Mary's 'Maginings and Musings: Recent Episodes
Mary Struble Deery
This is the inaugural recording of the ‘Maginings and Musings of Mary.
Like most writers, I have boxes and piles, and shelves of notebooks filled with stories and reflections. Those spirals represent the calisthenics I’ve been doing since I discovered the sport about 15 years ago. I wasn't sure how I wanted to share it.
Someone suggested I develop a Podcast Good idea, I thought. So, here it is!
Because of the chance someone somewhere might enjoy my efforts, I'm posting some of my best and favorite work so, at the very least, it will see the light of day, or the space of cyber anyway.
Brian Deery clandestinely reading and recording a children's story in his closet at 6-8 years old. Listen carefully and you'll hear mom hollering something from downstairs.
To honor her deceased husband,Linda Matney, a writer friend of mine raised funds to build a Labyrinth gardenin the center of Presbyterian Hospital in Charlotte, North Carolina. Followingthe completion of this beautiful tribute, she decided to pull together an anthology of reflections onheaven. Linda had been imagining heaven since the loss of her mother when shewas seven. The death of her beloved husband Jack in 2006 created a more urgentneed to imagine the heaven where they would one day be reunited. Hercollection is entitled Imagining Heaven: AnAnthology of Personal Visions of Heaven
My vision of heaven took shapewhile I sat in the Arboretum Barnes & Noble Bookstore. It was a busy Sundayafternoon. I conjured up this reflection while floating on the waves andcurrents swirling around me -- the result of little maniacs weaving through thestacks. I call the piece you’re about to hear “The Good, the Bad, and theLovely”.
I signed upfor an online writing class in 2007 well before online was even a thing. SarahSelecky is a Canadian force-to-be-reckoned with. Her class, The Story Course,is informative and inspirational. I can’t remember what specifically promptedthe following story, but whatever it was, it worked. I love the man in thisstory and the cat that adopted him. The story, entitled Edgar & Harley, won3rd place in the Charlotte Writer’s Club Flash Fiction Contest in2016.
Thefollowing are memories of my dad’s barber shop in Ann Arbor, Michigan. Hisoriginal barber license was issued on December 10th, 1929, one monthafter his 19th birthday, in Jonesville, Michigan.
I call thislittle recounting “Kenny’s Barber Shop”
The piece you’re about to hear won first place in the 2022 Ruth Moose Flash Fiction Contest. The way this story came to be crystallizes why I love to write. Most everyone has enjoyed the sport of firefly catching, and that’s how the story started – reflecting on wonderful summer nights in my backyard. Setting the story in a bar with flashing lights added another layer. This flash piece (that’s funny…it’s actually a piece of flash fiction) came from who-knows-where as I composed and worked on it over, it felt like, several years. This is the fairy dust I was referring to in the introduction of this podcast. My stories come out of the mist, and that’s the fun of it.
This recording is the audio from the Charlotte Writer’s Club Zoom meeting during which my winning of the contest was announced followed by me reading the story. Voice actor and editor Neil Boone masterfully edited out a phone ringing right in the middle of the recording. He wasn’t able to edit out my stumbles…oh well. Tis what it tis.
The story that follows, "The Medicine Man", was written by my mother. She died in 2008 at the age of 93. She would be so happy that this semi-autobiographical story, based on a childhood experience, is finally seeing the light of day. Esther was a treasure who inhabited the world with immense grace.
Voice actor, Kathy Poelker, recorded this tale.
I hope you enjoy my mother’s story as much as I do.
The following piece won First Place in the 2015 Ruth Moose Flash Fiction Contest. The judge of the contest, Mary Curtis, said this about Gone Astray:
"The simplicity of the story is effective, and deceptive. Through the protagonist, you learn the whole story and get a sense of an entire cast of characters. The writer conveys a roller coaster of emotions – humor, sadness, ruefulness, self pity, empathy – and reveals a sophisticated touch. In a few words, the author created a complicated character – not perfect, but interesting. The reader wants to know what happens next.”
This flash piece, entitled “Gone Astray” was read by Kitty Koz. I met Kitty in Florida and loved her voice. She graciously agreed to record this story. Thank you Kitty!
Awhile ago I wrote a little something to be read at my funeral, or whatever will take place after my passing. And now that our cremations have been paid for, I might as well also record my eulogy. Who knows when that grim reaper with his trusty scythe might be comin’ ‘round the corner?
**Note the music source: "Promises to Keep" Kevin MacLeod (incompetech.com)
Licensed under Creative Commons: By Attribution 4.0 License
http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/**
This little conjuring is based on a Writer’s Digest photo prompt of a fellow standing in front of a Christmas tree. It is what I imagined the poor sod might be going through. The very talented voice actor, Neil Boone, brought the character to life.
Before these recordings, I used to read some of my pieces to friends…sort of like a live podcast at the dinner table. The one that follows, about us contracting with a cremation service, prompted our friends, Terry and John to do the same. They gave this cremation service as a present to each other last year for Christmas.
John died last week. Terry only needed to make one phone call and everything was handled. She was very grateful for their help. So, even though this true recounting of our experience includes a bit of snarky Mary, it turned out to be a wonderful thing for Terry. Who knew?
The only things that have been changed are the names – you guessed it – to protect the innocent.
The following is my second essay--or musing--that aired on Charlotte’s local NPR station.
This commentary was a response to receiving a direct mail solicitation about a motorized wheelchair. Yeah, I’m aging, but nowhere near needing that device!
This musing is entitled “Getting Old is Hell”.
This conjuring was inspired by a “who’s on first”-type conversations I had with my older brother, Dan. You may know a couple named Myrna and Guy, but they are not the people in this fictitious tale. I just happen to like the names. This tiny story, recorded by the talented Neil Boone, I call “Mister and Miscommunication “.
On Bois Blanc Island in Michigan, the place we visit in the summer, there are no grocery stores. So, supplies hauled over on the one-and-only ferry are a precious commodity, especially alcohol. This musing, my recollection of a real event, is about the tragic loss of a bottle of gold-labeled Francis Ford Coppola Cabernet while enroute to the island.
The Mooresville Art Gallery in North Carolina turned the idea of Ekphrastic Writing on its head. Usually ekphrastic writing is based on a work of art, a la the book The Girl with the Pearl Earring, written by Tracy Chevalier, which is based on the subject in a painting by Vermeer. However, Mooresville challenged artists to do the opposite – create a work of art based on a piece of writing. My poem, about a clock that resides in our Bois Blanc Island, Michigan cottage inspired two artists, Sue Edwards and Sandy Eaton, to create sculptures.
The poem:
THE TIMEKEEPER by Mary Struble Deery
The clunky plastic clock was a cast-off when it moved into the family cottage— passed along from the Maltbys, who left the island. This abandoned timekeeper has a prominent position perched atop the orange antiqued bookshelf in the great room.
After flipping on the breakers in the spring when the cottage is opened, we twist the knob protruding from her back until her hands inform the time. With gold curlicue embellishments decorating her face, she has hummed away, and pointed accurately for many summers.
But now, after many years, she is entering a new stage. Her vocals seem bewildered. In her confusion, she rings nine times when it’s actually eight. The only times the count is right are noon and midnight.
While her voice innocently trips over truthful time, her proud face carries on as if nothing is wrong. She keeps us on our toes. We take note, tally, and tune into the six o’clock news at seven chimes.
We count each ding and then make the mental correction. We listen, adjust, and accept. This will be our own wish someday—gentle understanding when confusion reigns.
He was almost four years old for god’s sake. A bit late for a weaning party, I thought. But, Julie is an earthy, touchy feely mother – in fact president of the La Leche League -- so who was I to tell her when to quit breast feeding?
In 2014 the alternative press newspaper, Creative Loafing, ran a short story contest. The prompt was “I forgot to pay my heat bill”. That was the genesis for this tale. It didn’t win then. It needed lots of work.
Over the past 8 years, I edited and edited the story, one adjustment was to make it “media res”….so when the story opens it’s Ed discovering that the snakes he was planning to sell to regional churches had frozen because someone didn’t pay the heat bill.
I had a brother who was a naturalist and was smitten by snakes. Thanks to big brother Mike, serpents show up in lots of my stories. I remember him coming home with 4 rattlers in a pillow case, much to our mother’s chagrin. This background helped me shape the character of Eddie, who as a youngster lobbied to take care of his church’s snakes.
It was fascinating to learn about the world of snake handling and incorporate that into the story. How snakes were, and in some places still are, a big part of religious traditions.
Gordon Smith, a fellow Charlotte Writer’s Clubber, introduced me to a voice actor, Neil Boone. He recorded the story “Snakes On Demand” that you’re about to hear.
This poem and the song that follows are about the train that washed off a railroad bridge in Belmont, North Carolina – the result of a catastrophic flood that happened over one hundred years ago – on July 17, 1916.
I heard about this devastating flood and the train plunging into the river and thought it might make a good song. So I decided to learn all about it. I nearly went blind reading the 100 year old Charlotte Observers in the Carolina Room at the public library. The bottom right hand corner of the pages had disintegrated before being preserved on microfiche from people reading the physical paper. The story about this devastating flood even knocked WW1 off the front pages of the paper. I visited the Catawba Indian Reservation that had been wiped out by the flood. I went to the accident site looking for the train, and found even more stories.
This flood, whose waters rose as high as 50 feet above the normal river level washed out all but one of the highway and railroad bridges along the Catawba River. In an attempt to save the Belmont railway bridge, officials positioning train cars loaded with coal on the tracks directly over the river. They miscalculated. The flood washed the train off the bridge and into the river. Scores of railway workers and onlookers died at the site that day. Today, when the river is low, boaters still run into the train that lies on the river floor.
Using the poem I wrote about the incident, David Childers, a musical icon, wrote and recorded a song commemorating the event. The song called Belmont Ford and is on his album Run, Skeleton, Run. Stay tuned, the song will play immediately after my reading of the poem.
An ekphrastic poem is a vivid description of a scene or, more commonly, a work of art. Through the imaginative act of narrating and reflecting on the “action” of a painting or sculpture, the poet may amplify and expand its meaning.
For a number of years, our daughter, Cailin, came up with a daily email treat through the month of December. It was a beautiful, and thoughtful online Advent Calendar. This posting, the last one in the year 2019, was about a cassette tape I’d unearthed. She had recorded many ditties on the tape (which was intended for entertainment on the road) but this particular song is her original work, and about cats, so is a winner. It’s also a little clunky -- a seven year old was doing the engineering after all -- but it’s positively darling. (And here’s a warning: it’s very earwormy.)
The following is her written message from the Advent Calendar posting. Imagine this is Cailin’s voice:
I can't believe I'm voluntarily sharing this, but I'm feeling generous, and if you enjoy this - even at the expense of my vanity - I'm okay with that.
When I was little, I loved recording and re-recording little musings, stories and songs on cassette tapes, just saying (or singing) whatever half-baked thought crossed my mind. These little 'radio' shows were recently rediscovered by my parents and after a deep dive into the stack, they found this particular recording. I was about seven-years-old in the recording. I know this because we only had our cat, Panda, for about two years. Panda (in the photo here) gets a little shout-out in this hit single, "Cats, cats, cats."
Cats are apparently all I thought about (honestly, they basically still are all I think about). I love my little Chicago accent when I first talk about 'ceyats'; the Daniel Johnston-y talk about Toby (the mult-i-colored cat); and my genius idea of incorporating that cough into a short loop. Also the end jazz hands "Caaaaaats!" jazz hands
My closest friends all know that I continue to be a cat lady. I like to say (and believe!) I'm an equal opportunity cat and dog person, but we all know better.
Here’s Cailin’s song: Cats, Cats, Cats
In 2007 and before, WFAE invited writers in the community to submit opinion essays that, if accepted, the submitter would read on the air. I was very lucky to have had four of those accepted and air. These have since been broomed from the WFAE archives, but luckily my son, Brian, helped me save them on Soundcloud before they disappeared into thin air.
This first one, which I call Life’s Toys, was written while I was on a writer’s retreat at Sunset Beach with Maureen Ryan Griffin. She still offers these retreats, so if you’re interested, track her down. I hope you enjoy my reflections on the importance of toys.
One of my favorite resources for writing prompts is the Writer’s Digest’s “Your Story” contest. Every other issue, the magazine displays a photo prompt, or sometimes a phrase, and asks for stories based on the prompt, 650 words or less. There is no entry fee, and the deadline is long allowing plenty of time for the seed to germinate, and grow into a fully formed story.
This story is based on this Writer’s Digest provided photo of balloons packed into a Volkswagen, coupled with my friend Wendy’s mother’s input. She lives in this fictional retirement home along with many retired clowns – this is Sarasota after all. All this was the inspiration for the next story you’ll hear: Flimsy.
After my mother, Esther Struble, retired from a career in health care, she took up the hobby of writing. There certainly is some apple and tree stuff going on with this family. The photo you see of her was snapped at a book release party my brother arranged for her in Austin, Texas. I’m sure her holding the big fat book in the picture was their idea of a joke. Her book was only 54 pages long.
Because she never was published, beyond this self-printed collection of her stories and poems, I’d like to include some of her writings as part of this podcast. This poem, entitled “Landlocked”, inspired the name of her collection: The Stars As My Compass.
We lost her in 2008 at the age of 93. May her bright spirit live on in this release of one of her ‘maginings and musings.
This story, entitled Slither, is the first ‘magining I’m recording for this podcast. There’s a reason for that.
I wrote it in a class I took with Maureen Ryan Griffin in 2007. It was one of my earliest conjuring.
When Ruth Moose, a professor of Creative Writing at UNC Chapel Hill, sponsored a Flash Fiction Contest through the Charlotte Writer’s Club in 2012, I shaped and edited Slither and submitted it.
Ruth judged my story to be the first place winner. This contest spurred me to continue dreaming and writing and since then I’ve won the contest three other times, twice more as first place, once in third. (You’ll hear those other stories down the road.)
Thank you Ruth for the acknowledgment, and thank you Maureen for being my writing coach and teacher for the past fifteen luscious years.
90 percent of my writing is drivel—this putting pen to paper is the calisthenics I’ve been doing since I discovered the sport about 20 years ago. But here's the thing, I think some of it is really good.
If I feel something when I write, isn’t there a chance someone else will too? Frost famously said no tears for the writer, no tears for the reader. But, the truth is no writing has universal appeal.
My ‘maginings are stories I’ve conjured up from whole cloth…or from fairy dust. I don’t actually know where they come from.
My musings are reflections on things I bump into, like my reaction to contracting for our cremations. Crazytown!
I’ve also recorded a couple selections of other people’s writing, including those of my daughter and mother. Apple tree: trunk, branches, and fruit are we.
Enjoy!