning. Despite the thrilling rush of it all, she and Vicente still met for lunch in his small shop, still had afternoon mates and Friday pisco sours.
This is how it went for years.
* * *
The passing of Vicente was not unlike the passing of her grandfather, two men she knew better than others, despite reserving their words for only things that mattered. On every map and globe that followed, she painted a tiny shadow reminiscent of his beard and mustache where his body lay.
The CARTÓGRAFO sign hanging over the front of the shop on the street was moved to the doorway in the back, replaced for passersby by one reading CARTÓGRAFA. Each morning when she opened her mentor’s tiny showroom, she whispered, “Buenos días, maestro. Por un buen día por delante,” to the maps on the walls, preparing for a good day ahead.
* * *
Once a month, even in the cold of winter, she hiked into the Atacama to spend a night beneath a sky full of stars. It was funny how, in time, she stopped seeing the area as barren, knowing that such a seemingly devoid space—like the firmament above—was full of wonders beyond her thoughts if she looked hard enough. She thought about friends who’d made it through art school, how hurried their lives in cities—working for demanding clients—turned out. “There’s something to be said for living in a bustling space packed with inspiration,” she thought, “but even more to be said for a place where there is little more to do than lose oneself to a passion.”
Life has a way of knocking a person off course. Routes imagined as children close, storms drive us in other directions. We land on unknown shores, find our way as the world turns beneath our feet. If we’re lucky, the paths we walk are paved in good memories.
She thinks these things—and more—as she fades off to sleep, a tiny spot of life in a vast desert on a massive globe cradled in the universe’s arms.
* * *
The King of French Fries
[Music and Singing…]
The tailless grackles of summer
Panting and staring at me
What are you doing, Oh, God…
Why won’t you please let me be?
I am the King of French Fries. Perhaps you’ve seen me strutting around the parking lot with a fry held high in my beak like a scepter. How do I know I’m king? Because I am the center of attention, the bird with the coveted starchy symbol of power all others crave. But I’m too quick for them—an impressive feat among such a speedy flock.
No sooner than you park, and I’m beneath your car, savoring the shade and lapping up water falling from your AC condenser. It’s hot down here on the pavement, but we get by. Once, a news crew came to our lot, cooking eggs on asphalt and in a frying pan placed on the hood of their vehicle. We all ate like kings that day, after they tossed their tasty experiments into the grass. Yet somehow, we are deemed the dirtier species, angering you when you see us on the roofs of your cars or climbing on your sports racks and staring. Remember this: when we are at eye level and equals in height, you are the lesser creature. We know you fear us, and we think that’s funny.
“What do you want? I don’t have any food, you little mooch. Your eyes are so freaky. Stop following me!”
It could be worse—we could be seagulls…
* * *
[Music and Singing…]
The tailless grackles of summer
Where are you flying to now?
You disappear for hours
Each day like you’re keeping a vow.
I have a bird who lives in a mulberry tree along the walking trail buffering our concrete realm and the lush, green streets beyond The Wall behind the parking lot. Ours is a love that can never be: a northern cardinal and a great-tailed grackle? Were we hoomans, though, they’d make movies about our devotion to each other…or at least a musical. I know she’s so much more than just a pretty face, and she knows I’m tender and kind.
Past the park where she lives lies a neighborhood with shade trees and gardens full of bird baths; feeders and hoomans who keep lists of the birds they’ve spotted on fancy trips with expensive viewing gear. Some birds are even given free housing, while the rest of us must scrounge for every breath.
My cardinal friend reminds me it’s not all peaceful and secure. Where there are trees, there are squirrels waiting to steal eggs or consume newborns. Neighborhood cats on the prowl or hawks waiting to swoop in from above. More chemicals to avoid than just antifreeze and oil. You’d think as much as many of us are loved by hoomans, that they’d take better care of us all.
But our mulberry tree conversations are not all serious and focused on gloom. It’s a daily reminder that sometimes all one needs in life is another mind upon which to bounce ideas and challenge one’s notions—to listen on hard days and support lofty dreams.
That hour or two each day on the far side of The Wall is a reminder that one does not need to travel far to see how different, but similar, we all are. Nature can claim any of us at any time, so we’re better off flocking together than fighting over little things.
Except French fries!
(I’ll fight to the end for those…)
* * *
[Music and Singing…]
The tailless grackles of summer
Panting this hot afternoon
Lesser creatures would suffer
But you stand there singing your tune.
Ours is not an easy life, but what can you do? Sometimes the heat’s so bad during the height of summer that I’ve gone weeks without a memory. (You’d think we’d at least remember the pain of days.) Maybe it’s a good thing that each sunrise is new. All I know is I’ve made it before and will make it again, even though we are not as loved as other birds.
We lack the standing of corvids—no memes or movies about us. Say “icteridae,” and you’re met with blank stares. But we are the cousins of meadowlarks and red-winged blackbirds; caciques and orioles. Hoomans swoon over them—even travel the world to get a glimpse of some. Were we uncommon, you’d love us—you’d say, “Oh, my—behold their iridescent black plumage. Catch them in just the right light, and their bodies become rainbow nebulae, an understated palette in the hands of God. Their piercing yellow eyes can look into one’s soul; their calls and trills alive with all that’s come before.”
But instead, we get, “Oh, it’s one of you!”
If we’re noticed at all…
* * *
[Music and Singing…]
The tailless grackles of summer
Blotting the sky out each day
I want to witness this sunset
Why must you get in the way?
At sundown, I call in the flock. You think there are a lot of us in the parking lot during the day, just watch us descend in the evening—you’ll wonder if each of us magically splits into four-and-twenty blackbirds every night! We celebrate making it through another day with song. What is a cacophony to you is a celebration of life for us, a wall of sound and motion better than any hooman end-of-day gratitude journal. We sing because we are still here!
The sun goes down, and for a moment there is relief. We settle into bushes and treetops, safe among our flock. That is the part most of you never hear, our quiet calls and coos to each other letting our brothers and sisters know we made it.
In the morning, we will dance in the sprinklers and hydrate, prepare to survive another day. Knowing that waits for us on the other side of sleep ensures our dreams are sound and that no matter what happened today, there is always a tomorrow…until the day there is not.
Make the most of it given one’s circumstances, eh?
* * *
[Music and Singing…]
The tailless grackles of summer
Surviving and doing your best
The stars are twinkling above you
Lay down your sweet heads and rest
In my dreams, I wear a crown of gold and wield the mightiest of fries. I survey my lands from the back of a squirrel named Maximus, ensuring my flock is safe from all sides. No swordsman can hold their own against my skills—no harm will fall upon us in the night.
For I am the King of French Fries!
(And I hope all of our futures are bright.)
* * *
Suburban Home
I was conceived after a Hüsker Dü concert in 1984. My parents claim my surprising arrival made them better people—not that they were ever really bad, just different. Decades later, they’re still different. In ways, though, they’re everything we’re told we should aspire to become: self-made wealthy parents with a big home in an affluent suburb.
My dad was there in the 80s with cameras, filming and photographing his friends skateboarding and playing in bands, and then selling direct-to-consumer videotapes to a hungry audience. Along the way, a love for guerrilla marketing became a degree in business marketing from the University of Pennsylvania. He was in the right place at the right time, doing publicity and marketing for all those outcasts who later became millionaires: skaters, game designers, indie actors, writers, and hip-hop artists. They knew his name long before he had one of the largest alternative marketing firms in the country; in turn, making him a millionaire as well. He still thinks it’s a riot that he made the cover of Entrepreneur Magazine in 1998.
After getting her PhD in Psychology from Columbia University, my mom went from writing a life advice column in a local alternative weekly paper to bestselling self-help books. Her radio show, Walking with Wendy, was syndicated coast to coast—and while she turned down a TV talk show offer to raise me, you’ve likely seen her as a guest on Oprah and other shows, talking about her books.
My dad always told me, “Being the best person you can be and becoming what they don’t expect is the most punk thing you can do.”
* * *
My dad called me on the last Saturday in September, which was strange because he called every Sunday, just to hear my voice.
“Hello?” I said.
“Hey, kiddo. I know Sunday’s our day, but you gotta hear this shit. Ya know how the homeowners’ association is always messing with us?”
When I was young, while other people’s parents were teaching their children to be obedient, my dad taught me that it’s important to have a nemesis in life. His logic was this: whether it’s a person, an ideal, or institution—living in opposition of someone or something ensures you will never become complacent. Sure, you can strive for great things on your own, but you’re likely to work even harder if it’s to show up a nemesis. The nemesis against which my father pushes back against was Nancy Stickwick and the Camelot Hills Homeowners’ Association.
“What did they do this time?” I said.
“Little Ms. Inverted Bob-Cut pounded on the front door, demanding I take our Halloween decorations down.”
I wanted to point out to my father, a man who still wears a green Mohawk each summer, that ridiculing someone for their choice of haircut borders on comical. Instead, I said, “Did Nancy and the board cite you on violence and gore again?”
“Nah, I learned my lesson with the Return of the Living Dead display last year. Looking back on it, I did go overboard on that one. No, this time she got me for putting up decorations one day early. One day!
“I told her, ‘Some of us still work for a living, Nancy,’ and that it was the only day I had to decorate. She of course had a printout of the CC&Rs in hand and showed me decorating is to occur no more than 30 days before a holiday. One day!”
“So, what did you do?” I said.
“I took everything down and will put it back up at midnight. Won’t make a sound…nothing she can get me on.”
“How’s mom doing?”
“She’s fine. Still a bit nervous about the hip surgery in November, but looking forward to it at the same time. She can’t wait to get back to full strength.”
When my mother was in grad school, she took up running. A 5K fun run led to a 10K race with a goal. Half and full marathons followed. In time, triathlons and ultra-marathons were the only things that challenged her. With each personal best time came a bit more strain on her hip.
“I’m still planning on being there for the surgery and helping out with Thanksgiving,” I said.
“Thanks,” my father said. “I’m gonna let you go. Gonna go chat with some of the neighbors who are growing tired of the HOA and their shit—let them know the latest.”
“All right. Bye, Dad.”
“Bye. Love you!”
“Love you, too.”
* * *
While my parents lead interesting lives, I cannot say the same for me. Not that it’s bad in any way—I quite like my life—but when you’re raised by two people who traveled the world, started successful businesses, and wrote bestsellers, being a technical writer doesn’t compare. Still, it allows me the flexibility and security to do what I want—and the ability to work anywhere at any time.
My mother had her left hip replaced on the first Monday in November. The day after, I helped my dad take down his Halloween decorations by 11:59 p.m., ensuring everything was gone in time to meet the seven-day deadline for cleanup mandated by the Camelot Hills Homeowners’ Association’s governing documents. The entire time we worked, Nancy Stickwick stood at the end of her driveway, craning her neck between watching us and the time on her phone. When everything was stowed away with minutes to spare, my father walked to the end of his driveway and took a bow.
Nancy stormed away and into her house.
* * *
On the Monday before Thanksgiving, my dad and I were driving back from a run to South Philly Food Co-op for Thanksgiving groceries when we saw workers putting up Christmas lights at Nancy’s house. Dad pulled into the driveway, got out, and headed across the street. I followed to ensure he didn’t cause too much trouble.
When Nancy opened the door, my dad pointed to the crew hanging lights and said, “What’s this?” Before she could answer, he continued. “We’re not allowed to decorate 30 days before a holiday. Today’s 37 days.”
“I know,” Nancy said. “I don’t plan to turn them on until next week. And nothing is going in the yard until the Monday after Thanksgiving. I’m sorry those of you who still ‘work for a living,’ as you put it, can’t decorate this weekend.”
“Doesn’t matter,” my dad said. According to the HOA’s CC&Rs, you can’t even hang lights right now.”
“It’s the only time they could come out and do the work,” Nancy said. “I’m sure in the spirit of Thanksgiving, you can make an exception.”
“No, I can’t. They have to come down. Those are your rules, Madame President.”
“You can’t be serious!”
“Oh, but I am.”
“If I tell them to stop, I still have to pay. And I won’t be able to get them back unless there’s a cancellation.”
“Then I guess your house will be dark this year and you won’t win the neighborhood decorating contest. You shouldn’t win anyway. Only people who actually decorate should be eligible.”
“We should talk about this,” Nancy said. “Meet up for coffee and work things out.”
“Nope! I tried that before. Several of us have. You only try this crap when your own rules come back and smack you in the face. The lights need to come down. And just so you know, I’m not the only one tiring of your bullshit. Happy Thanksgiving, Nance!”
* * *
Growing up with straight-edge punks for parents, Thanksgiving was a different experience than that of my friends. There was never a bird at the center of the table; instead, my father printed photos of the turkeys he adopted from Farm Sanctuary each year and placed them on the fireplace mantel. While my mom tries a new vegan roast each year, Dad still insists on making a separate Tofurky because—as he puts it—“They were there for us from the start.” But other than that, I suppose my day was not too much different than most. We came together as a family, sharing in a feast that gave us leftovers for days. Maybe my dad and I didn’t play catch in the yard with a football, but we always kicked a soccer ball around, which my father claimed was real football. And we watched movies and talked about how quickly the holidays snuck up on us.
I’ve always assumed my parents’ love for suburban life came not so much out of shocking a neighborhood with their presence, but from a lack of stability in their pasts. It was oddly genuine, even though they did acknowledge the humor and irony in their approach. There was no greater goal after I came along than to ensure my upbringing was nothing like theirs. This also allowed them to throw themselves into their love of the holidays, with the height of their year coming each Christmas.
The weekend after Thanksgiving, the interior of our house transformed from a cozy autumnal den into a place rivaling Santa’s workshop. Dad’s love of model trains twisted and turned through every room in the house—HO scale hoppers and gondolas filled with candy were never out of reach. My father’s collection of ugly Christmas sweaters was curated long before the days of deliberate, branded “ugly sweaters” became a thing. On the stereo, my mother replaced the nostalgic tones of The Subhumans and Conflict with the even more nostalgic Christmas tunes of Bing Crosby and Nat King Cole. When the house could contain no more merry holiday cheer, our winter wonderland exploded into the yard.
In the days before the Camelot Hills Homeowners’ Association came to wield such power, people drove from other towns to see our house. We joked that once Dad put up all the lights, our home could be seen from space. Until real snow fell, long rolls of snow blankets covered the yard. Somewhere along the way, he purchased a beat-up 70s-era tornado slide and drugstore merry-go-round from a crust punk he met at Love Hall and stayed in touch with over the years. After restoring them, complete with candy-cane striped paint, we became the house where everyone wanted a photo taken—long before the days of tailored Instagram traps. But once Nancy Stickwick was voted in as President of the Board, all that changed.
Rules were put in place to curb neighborhood traffic and put an end to what was deemed “tacky” (i.e. our yard). When she added decorating timeframe to the rules, Dad put up a nativity scene several days early, even though he’s a life-long atheist. When Nancy told him to take it down, he wrote a letter to the local paper, accusing her of banning the Baby Jesus. Every year, he found a new way to push her to the edge.
As I grew older, I went through a phase of wishing he’d back off—even telling him to take it easy. It was embarrassing
His reply?
“When people who crave power attain it, they only push for more. Had more of us stood up to her early, none of this would have ever happened. The funny thing about those with a lust power, and those who support them—they always turn on their own. As long as someone pushes back, eventually, terrible people can be broken.”
* * *
Where Nancy Stickwick is involved, I’m convinced if my father could mark his territory with urine or feces, he would. The pleasure he derived from tormenting the woman within the rules she foisted upon the community was only eclipsed by his love for holidays and his family. On November 25th, I helped him decorate the yard for Christmas.
When Home Depot launched their 12-foot tall skeleton, Nancy’s response was working with her voting bloc to ensure no decoration in the neighborhood exceeded 10 feet the following year. Dad’s response was to cut two feet from his each of his skeleton’s legs—fuse the ends together—and have a strange-looking 10-foot tall skeleton standing guard over Halloween. Nancy forced her husband to climb on a ladder with a measuring tape to ensure Dad was in compliance.
This season, Dad called his decorating plan “The 10-foot Christmas,” where every item in our yard would fall exactly within the height restrictions: 10-foot Santa, 10-foot gingerbread house, 10-foot pile of over-sized presents. Situated in the center of it all, he placed a candy cane pole topped with a gold ball and “North Pole” sign. Along its length, Dad drew a height ruler, proving nothing exceeded Nancy’s height rule. At the bottom of the pole, he placed a sign reading, “Merry Christmas, Paul!”—a nod to poor Paul Stickwick having to climb a ladder to measure Dad’s skeleton.
It still didn’t stop Nancy from dragging her husband over to measure the North Pole marker.
When it was determined no rules were broken, before Nancy left in defeat, Dad said, “Really looking forward to seeing your house all lit up tonight, Nance. Oh, wait…that’s right!”
As she stormed off toward home, she muttered, “I hate you…”
Dad waited long enough for her to believe she got away with it before saying, “Love you, neighbor. Stop by anytime!”
* * *
While my father was all about decorating for the holidays, Mom celebrated by baking. Had she never left South Philly for the suburbs—had she never pursued advanced degrees and written a small pile of bestselling books—I can imagine her owning a hipster bakery off Broad Street. Even those among Nancy’s little circle looked forward to my mom’s baking each fall and winter.
When I was young and—according to Dad, “When we were still allowed to have fun in the neighborhood”—Dad dressed as Santa and dragged me (dressed like an elf) around in a decorated wagon. We delivered fudge, gingerbread cookies, rum balls, and fruitcakes people actually enjoyed. The tradition never died, although now I walk along with my father in my elf outfit instead of being pulled behind him. (Only because I refused once I reached my teens.)
Mom’s strong recovery from hip surgery meant there was no interruption in her annual baking schedule. Ten days before the big holiday, Dad and I pulled my old wagon through the neighborhood and delivered Mom’s sweet gifts. I could tell something was turning in Dad’s head by the way he kept looking toward the sky. I found out what he was thinking when, after wrapping up front door chats, he steered some conversations toward Nancy and her brash ways. All it took was an eye roll or someone shaking their head for Dad to say, “Quick question. Were I to challenge Nancy for President of the Board next term, would I have your support?”
Not a single person said no.
* * *
When Mom and Dad moved to Camelot Hills, they immediately raised suspicions. In the eyes of our neighbors, the arrival of two aging, tattooed punks meant property values were in jeopardy of crumbling, that soon the streets would be overrun by the cast of Suburbia, Repo Man, and The Decline of Western Civilization…combined. But once Mom appeared on Oprah and other afternoon TV talk shows, they warmed up to my family. And when it became known she turned down an offer to host her own show because raising me came first, only the most suspicious of Nancy’s friends held on to their initial judgment.
After delivering Mom’s snack packs, we walked along the winding streets, savoring the glow of lights and decorations. Dad put his arm around me and pulled me close, his way of saying “This is a special moment with you,” without saying it out loud. And he was right. I was fortunate to grow up where I did, to have the parents I have. Their outlook on life shaped my own, without ever infringing on where we saw things differently. I was allowed to be the quiet person I am, never expected to be anything other than kind and aware.
Mom and Dad’s house sits in a cul-de-sac at the back of Camelot Hills. It’s not the biggest house in the development, but it’s the one that’s been featured in magazines. It was a fight from the start, building a modern style home among fabricated traditional-in-appearance McMansions. After topping the hill on the street where I grew up, the homes anchoring the development spread out like a tiny village all its own. It’s a gut feeling, like you crossed some invisible barrier and entered a newly discovered space.
Dad paused and took it all in: our house lit up like a little kid’s Christmas daydream; the Kaplan’s menorah in the window on the final night of Chanukah; houses and trees outlined in lights. Then, at the end of the street, the Stickwick’s darkened house, with its smattering of yard decorations standing in silhouette, bleaker than anything Dad ever put up for Halloween.
He shook his head and said, “I took this one too far…”
* * *
I told Dad it wasn’t his best idea, but went along with it anyway. His love for decorating over the years meant our garage and attic were full of miles of spare light strands. We dressed like cat burglars to blend into the shadows, making multiple trips to the stone wall surrounding the Stickwick’s yard. Dad used his ladder to climb up and over, and I tossed coil after coil to him.
We started with trees hidden on the edges of the property, wrapping them with lights, before moving closer to the house. Heavy clouds rolled in as we worked, hiding a crescent moon and sky full of stars. When all the trees were wrapped, we worked on the wrought iron fence by the driveway. I told Dad we’d done enough and needed to quit while we were ahead, but he insisted on moving to the house.
“We should come back tomorrow,” I said. “Tell the Stickwick’s what we’re up to. Offer to finish up then.”
“It’s better as a surprise,” Dad whispered.
“We can’t even turn them on.”
“True…but they can. When we’re done, we’ll give them cookies and tell them to throw the switch.”
“That kind of thing only happens in movies, Dad.”
He took me by my shoulders and said, “Have a little faith in the plan.”
I felt exposed the entire time we strung lights from trees, along the wall, and at the gate. Moving toward the house—seeing the interior all lit up as the Stickwick’s went about their evening not only left me feeling anxious, but also shamed. They were entitled to their privacy, and there we were, right outside—able to look in.
When I raised this point to Dad, he said, “Then don’t look inside.”
He walked up and down the front of the house, checking for motion-triggered lights so he knew where we could move without concern.
“I bet the crew that started hanging the lights when I pointed out they were starting too soon disconnected them and Nancy and Paul never noticed. See? It’s unlikely they even look outside.”
Still, he positioned his ladder in such a way that we wouldn’t be noticed if someone looked out, even when wrapping the tall pillars near the entrance.
It took hours, but we outlined the house and windows. When Dad went to work on the front door, it happened.
The panicked voice of Nancy Stickwick through the intercom of her video doorbell said, “Hello? Who’s there? I’m calling the police!”
“Nancy, no,” Dad said. He looked into the lens, seeming to forget he was wearing a black ski mask. “It’s me, Milo Stevenson.”
She responded with a scream.
“Mrs. Stickwick, it’s Karl Stevenson,” I said. “Please don’t call the police.”
There was no response.
* * *
We removed our ski masks and sat on the steps to the Stickwick’s house. Dad reminded me what to do when the cops arrived. In his younger years, he always pushed back against authority, all but looking for a fight from the start. With age came a strong desire for survival and a focus on de-escalation. He texted Mom, letting her know what was happening, just in case.
We watched two police cruisers come down the hill, their emergency lights obscured by freshly falling snow. The Stickwicks buzzed them in at the gate, and Dad and I emptied the contents of our pockets on the porch, pulling them inside-out to show they were empty. We stood up and raised our hands above our heads.
When the Stickwicks turned on their front light to step out, the house and trees lit up the decorations Paul placed in the yard in an effort to create some semblance of holiday cheer. When the police ordered my father and me to slowly turn around, Nancy saw it was us and realized what we’d done. It didn’t stop her from allowing the cops to cuff us as they sorted out what was going on, but by the end of the ordeal, the police had a laugh and went on their way. As they drove down the driveway, Mom walked up with a package of baked goods.
“I felt bad about being so petty last month,” Dad said. “So, we decorated for you. We wanted it to be a surprise.”
“It’s been quite a surprise,” Paul Stickwick said.
“I’m sorry we scared you.”
Nancy looked like a little kid as she stared at how much Dad and I did that evening.
“You did all this for me?” she said.
Dad nodded. “Well, you and Paul. And the neighborhood. The street didn’t look right without your place lit up.”
“After all I’ve done, you still did this for us?”
“Well, it’s not been entirely one-sided, Nance. I’ve definitely taken part in our ongoing petty-fest over the years.”
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“For what?”
“The way I am.” She fought back tears. “Every time I’ve looked at how dark the yard was this year, I sat with that. It was my fault. Any other year, and I would have blamed you…hated you even more. It’s just how I was raised to be. Everything was my fault growing up, and everybody else’s once I did.”
Dad looked to mom for help. She handed me the box of desserts and took Nancy’s hands in hers.
“That’s not an uncommon feeling,” Mom said. “What is are people coming to that realization on their own. That’s a big step, Nancy.”
Even Mom seemed surprised when Nancy locked her in a hug and broke down on her shoulder. My mother gave her time to let it out and then pulled a napkin from the box of cookies and cakes.
After Nancy used it to dry her eyes, she said, “I’m sorry.”
Mom rubbed her shoulder. “Don’t be. If you ever want to talk, I’m here. If you’re uncomfortable talking to me, I can refer you to someone.”
“Thank you.”
When Nancy Stickwick regained her composure, Dad offered her a cookie. Then Paul.
We stood in silence, the five of us, eating Christmas cookies in the snow with our neighbors, just like a scene from a movie…
* * *
Nancy and Paul Stickwick’s yard went on to win the annual holiday decorating contest. When Nancy planned to speak up and credit Dad and me, he told her, “We all won this year, so just accept it. But next year, it’s on!”
I won’t say Dad and Nancy went on to become good friends, but she always lingered and chatted with him after weekly sessions with my mom.
Dad ran uncontested for the President of the Board of the Camelot Hills Homeowners’ Association, winning unanimously after Nancy’s old voting bloc refused to vote in protest of what they saw as a grave betrayal—their sister in hostility stepping aside to let “that old punk rocker” take over. In time, his spirit of cooperation shaped new rules that made it a better place to live. He only faced resistance once, when he suggested dissolving the HOA entirely. He half-joked with me that some people are simply too afraid of their own potential for unregulated good.
I sometimes wish I could travel back in time, to grab my father and show him how his life ended up. I’d say my mother, too, but I don’t think she’d be surprised. But to see my Dad’s face upon viewing the neighborhood where he lives would be priceless, the absolute confusion about where, along the way, he “sold out,” and then: the realization that he never did.
My parents are better people than they were when they were younger, but isn’t that the point of life: to learn and get better? But in many ways, they are the same people they always were, keeping promises made to themselves when younger and finding their way in a world that was always against them. They may not be following bands and crashing on floors anymore; no longer fighting in the streets or living on the cheap, but they’re still punk as fuck!
(Hell, maybe even more…)
[Quirky music fades in…]
Christopher Gronlund:
Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks.
A BIG thank you to Cynthia Griffith for narrating “The World Beneath Her Brush” AND for not only coming up with the idea and initial stanza for the “Tailless Grackles of Summer” song, but arranging and singing the little tune…while I plunked away on the mandolin.
Theme music, as always, is by Ergo Phizmiz. Story music, with one exception, was licensed through Epidemic Sound.
The exception? The Descendents’ song, “Suburban Home,” is used with permission from the band. For me, rights for use is like an early Christmas gift because it’s a song I’ve loved for decades, and it obviously inspired the title to this year’s actual Christmas story.
The band’s heading out on tour in 2024, so check them out!
Sound effects are made in-house or from Epidemic Sound and freesound.org. Visit nolumberjacks.com for information about the show, the voice talent, and the music. Also, for as little as a dollar a month, you can support the show at patreon.com/cgronlund.
With back-to-back monthly episodes, now begins the annual long wait for March. But I still tend to get things out earlier in March, so it’s not much longer than usual, and it keeps me on schedule.
So, what can you expect for the next story? How about a tale called “Not Again,” in which a guy makes a time machine, takes it back to 1983 for a test run, and ends up breaking down in his past?
[Quirky music fades out…]
[The sound of an axe chopping.]
Until next time: be mighty, and keep your axes sharp!
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