The Storyteller | Mary Vee

I have and probably will always be the first person to wake in my house or whatever dwelling I happen to be in.  Like previous mornings, I am rewarded with the first colors splashing across the sky. First reds, oranges, and yellows. I snap the photo and show my family as they wake. Like every other morning, my sleepy family is content to see my digital recording or early morning explorations. They drink the second cup of coffee. Shower after the water heater reheats. Snore while I write. Yawn while I walk out to the frosted tipped grass and breathe the crisp air. Even with the social distancing there are other ways to see how our lives haven't changed. Yeah, I’m okay with being first awake in the morning. Its a 20-20 year! It may be a roller coaster or smooth sailing.  Hold on!  There's no looking back. No hindsight. Announcing my new release coming in April! ...

Grandma's photo book Photo by Mary Vee Grandma’s dining room table had room for a dozen when opened to the full length.  Years ago, when Grandpa was but a spry youthful newly-married man, he carried it into the house with the added help of neighbor John. It was squished to the smallest size and easily fit through the doorway. They set it on the hardwood floor in the dining area where it promptly dissolved in the large room. Grandma said she and Grandpa spoke in hushed tones during meals those first years to keep their conversation from echoing. Grandma's table, china cabinet and crochet'd pillows Photo by Mary Vee  Their third year of marriage brought the addition of a handmade bookshelf hoisted into the house from Grandpa’s work shed. Grandma tenderly set the first photo books, each a long green rectangle shape with black pages donned with black corner pieces tucking edges of memories inking photo paper. Thanksgiving and Christmas gatherings summed...

Before I begin today's post I want to share fabulous news. Two exciting events happened this week!!  The first. Sylvia's Secret is now in the library. Our local library has a cooperation with libraries throughout my state, which means, anyone in the state can now check out this book.  Sylvia's Secret, A Christmas Story and Mary's other books The second. The Selah writing competition announced the list of finalists My book, Fire and Thorn, a middle grade novel is a finalist. The winners will be announced the end of may at the writing convention. Here is the link if you would like more information about this story. Fire and Thorn, a Middle Grade Fantasy and Mary's other books Needless to say this has been a pretty exciting week! On to today's story: Mom was a seamstress. A natural. She never used a pattern or a tool to measure lengths or widths of fabric. She’d lay the large piece of rectangular material across the ping pon...

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...