Larry And The Lumberjack’s

Larry is a lumberjack, but not the kind you’d find on a billboard or in a friendly forest brochure. He doesn’t smile for cameras, doesn’t crack jokes to fill the silence, and sure doesn’t waste time waiting for permission. He’s up before the light touches the treetops, out the door with a thermos in one hand and yesterday’s dust still on his boots. There’s no routine — just instinct. He moves like a man who’s been doing the work since before he could spell it, and maybe he has. If there’s something to be done, he does it. If something’s broken, he fixes it. And if it can’t be fixed, he makes something better with whatever’s within reach. That’s Larry’s way.

He doesn’t talk much, but not because he’s cold. It’s just that words don’t cut trees, patch roofs, or mend fences. He’s a man of action, of motion, of quiet purpose. Conversations are usually short, mostly because he’s already halfway through a task before anyone finishes a sentence. He doesn’t brag, doesn’t complain, and sure doesn’t slow down. It’s not stubbornness — it’s just how he’s built. The forest makes sense to him. Trees stand where they’re meant to. Tools either work or they don’t. And if they don’t, you fix them — or make something that does. One afternoon, mid-swing, his axe handle gave out with a sharp, unexpected crack. Most folks would’ve cussed, packed it up, or walked back to fetch another. Not Larry. He blinked once, tossed the splintered handle aside, and scanned the woods like he was picking out lumber for dinner. He found a branch — not perfect, not even close — and before long, his pocket knife was out and the wood was taking shape. By midday, that crooked stick had been carved down into a smooth, sturdy handle that looked like it came from a store shelf. He didn’t announce it. Didn’t even mention it. He just kept chopping.

People in town like to guess what makes Larry tick, like he’s some folk tale wandering out of the pines. But the truth is simpler: he doesn’t need to be understood. He doesn’t chase glory or attention. He just works — steady, relentless, and without apology. He’s the kind of man who finishes one job with the next already in mind, who measures time by daylight and progress. Larry’s not waiting for anyone. He never was. He’s out there, one bootstep ahead, already fixing whatever comes next.

Lucielle doesn’t need a spotlight — the room just tends to shift around her. She walks with the kind of confidence that isn’t loud but leaves no room for doubt. Some folks lead with their voice or their fists; Lucielle leads with presence. She sees everything, misses nothing, and remembers details no one else thought mattered. She’s got the sharp eyes of someone who’s made a habit of staying ten steps ahead — not for glory, but because that’s how you stay standing when the ground starts to shake.

She’s been called a strategist, a fixer, a diplomat when it suits her, and a thunderstorm when it doesn’t. Lucielle speaks in clear terms, never raises her voice, and still manages to stop conversations mid-sentence with a single look. People come to her with problems they wouldn’t admit to having. Not because she’ll coddle them — but because she’ll tell the truth, even when it hurts, and because she has a way of finding solutions hidden in plain sight. She builds things. Plans, systems, ideas. Not just with tools — though she’s handy enough — but with structure, foresight, and a kind of natural authority that doesn’t beg for permission. Whether she’s dealing with stubborn people, rusted metal, or some backwoods disaster no one else wants to touch, Lucielle doesn’t flinch. She just sets her jaw, rolls up her sleeves, and starts solving it.

Some say she’s intense. Others say she’s intimidating. But no one ever says she’s wrong. Lucielle earns respect the hard way — through consistency, clarity, and a refusal to back down when it counts. You don’t get to call yourself a leader out here. If people call you that anyway, unprompted — well, then you probably are. And that’s Lucielle in a nutshell: not here to impress anyone, just here to make sure the damn thing works.

Lenny is fifteen and already dead set on not becoming whatever his dad’s turning into. Larry’s been getting that wild-eyed look again — talking about trees and blueprints and building something big. Lenny just tunes it out. Not because he’s lazy, but because he’s got other things on his mind: busted radios, scrap metal projects, old batteries, and whatever he can pull out of the town dump before someone yells at him. He’s not interested in chopping wood or swinging hammers unless it powers something he’s rigging together with duct tape and stubbornness.

He’s got a brain like a soldering iron — hot, fast, and always sparking. He’ll stay up all night wiring a homemade telegraph just to see if he can get a ping from the next town over. He takes apart alarm clocks and transistor radios just to figure out how they tick, and usually puts them back together with “upgrades” no one asked for. He’s not much for rules, structure, or adult logic — he prefers his own version, one that runs on curiosity and caffeine he probably shouldn’t be drinking. Lenny’s got attitude, sure. He’s sarcastic, a little bristly, and allergic to phrases like “just do it my way.” He argues with teachers, mutters under his breath at town meetings, and once jury-rigged the school’s intercom to play music from his homemade reel-to-reel. But for all the mouth, he’s sharp. Scary sharp. He watches the world carefully, sees patterns most folks miss, and files them away in that buzzing, brilliant head of his.

He doesn’t want to cut trees. He doesn’t even really want to stay here. Lenny wants to crack the code, build the next big thing, or at the very least, prove that there’s more out there than trees and timber. And whether he ends up an inventor, a dropout, or a name in a science journal someday, one thing’s for sure — Lenny’s not sticking around to be anyone’s legacy but his own.

Laura is ten, and already runs the household with more authority than either of her parents care to admit. Don’t let the messy braids and mismatched socks fool you — this kid’s sharp. While her older brother Lenny is busy arguing with light switches and dismantling radios, Laura’s the one keeping tabs on who said what, what’s out of place, and what’s about to go wrong. She doesn’t finish other people’s chores — she delegates. She’s been known to trade favors, barter snacks, and twist words just right to get someone else to offer help without realizing they’ve been played.

She’s clever, confident, and has mastered the art of getting her way without raising her voice. She’ll sweet-talk her way into a second helping of dessert, then disappear right before it’s time to clean up, leaving behind only a trail of crumbs and a satisfied grin. She’s not mean — just very persuasive. And observant, too. Laura knows when her mom’s worried, when her dad’s hiding a new scheme, and when her brother’s up to something he definitely wasn’t supposed to be doing. She’s the kind of kid who turns the backyard into an imaginary kingdom, complete with secret passwords, hand-drawn maps, and a squirrel surveillance network she swears is “very real.” She collects shiny rocks, bottle caps, and dramatic stories. One day she wants to be a detective. The next, a lawyer. The day after that, she’s solving neighborhood mysteries with a magnifying glass and an intense squint that makes people nervous.

In a family full of wild ideas and wandering focus, Laura is the accidental glue — sticky, loud, and impossible to ignore. She may be little, but she’s not small. Not in spirit, not in voice, and definitely not in ambition. Whatever’s coming next, you can bet Laura’s already drafted a plan, drawn a diagram, and assigned everyone a job — whether they know it or not.