Hank Phillippi Ryan: I grew up in really rural Indiana, so rural you couldn’t see another house from our house. I had three sisters and a brother, and fifteen million pets, from a clan of Irish Setters to Chet & David the hamsters to ponies Cadet and Sable to endless cats: Mrs. Purdy, Picnic, F.Scott, Zelda, and Rosemary. So you can imagine--what was scarce was time alone. In the quiet. Just by myself.
I chose the hayloft of the barn behind our house. Alone—well, maybe with Sherlock Holmes.
More on her below, including her fabulous family, and her gripping new thriller YOU WERE ALWAYS MINE)--has a special memory of “alone” as a child. A breathtaking realization.
And then—a question for you.
(And her new book to one lucky commenter!)
A Moment Alone
My best friend when I was a little girl was my cousin, Arlana.
Lana and I were born one month and nine days apart (she’s older–something I tease her about to this day). My first word phrase was “No-no, Na-na” because apparently she stole my rattles (I’m sure my infant self would never do such a thing). As kids we were both painfully skinny, more than a little dorky, and blind as bats (thus the matching coke-bottle glasses we were stuck in for years). But best of all, Lana and I were imaginative, passionate, and in love with life (we spent countless hours making up elaborate games, writing stories together, and creating imaginary worlds).
There wasn’t much that Lan and I didn’t share. Except for her tree.
Lana lived in a small development on the edge of town and it was rimmed by a stand of tall, narrow trees. One of our favorite pastimes was tree climbing, but I was (and still am) a little afraid of heights, and she could always climb higher than me. I envied her daring, her ability to push herself just a bit farther and then a bit more, but I was never so jealous as the day that she showed me her tree.
There was one particularly hard-to-climb tree that required us to jump for the lowest hanging limb and then swing ourselves up and hook our legs over the nearest branch. That alone was a feat, but once we started climbing it only got more treacherous. The limbs were unevenly spaced and required us to stretch for purchase and swing out over empty spaces.
I found it utterly terrifying, but I followed Lana because I had to prove myself as brave as her. Until we reached the point where we couldn’t climb anymore–and she kept going. At the place where the branches began to drastically thin, my intrepid cousin had taken her pocketknife (we each wore one around our necks) and sawed through a wrist-sized limb. In order to reach the next “safe spot,” she had to carefully put one foot on the hacked-off nub, shimmy her arms up the trunk of the tree, grab a branch high overhead, and then wiggle her way up. For several heart-pounding moments Lana had nothing at all to hold on to. Then she found purchase on the last sizable limb, pulled herself up, and grinned down at me from a distance that seemed as far as heaven.
I remember staring up at her and thinking, “No one can touch her.” No one could follow that impossible path. She might as well have been on Mars.
I’ve been thinking about that tree, and about Lana’s not-so-secret hiding place. I don’t know why she cut that branch or why she created a route that only she could follow. But if I had to guess, I would imagine that it had much to do with the desire to be alone.
It’s a scarce commodity, isn’t it? A moment alone. Away from the hustle and bustle, the chaos of the earth below. Peace in a place where no one can follow. Doesn’t that sound like bliss? It does to me. I love the mess and muddle of summer with my five kids, one dog, and countless neighbor kids and nephews. We have a revolving front door and a backyard trampoline and tree fort that acts like a beacon to friends old and new. It’s delightful in every way. But by mid-July I’m craving a little silence. Some sweet time alone.
Today I would take Lana’s risk: I’d put my foot on that sawed-off nub and hold my breath until my fingers found that next branch. I’d do it just so I could spend a couple of minutes utterly and completely alone. Would you? Where do you go to be alone?
Hank: Such a good question, right? Where do you go where it’s so quiet you can hear the silence? Or do you like that?
And remember—a copy of YOU WERE ALWAYS MINE to one lucky commenter!
Jessica Chamberlain, newly separated and living with her two sons in a small Iowa town, can’t believe that a tragedy in another state could have anything to do with her. But when her phone rings one quiet morning, her world is shattered. As she tries to pick up the pieces and make sense of what went wrong, Jess begins to realize that a tragic death is just the beginning. Soon she is caught in a web of lies and half-truths—and she’s horrified to learn that everything leads back to her seven-year-old adopted son, Gabriel.
Years ago, Gabe’s birth mother requested a closed adoption and Jessica was more than happy to comply. But when her house is broken into and she discovers a clue that suggests her estranged husband was in close contact with Gabe’s biological mother, she vows to uncover the truth at any cost. A harrowing story of tenacious love and heartbreaking betrayal, You Were Always Mine is about the wars we wage to keep the ones we love close, perfect for fans of Liane Moriarty and Jodi Picoult.
Nicole Baart wants to live in a world filled with handwritten letters, New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc, and great conversation.
A critically acclaimed novelist, Nicole’s work has been featured as a Midwest Connections book pick, nominated for a Christy Award, and earned a starred and featured review from Publishers Weekly. In 2011 she co-authored a book that debuted at #4 on the New York Times bestseller list.
Nicole is also the co-founder of a non-profit organization, One Body One Hope, that partners with a sisterhood of churches and orphanages in Monrovia, Liberia. An adoption advocate and the mother of four children from four different countries, Nicole speaks on a variety of topics ranging from orphan care to parenthood to books and the writing process.
