It's a Sibling Thing

I’ve been sucked in by my current read, Kate Morton’s The Distant Hours. I am fascinated by the familial relationships she tackles. The protagonist spends most of the book uncovering the intricacies of a particular family: A father, twin daughters and their younger sister—focusing mostly on the sisters. She describes their relationship like this: “The intricate tangle of love and duty and resentment that tied them together.”

Of course, this dragged my thoughts toward my own siblings. Love, yes, plenty. Duty, yes. Don’t mess with my family. Resentment gave me pause. I don’t actually resent my siblings—I tend more toward the love and duty, I think. But it does bring a few of our off-handed comments to mind. “She got to travel all the time with Mom and Dad. He never got caught—ever! She got caught every time she tried anything (giggle-giggle).” Which leads to other commentary . . . “The baby of the family has it made! The middle kid always gets the shaft. The oldest thinks she’s all that. Spare me!”

I’m writing about two girlfriends right now. Their bond is tight. But the sibling bond is somehow more fraught with the possibility for raw emotion. Losing a friend or hurting a friend is painful. But usually there is so much more invested in that sibling relationship. The hurt cuts deeper, misunderstanding can last longer and grate harder. 

Morton writes the experience of an outsider observing the sisters. “The glances they exchanged; the complicated balance of power established over decades; the games I would never play with rules I would never fully understand."

There’s something about a brother-sister/sister-sister/brother-brother connection that cuts straight to our core. I once heard someone say that siblings are like the only fellow countrymen in existence from their home planet. Truly, every household could be construed to be a separate planet.

Remember all your observations from that first sleepover in jr high? (They never eat ice cream! The mom plays the radio all day and all night! Their dad works on an old car in the garage 'til midnight every night!) Only those citizens who have lived it can empathize and fully understand. And only those citizens provide true comfort when homesickness sets in. Because at some point, we just can’t go home again and being with people who remember that home (good or bad) fills in the gaps better than anything else can.

Read The Distant Hours. For the siblings. For the castle. For the complete escape from your own castle. It made me think of my home and the wonderful gifts I have in my siblings.

What's your favorite castle?

There’s just something about a castle. It’s the quintessential setting. Throw a castle into almost any story and you have instant history, mystery and intrigue. They are full of shadows, forgotten corners and most definitely hidden secrets. I’ve heard it said that the setting of a book can become as much a character as the people in a novel, but I think it’s almost obligatory with a castle—and I’ll also include big houses for the purpose of this discussion.

For me, it started with Snow White, Cinderella, and Sleeping Beauty. The fairy tale castle anchored in my mind the splendor, the exclusivity and the absolute “draw” of a castle.

One of the most memorable “dwelling characters” for me, is the large estate house in Frances Hodgson Burnett’s The Secret Garden. Also, Miss Minchin’s School for girls—how many attic rooms were there? And the Indian Gentleman’s home next door—accessible by roof, within the pages of The Little Princess.

The White Witch’s ice castle in Narnia, filled with stone statues.

What about Hogwart’s? There’s a living, breathing building for you. And who could forget Thrushcross Grange and Wuthering Heights? Just this week, I’ve been wandering the halls within Milderhurst, found in the new novel, The Distant Hours by Kate Morton. This castle seems to almost breathe memories even as it crumbles. Truly wonderful and I haven’t finished the book yet!

What’s your favorite castle memory?

What does reading feel like?

Reading a great book is like sinking into a deep tub filled with hot water and covered with scented bubbles. The rest of the world falls away and you feel like you’re returning to your “other life.”

When I was young, I would look up from my book to see my mother, hands on hips, shouting my name. Inside, I felt like I’d been yanked from another world. I know I blinked at her, as if surprised to find myself lying on a couch in my living room instead of riding in a carriage in 19^th century New York City, or crossing the moors of England, or fighting a war in France.

Sometimes I feel a bit like Henry from The Time Traveler’s Wife. With very little warning, he would disappear and travel through time. If you have not read this book, you must. I don’t say this too often (or maybe I do?) but seriously, it knocked my socks off. I read it several years ago and a single thought can place me back inside that novel today, feeling the cold Chicago air, or the warm sun on my shoulders in the meadow behind the house in Grand Rapids.

The book is highly intellectual—read with thinking cap on—but also very relational. There’s a good bit of cussing and the poor guy ends up naked every time he travels, but the story is riveting. Unforgettable. Stunning.

It’s a new year, and with it—God willing—I’ll write another book. When I write, there is less time to read, but when I read, there is more fodder for writing. So I’m looking for the next novel to read even as I plot my own next story. Suggestions welcome, though "my stack" beckons.