The Storyteller | Mary Vee

Photo Courtesy and Thanks to Pixaby.com I opened the pages of a new book and began to read. Snuggled under a soft, warm comforter with my pillow cushioning my back, I read by the single lightbulb on my nightstand. The story captivated me by the first line. I read on, turning pages filled with picturesque scenes...  Enraptured with the mystery unfolding... The characters springing to life... Twists and turns. Ups and downs.  And the killing of my favorite character! The hours swept by as I, the reader, so engrossed with each new word-- Accumulated all the necessary evidence provided by ink on the page... So convinced, thanks to the seed planted by the opening line-- The whodunit. The whys and wherefores. Ready to read the last chapter with the answer. Hah. I figured it out before the detective! I turned the pages, delve into the pages for my victory lap... When, once again, as in all well-written mystery books, the detective dressed in black ...

Last week I drove to Tahquamenon Falls excited to see ice at the falls and saw a posted sign, Watch out for Moose. Yeah. Right. Snow covered portions of the sign.  The yellow warning vehemently cautioned drivers of a supposed truth:   be on guard for the next two miles. This notice, like many fairy tells, refused to back down from a strong conviction. Surely, at some point, a moose had crossed this portion of the road. In all the years of camping, living, and vacationing in Michigan's Upper Penninsula, I have never, ever seen a moose. The truth is: bears barge into homes and raid kitchens.  Bobcat and cougar roam freely, crossing the ice from Canada to UP island houses.  Beaver drag trees and dam up water that later collapses and floods homes,  But there has never ever ever been a moose. They simply don’t exist. It’s not that I haven’t looked. I tried to validate the claim. Give the idea a chance.  ...

How is it that a toddler wakes before the parents?  The morning light weighed her to her pillow. She covered her head with her blanket. It was too early to rise. She hadn’t had coffee and the alarm wouldn’t ring for at least thirty minutes. Magically her child lept to his feet, grabbed hold of his crib rails and bounced on the mattress as though it were a trampoline, announcing the beginning of a new day. She didn’t have to be in his room to know this is what he did.  “Mama, ma-ma, maaaaaa-maaaaaa--come and get me,” was the loose translation of the gibberish saturated with playful demand. Like a myriad of mothers living before her and in households across the land where the weight of the morning sun crept through bedroom drapes, she waited. Allowing her head to be weighed down on her beloved pillow smooshed to a perfect consistency, and her blanket to hide her from the morning sun. Perhaps he’ll give up and go back to sleep. But, no. The jabbe...

What happens when twelve family members, most between the ages of 16 and 24 are accused of being hooligans? It started...many years ago... Read chapter one, where the hijinks begin, The American Citizen click here:  Chapter One Chapter two: Hooliganism in the Airport  click here:  Chapter Two Chapter three: The Cold Sank Into Their Bones  click here   Chapter Three Photo by Mary Vee As the evening hour swirled into the night, so also the -25 degree temperatures plummeted closer to -40. Winds raced into Moscow from the artic, carrying a sting and shiver never before experienced by the ten hooligans and patriarch plus matriarch which will heretofore be called bothriarchs. Sure the twelve had lived through harsh North American winters where freezing temperatures drew tears from the eyes, forced noses to run, and breath that looked like frost, but they’d never experienced this cold. A bitterness that seeped into their very marrow. Three black...