This week our most published writer, Tom Sheehan presents a little thing that is not exactly a short story but is wonderful it its own right. Tom is a master of the craft and language and we hope you take the time this Sunday to let him speak to you.
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The Lady and the Lumberjack
Lottie Littlejohn had worked the lone general store in Clint Falls, Montana, by herself after her husband fell across the counter and died from a heart attack, no family near enough to help her, now approaching five long years at the task. And she never looked at a man out of the corners of her eyes, not with hope, interest or hunger of the tricky sort, two ways of getting together, her to him or him to her.
It all popped loose one day when a lumberjack, a regular monthly customer, Daniel Ranford, brawny across his shoulders, forearms and wrists carrying near-emblems of his trade, took an extra look at the lady behind the counter.
If ignition was ever spontaneous, this did the errand at hand, cracked open another door as though it came loose of hinges, or the last swing of an ax sharpened for the deed.
In a manual world, lamp lonely lit when necessary for late hours or the darkest of days, it was singular, open, a notion or an idea on the run and delivered as such. For a woodsman whose life and success were explosions of energy, the drop of a tree was not the final act of the deed but there came endless splitting of logs and succeeding piles of stove wood or construction lumber in a daily mix. Destination went in every direction, sundry routes, defined needs as demands chased his energies.
Ranford fired all barrels of his attention, and managed to slip in an extra visit to the store to move the concentration, Lottie wondering if he had lost a brace of supplies or let sourness make an extra invasion.
Lottie began to pay attention to her appearance, stayed with an attractive hair-do, changed her clothes as often as she could, do a last-minute fix when she saw him coming or figured he was due for a visit; all possibilities checked and doublechecked to her satisfaction, and, hopefully, his.
Both ends made improvements, the way they would look at each other, without saying a word out of sync, like love warming up to a noble task for a lumberjack or a store clerk. She marked one minor problem with gout on one of his knuckles, and the other was an ear for soft country music in an occasional recording he purchased, as if every other visit had worn the records out, down to the nub, or, if possible, down to the last lonely tear in his eyes. the soft music finding a soft heart. And Lottie noting changes and impacts from her observation on the one man now attracting her attention.
When Ranford spun loose a soft country song from memory, “When Love Makes the Mountain Taller,” Lottie was home with a new energy, herself near drawn down over the counter, her heart now wide open with remembrance of a known love that carried her for lovely years, wrapped her in its hunger, let the topic rush the richness of old thoughts, new advantages for old souls.
Life on the upswing; nothing else like it, for storekeeper free of the counter, lumberjack free of the forest. The world can turn around in the smallest sphere; love and hunger make the drawing, the pairing.
Tom Sheehan
literally stories 