Snow Globe

Welcome to the latest posting of Literary Corner. We have something special this time, a little different from the normal posts. Frances Tallarico, a wonderful woman from out on the west coast, is a person who loves literature, especially writing, and has written a number of books and short stories. She was gracious enough to submit this brief story for our enjoyment. It’s interesting, surprising, and certainly within our theme as the story itself is about a new writer. Frances also publishes a very interesting blog about her travels and experiences, and for anyone interested, here is the link: https://lifeculture.travel.blog. I hope you all enjoy this new addition to Literary Corner!

Snow Globe

By Frances Tallarico

The snow was coming down gently now that the wind had subsided. It had drifted up to the window sills of the little house on the main road of Nowhere, Montana, and all that could be seen of it from the road was the rooftop, the chimney with the plume of smoke that floated in the sky, the glow of candles, and the red neon OPEN sign pulsing behind ice crusted windows.

Lolo lived in the back of the house, and the front room served as post office and bus depot, though there was little mail and the bus passed through once a week in both directions, on different days.  Lolo was a little bit of a woman, and it seemed to her that she had shrunk since she moved here twenty years ago. “Maybe one day you’ll just disappear,” she’d say to herself every time she climbed on the stepstool to get something from the top shelf in the kitchen.

She’d moved to Nowhere at the turn of the century to get away from the turmoil of New York City life. She’d written a novel, but even being in the midst of where the literary scene was happening, it was hard to get noticed, and easy to be distracted by the city lights. It was just for a little while, she promised herself, to edit and revise her novel, and then find an agent.

She’d received two hundred twenty-two rejections, and just as many no replies to her queries. After a while, she stopped sending them, but she did continue to write. There were notebooks filled with partially written novels, poems and love letters to the men she’d loved and lost, and daily entries in the stack of journals next to her bed. Sometimes she’d read her work. After a while it all sounded the same to her, with different words.

As time passed, she found that she enjoyed being alone. Here, in Nowhere, Montana, there was just enough interaction with the ranchers who came by to pick up mail, and the infrequent bus stops with passengers who needed to use the restroom. They were usually hungry as well, so Lolo started baking cookies to sell on the days the buses came through. She called them Big Sky cookies, plain vanilla cookies with a thick coating of blue icing. One customer said, “These are nothing but plain vanilla cookies with blue icing,” so the next batch Lolo made, she added a heaping spoonful of Montana sand to the cookie dough. People loved her Big Sky cookies for their unique flavor and crunch.

Winter time was hard. She was obligated to keep the walkway to the bus stop clear. That meant shoveling every day, even when the bus wasn’t due. She’d already lost one finger and two toes to frostbite in the bitter cold winter. She’d shoveled earlier in the day, but the persistent snow had put a new layer on the path. It didn’t matter. Who’d be out on a night like this? And the bus wasn’t due until tomorrow. She was tired of writing about the blanket of snow that quieted the noise of the day, and made a pot of soup with the bones of the chicken she’d roasted on Sunday and whatever vegetables were in the cellar.

She heard the buzz the bell made when the front door opened. In the front room stood a tall, thin man, carrying a duffel bag and a child in his arms. They were coated in snow. “Hello, ma’am. My car broke down about a mile up the road. I called for roadside assistance, but they said it would be several hours before someone could get to us. They suggested we stay here to keep warm. Is that all right with you?”

“Of course,” Lolo said. “Let me take your coats. I’ll hang them near the fireplace to dry.”

The man took off his coat and sat on the couch near the fireplace. He took the blanket from the child he was carrying and put him on his lap. Now Lolo could see that it wasn’t a child, but a doll dressed in jeans and a blue plaid cowboy shirt. “My name is Michael,” he said. There was the lilt of an Irish accent when he spoke. “This is Kelly the Cowboy.”

“Hubba hubba,” Kelly the Cowboy said, “You’re quite a dame. I bet all the cowboys around here are crazy about you.”

Lolo laughed. “So, you’re a ventriloquist.”

“Yes, I am.” Kelly the Cowboy replied, “and this is my dummy.”

“How would you like some soup to warm you up?”

As she placed a bowl of soup on the table next to Michael, the electricity went out. She went through the house to put oil lamps around, and stoked the fire. In the dim lamplight and flickering flames of the fire, she spoke with her guests. Kelly the Cowboy did the talking. He was quite entertaining, even if somewhat brash and bawdy.

Lolo was curled up in the chair across from them. Soon Kelly the Cowboy’s chatter was a drone amid the crackle of the fire. Her eyelids became heavy and she rode off on a wooden horse with a cowboy named Kelly.

She was aroused by the clanking noise of the tow truck on the road. “Well, there you are,” Kelly the Cowboy said. “You missed my best stories.”

Lolo yawned and stretched. “I’m sorry.” The candles had burned down to nubbins, the lamps were out of oil, and the fire was glowing embers, but the room was bright with sunlight, and the big Montana sky was as blue as the icing on her vanilla cookies.

She opened the door for the tow truck driver. “Are you ready to go, Michael?” Lolo brought his coat to him. He sat there, motionless, his eyes open in a blank stare.

“I told you he was a dummy,” Kelly the Cowboy said. “Just help us down to the car and we’ll be on our way… Did I tell you about the leprechaun who lost his pot of gold?”