Tin-Hearted Man Transcript

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[Sound of an ax chopping wood. Quirky music fades in…]

Christopher Gronlund:

I want to make one thing perfectly clear: this show is not about lumberjacks…

My name is Christopher Gronlund, and this is where I share my stories. Sometimes the

Stories contain truths, but most of the time, they’re made up. Sometimes the stories are funny—other times they’re serious. But you have my word about one thing: I will never—EVER—share a story about lumberjacks.

This time, it’s the show’s November anniversary episode. That’s right, Not About Lumberjacks is entering its eighth year of existence! When Big Nick Champeau is taken by the Thunder River, his lumber camp speculates what his life might have been like before becoming a lumberjack.

But first, the usual content advisory…

“Tin-Hearted Man” deals with loss of life, child abuse, alcoholism, physical fighting and violence against others, Korean War combat, facial disfigurement, lost love, loss of a pet, and drug use. But hey—there’s no swearing!

Before we get going, I’d like to thank the following patrons of the show (at least at the time of this recording): Mary Miller, Michelle Booze, Michael Howie, Mark Hosack, Elizabeth Mitchell, Geoffrey Little, Natalia Sylvester, Art Platt, Julia Lundman, Larry Tubbs, Tim Griffith, Mark Felps, Mary Salerno, Tim Czarnecki, John Sheffield, Lisa Eckstein, Cynthia Griffith, and Paul Csomo. (Okay, so Paul had to withdraw his patronage for a bit because his house flooded when it took an almost direct hit from Hurricane Ian in October, but he was there in the beginning, and I’d be remiss to not mention his patronage and friendship.)

If you’re interested in the Not About Lumberjacks Patreon, check out patreon.com/cgronlund for more details. Basically, whether you throw a dollar a month at the show, or more…you get all levels of exclusive access to what goes on behind the scenes of Not About Lumberjacks.

All right, let’s get to work!

* * *

Prologue

1968

Nick Champeau was a big, bad man, but he was no match for the Thunder River. He was out on a growing jam, working his peavey to free a key log, when everything broke loose beneath him.

Nick danced across rushing timbers as the bank crew extended their pikes, hoping he could grab hold before being carried away, but the river’s reflexes were quicker. The rush of logs pulled him far from shore at a bend; it was Nick Champeau against the river’s wrath. At first, he stayed upright in spite of nature’s fury—his reputation as the area’s strongest river pig giving hope to those watching that he’d defeat the river. When Nick stepped on the end of a short trunk appearing longer than it actually was, their optimism faded.

The river swallowed him to the waist, but Nick grabbed another log and pulled himself up in defiance. The current was stronger. Nick never fully regained his footing as the river ran more wild. Each time into the cold waters, his body took a beating, until it was half crushed by logs. Before he drifted out of view, his crew watched him go under one last time. Big Nick Champeau was never seen again.

* * *

On Sunday morning, after filling their bellies with flapjacks and coffee to the point of almost bursting, Michel DeCoeur stood before the wood-burning stove in the mess hall. He looked at the two long rows of benches filled with the toughest men he’d ever met and said, “I know we’re all still hurting about Nick.”

Heads went down; thick, calloused fingers picked at crumbs as Michel continued.

“I reckon we should have a bit of a memorial in his honor to get some of this pain out of our chests. If you’ve got something to say, step up here where it’s warm and say a few words.

Maybe share a story. I’ll start.”

He took a deep breath and then smiled.

“Nick and I were out drinking one night. Well, I was, anyway. We were minding our own business when a guy in the bar asked about the tattoo on Nick’s arm. I knew the guy didn’t care about it, and I’m sure Nick knew that, too. But he still answered. ‘It’s the Tin Man from The Wonderful Wizard of Oz book.’

“‘Why’d you get that?” the guy said. ‘It’s weird,’

“Nick said, ‘Sometimes it’s the weird things in life that give us our strength.’

“He had that weird way of answering honestly, but sounding like he was looking for trouble.

“The guy looked at me and said, ‘You two boyfriends?’

“Before I could speak up, Nick said, ‘So what if we are?’

“The guy shoved Nick in his Tin Man arm, and I said, ‘Hey, buddy. There’s two of us and only one of you. And my friend, here, is like three people. Why don’t you just let us be?”

“The guy broke a bottle on the bar and said, ‘I’m not alone…’

“When I heard Nick whisper, ‘Please don’t do this…’ I knew it was about to get ugly.

“I don’t know how many teeth that guy lost on the top of the bar, but he stayed down. Another guy cracked a pool cue across Nick’s back, but I don’t think he even felt it. He was in a rage, pummeling some of the guys with his fists, while taking out others with chairs and his boots.

By the time I squared up to join in, Nick had already ended things.

Half a dozen men lay on the floor, holding broken noses and picking their teeth up from the boards. A couple others weren’t moving at all.

Nick put a handful of money on the bar and walked off.

I followed him outside and said, ‘Where’d you learn to fight like that?’

“He never answered me…”

* * *

1939 – 1948

Nick Champeau was ten years old when his parents took him to the United States to visit his mother’s family for Christmas. Boston was a stunning change from Granby, Quebec—the American town full of life and lights like Nick had never seen before. They stayed in a motel because, in the words of Nick’s father, “Your family doesn’t like me, and I sure as hell don’t like them.” While Nick and his mother visited relatives, Nick’s father visited local bars.

On the Friday before Christmas, Nick’s uncle took him and two cousins to see The Wizard of Oz at the Colonial Theatre. It was Nick’s first movie, and the glowing marquis and ornate interior seemed like a fitting preview for what he saw on screen. The black and white beginning of the movie giving way to vibrant Technicolor felt like going from Canada to Boston. From the Tin Man’s first appearance on screen, when Dorothy and The Cowardly Lion find him rusted beside a tree and holding an axe, there was something about the character that fascinated Nick. In the Tin Man, he saw a strength and resilience he never had. He loved the movie with the exception of one thing…

That night in the motel, Nick tossed and turned in bed. Every sound startled him, eventually, to the point of tears. His father heard him sniffling in the dark.

“Are you crying?” he said.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I’m scared.”

“Of what?”

“The flying monkeys.”

“What flying monkeys?”

“From the Wizard of Oz.”

“It was just a movie,” Nick’s father said. “Don’t be a baby.”

But Nick couldn’t stop crying. When his sniffles turned to sobbing, his father got out of bed and gave him something to really cry about.

* * *

In the years that followed, Nick’s father continued giving him something to cry about, often for no other reason than Nick being in the wrong place during one of his father’s wrong moods. School was no refuge. Being the smallest kid in his class meant even other small kids picked on him, hoping to appear bigger to their peers. Instead of studying, Nick spent his days being as inconspicuous as possible, which meant passing by things he might have otherwise thrown himself into: mainly, English classes and band.

Through it all, imagining himself as the Tin Woodsman from The Wizard of Oz and the books in the series he came to love was the only thing that made the pain of Nick’s existence bearable.

Then, in his 15^th year, Little Nick Champeau got big.

* * *

In one summer, he went from being the smallest kid in his class to one of the largest in the entire school. But old habits are hard to break: the group of boys that tormented Nick were like small dogs trying to attack a wolf. He was in the gymnasium when it happened, the group of boys cornering Nick in preparation for humiliation and a beating.

Nick did nothing to thwart their taunting, but when they came for him, physically, years of rage exploded from within. By the time Nick was done with the group, lips were split and noses were broken.

But Nick was still no match for his father. He picked up Nick from school early. As soon as the front door to the house closed, his father unleashed his rage .

Nick did his best to defend himself, even attempting to fight back, but that made matters worse. By the time his father was done, Nick’s face was swollen, and his eyes would soon be black.

As his father walked off, Nick whispered, “A day will come when you’re not going to be able to do this anymore…”

* * *

A year later, Nick had enough of school. He dropped out and got a job loading and unloading cargo in the Port of Montreal. When his day was done, he often stayed with friends, only returning home to visit with his mother when he knew his father was at work. During one such visit, his father returned home early.

“What are you doing here?”

“Visiting Mom.”

“What’s that on your arm?”

“A tattoo. I got it a couple months ago. It’s the Tin Man from The Wonderful Wizard of Oz book.”

“Why’d you get that?”

“I like it,” Nick said.

“You shouldn’t go marking up your body like that. It’s stupid.”

Nick stopped talking.

“Did you hear me?” his father said.

Something in the pit of Nick’s stomach burned.

His father stepped forward, grabbed Nick’s face, and said, “I’m talking to you!” Nick broke the hold and ducked when his father threw a punch.

Nick always envisioned the big fight with his father: him destroying the old man in a legendary fight where tables, chairs, and even bones were broken. If not taking his father’s life, at least showing him a glimpse of his final breath as Nick wrapped his hands around his neck and squeezed. But all it took was one punch to drop him to the ground.

Nick stood over his father, waiting for a dirty kick to his crotch—another round of blows at the very least. But his father stayed down, cowering beneath his son.

Nick shook his head, closed the door behind him, and never returned home again.

* * *

Michel DeCoeur looked around the mess hall and said, “Anyone else?”

He took a seat at the end of a long bench when Jean-Marc Avignon stepped up to the wood-burning stove.

“I don’t have much to say,” Jean-Marc said, “but I want to say Nick Champeau was a good man. When he came to our camp a couple years back, he learned fast. There was nothing he wasn’t willing to do. I’ve never seen someone do as much as he did in such a short amount of time.

“He was nice to me. Like many of us, my life hasn’t always been good, but Nick treated me kindly. He treated us all that way. Even though he was a quiet man, I felt he liked us all.

“I caught Nick sitting alone in the woods one day. I asked what he was up to, and he didn’t say a word. He was staring into the trees like he saw something only he could see.

“Another time, I got up the courage to ask him about that big scar on his face. Instead of answering, he pointed to a butterfly resting on a blade of grass and said, “Well, would you look at that…?”

* * *

1948 – 1951

Nick’s favorite thing about Montreal was April Dufour. After a night of talking into the early morning hours at the party where they met, Nick knew he had found someone special. In the months that followed, every dream Nick mentioned was supported by April. “If you want to play the guitar, what’s stopping you from getting one and learning how to play? If you want to write, then why don’t you write?” And he supported her, working extra hours to save money for a future together, hoping to help provide everything in life she wanted as well.

Two years later, a job on the docks wasn’t enough for Nick. He wanted something that would allow him to do more with life than just pack and unpack ships. April wasn’t as enthused about Nick’s decision to join the Army.

“We have plenty, Nicky. Why would you want to go and do that?”

“It’s just for a few years,” he said. “When I’m done, I’ll be able to do so more than work on the docks.”

* * *

In April of 1951, Nick regretted his decision to enlist. In Korea, on a hill west of the Kapyong River, his battalion dug trenches in anticipation of a Chinese advance. A day of skirmishes gave way to the realization they were staring down the entire Chinese 118th Division in an all-out battle. To avoid being overrun, Nick’s company captain called down artillery strikes on the hill they were defending. All Nick could do is hunker down in his trench and pray to not be hit by his own side.

It wasn’t enough. The ceaseless pace of the firefight gave way to hand-to-hand

bayonet charges. Nick rose above his brigade in the slaughter, imagining his foes were every person who ever wronged him. In the fury of the moment, while screaming down on an enemy, he felt the end of a bayonet enter his mouth and exit the back side of his right cheek. Before Nick drove his bayonet into the chest of his foe, the Chinese soldier pulled at his own bayonet with all his might, ripping its way free through the side of Nick’s face. But his greatest injury was yet to come…

* * *

A medical discharge meant Nick could return home a year sooner than planned with

full benefits. He raced to April’s apartment hoping to surprise her, but he was surprised to find it occupied by someone else. When he finally tracked her down, he could tell she was horrified by the wound on the right side of his face. It was apparent April did not want to tell Nick the bad news in person.

“I told you we had enough, but you didn’t listen,” she said. “I didn’t want you to
go—I didn’t want to wait. I thought you’d be killed in the war. I was going to write you. I met somebody—“

Nick’s world seemed to fall away beneath his feet; he felt like a man spinning lost in space.

With those words—I met somebody—Nick Champeau became a man without a heart…

* * *

Pierre Tremblay warmed his hands by the stove before saying, “What I liked about Nick is he wasn’t just a one-sided fella. Michel talked about how you didn’t want to get on Nick’s bad side, but he was also a nice guy.

“And Jean-Marc is right: he loved the woods. He once told me the forest was his mistress. A few weeks ago, I caught him in the middle of the next stand we’re gonna to cut. He was sitting on the ground, talking to the animals. I’m not kidding: birds, squirrels, and a deer were around him, listening. I’d not have been surprised to see a bear or moose stop and listen— his voice had that soothing way. He told them a story he made up about all the animals building a village in the forest, and then he apologized for cutting down the trees.

“To me, a job’s a job, and I don’t feel bad about what I do for a living. Maybe Nick did, though. It makes me wonder what Nick thought in the river. Did anyone else notice how he looked back at us when he went under—like he was making sure we all saw it?”

* * *

1951 – 1963

After the war and breakup, Nick spent his savings on a Willys Utility Wagon, a new 35mm Canon camera, a used Linhof large format camera, and a brand-new Gibson acoustic guitar. He headed out west, working odd jobs along the way: a stagehand in a theater in Toronto, a carpenter’s apprentice in Winnipeg, farm laborer outside Saskatoon, and a line cook in a diner called Mount Lunch near Banff. A short stint lumberjacking north of Vancouver. In his time off, he wrote about his travels in a journal, took photos, and practiced playing guitar. In time, he saved enough to travel north, wandering the Yukon and western side of the Northwest Territories.

In the Territory of Alaska, he found Nanook.

Nick spotted the white husky wandering the streets of Fairbanks, cold and hungry. After luring him into the back of the wagon with some salami, he spread out another blanket beside his where the two back seats once were, before Nick ripped them out so he always had a dry place to stretch out and sleep. Nanook’s company was even more soothing than the surroundings. The

two took the Alaska Highway 1,523 miles south, to Dawson Creek, simply because it was a thing to do.

Nanook and Nick lived a nomadic life for years, crossing the country to the east and back again. In Vancouver, Nick decided to head south, into the United States. The two visited the legendary national parks of the country: Yellowstone, Yosemite, Zion, and The Grand Canyon. In California, Nick summoned the courage to grab his guitar and perform on the streets in San Francisco and Los Angeles, making a little money in the process. They eventually lost themselves in the desert southwest, where Nick was introduced to psychedelics. The combination of scenery, peyote, and music gave way to Nick’s most prolific period of photography and writing. In Arches National Park, Nick took his favorite photo: an image of Nanook and him in profile, framed by the Delicate Arch.

Three months later, Nanook was gone.

Nick noticed him slowing down as they traveled. Nothing seemed wrong, other than age taking its toll. No pain—just time catching up. They headed north, to Glacier National Park, so

Nanook could live out his final days in a place that reminded Nick of the wilderness outside

Fairbanks. With his best friend gone, Nick headed to Boston.

His mother moved to the city to be with her family after his father died. He’d sent letters home, but hadn’t seen his mother in over ten years. The pace of life in Boston seemed overwhelming, at first, but Nick eventually settled into a routine. He took a job developing photos and reconnected with the two cousins he met the night he first saw The Wizard of Oz.

When the oldest of the two found out Nick played guitar, he said, “Ya know something? We should really form a band…”

* * *

André Benoit was the next to speak.

“Like Phillippe, I think I talked at Nick more than anything. It was nice having someone who never tried telling you what to do when you needed to get something off your chest.

“I would sometimes try talking to Nick, but you know how he was? I once asked him what he did before coming up to this camp, and he said, ‘This and that. Odd jobs and such…’ I think he might have even been in the Army.

“Another time, I asked him what he’d do if he weren’t a lumberjack. He said he didn’t know, but I noticed a slight grin that told me he had his ideas…”

* * *

1965

The crowd at the McGill Ballroom was not as enthusiastic as Nick hoped when he and The Tin Hearts took the stage. The crowd stood on the floor with a shared distant look; it was as though the band stepped onto a stage in another dimension, invisible to the room before them.

But as they began playing “The Morning I Melted,” the crowd’s attention turned.

A Hammond organ and jangly guitar riff were joined by a drum kit played with timpani mallets, a sound smoothing all the music together. Bass notes seemed to resound for minutes. As Nick sang about taking a voyage of the mind during breakfast one morning, the crowd swayed and gyrated in unison to the tune. It would only build from there.

Behind the band, a light show reminiscent of the Technicolor dreamscapes of the Wizard of Oz movie swirled and pulsated to the beat. The Tin Hearts took the crowd on a musical journey, a trip for even the few sober members among them. One moment, it would not be hard to imagine oneself lost in a field of barley or drinking in a Medieval pub; then, rising guitar riffs pierced the ballroom while the bass and Nick’s voice echoed in the chests of patrons, taking them inside themselves. The music ebbed and flowed until a high, sustained guitar note reverberated above it all.

The light show behind the band stopped as a spotlight illuminated Nick in the darkness. He closed his eyes and sang a song called “My Butterfly” with no musical accompaniment. By the time he was done, everyone in the ballroom felt Nick’s loss.

The Tin Hearts closed with “The Telephone of Dreams,” a tune that condensed the previous hour of music into a 17-minute encore. By its end, the band and crowd were drenched in sweat, many among them not the same people they were before the show started. If Nick had any reservations about how they’d be received, the audience before him settled his doubts. Their applause echoed in his bones—it was even better than he ever imagined.

Unfortunately, it was one of only three gigs The Tin Hearts played before breaking up.

* * *

In the mess hall, others stepped up to speak in Nick’s memory. Most spoke about a man of few words who only seemed to want to be left alone to find kindness in an unkind world. Maurice Savard told the group Nick mentioned he came up to the lumber camp after something happened to his mother and cousin. “An accident, I think.” Etienne Lambert discussed how mesmerizing he found the blue eyes on the husky tattoo Nick had on the arm opposite of his Tin Man. Hugo Alarie said, “I think we know when our time is up. Nick seemed even more calm than usual the day he went under, like something in him knew what was about to happen.”

Michel DeCoeur closed out the ceremony.

“Has everybody had their say? All right. It’s funny how you can sometimes feel the closest to the people you know the least about. So many of us are quick to spill everything about ourselves, but Nick gave very little—except for hard work and support when and where it was needed. Maybe we feel close to him and hurt like we do because we were able to put our own feelings about things on him because he was usually so quiet. Like we saw who we wanted him—and even us—to be.

“But I think it’s more than that. I may not have known much about him, but I really do think the things I will carry in my heart about him are real…and somehow, that makes me want to be a better person. You all know how I can go on and on, so I’ll take a clue from him and stop rambling. But not before saying one final thing…”

Michel raised his coffee mug and said, “Cheers to Nick Champeau; cheers to a man you don’t meet every day…”

* * *

Epilogue

1975

Four and a half decades in the forest were all Michel DeCoeur could bear. Years of swinging axes and sawing timber was hard on the bones—the old man left his family in the woods behind and went to live with his sister in Montreal. The change was too much at first, but he remembered Nick telling him there were things to be found and lost in the city. After lunch each day, Michel went for a walk, looking for the little things most pass by, never noticing. He saw the way young couples in love looked at each other, and he came to appreciate the smells of restaurants and cafes as much as breakfasts in the mess hall in the lumber camp. He stopped in shops that caught his attention along the way—or he stopped and watched the ships on the Saint Lawrence River.

On one of his afternoon walks, in the window of a small bookstore, Michel spotted something that made him gasp. The book’s cover featured a photograph of a brilliant white husky in profile with a massive, bearded man, both framed by an arch in the American Southwest. The title: Nanook and Me. Below the photograph, the author’s name: Nicolas Champeau.

Michel looked over his shoulder, half expecting to see Nick standing above the crowd on the sidewalk, their bodies rushing around him like a boulder in fast waters. But Big Nick Champeau was nowhere to be seen…except in the shop’s window display. Michel opened the door and stepped inside, hoping to learn the real story behind the man who was more than a match for the Thunder River.

* * *

[Quirky music fades in…]

Christopher Gronlund:

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks.

Theme music, as always, is by Ergo Phizmiz. Story music this time was by Sandra Marteleur, licensed through Epidemic Sound. Psychedelic tracks purchased for use through Pond5.

Sound effects are made in-house or from Epidemic Sound and freesound.org. Visit nolumberjacks.com for information about the show, the voice talent, and the music. And, for as little as a dollar a month, you can support the show at patreon.com/cgronlund.

December’s Christmas episode is on its way. When an estranged relative shows up to a Christmas Eve celebration, he takes it upon himself to entertain the younger members of the family with a series of Christmas tales…

[Quirky music fades out…]

[The sound of an axe chopping.]

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