DECEMBER 27, 2019 – Several years ago I wrote a novel “based on a true story,” entitled Björn (featured in the photo above). Based on a screenplay I’d written previously, it’s about love, loss, rift and reconciliation.
Yesterday, as I transferred 40 gigs of files from one cloud-based server to another, a folder labeled, “Björn Story” caught my eye. I opened the novel file inside, glanced at a few passages and read one. May it bring you amusement. It’s wholly true . . .
Jenny’s famous radio-personality husband shared my birthday, but he had more than that in common with us Nilssons. He was born in the same house as Jenny four blocks from our home in Anoka, Minnesota—a Victorian that had been converted into a hospital and marked outside by a blue, neon “Hospital” sign atop a black pole. Garrison graduated from Anoka High School and was well-acquainted with many of the people our family knew. In fact, it turned out he was related to many of the people we knew well.
[. . . ] Garrison had been to Björnholm once before—in the fall. It was on a weekend when a rerun of his show instead of a live one was being broadcast on NPR. Somehow Jenny had coaxed him to endure an over-night at the cabin with her, Mother and Dad. Around mid-morning Saturday, Beth, the boys and I hiked over from our own family cabin, which was tucked away on a secluded lot adjoining the far end of Björnholm. When we reached the old family cabin, we weren’t the least bit surprised to see Dad on the roof, inching carefully but confidently along the edge, scooping and tossing debris from the gutter. But seeing Garrison do a tentative crab walk higher up on the roof was a complete shock.
I didn’t ask what in the world my big, tall brother-in-law was doing up there, but I imagined that after a hearty breakfast, Dad had announced that he, Dad, was going outside to attend to his fall maintenance task of clearing out the gutters. Garrison, no doubt, had wanted desperately to retreat to a quiet corner of the cabin to write. Surely, though, he’d perfunctorily volunteered to help, expecting that Dad, who always worked alone, wouldn’t want help and therefore wouldn’t accept it. Not wanting to offend Garrison, Dad, in turn, had probably said reluctantly, “Sure,” and assigned him the adjunct and limited task of clearing the roof of small branches that strong winds had trimmed off the trees standing near the cabin. It was a safer job than clearing the gutters, for Garrison could stay well away from the edges—once he’d gotten himself up the ladder and onto the roof in the first place.
Dad greeted us confidently. Garrison managed only a shaky “Oh.” I laughed silently at the thought he was too nervous to see himself at the center of one his own classic radio monologues, which had given so much amusement to millions of fans.
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© 2019 Eric Nilsson
