{"product_id":"whiskey-when-were-dry-isbn-9780735220454","title":"Whiskey When We're Dry","description":"\u003cb\u003eNamed a Best Book by \u003ci\u003eEntertainment Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eO\u003c\/i\u003e Magazine, Goodreads, \u003ci\u003eSouthern Living, Outside Magazine, \u003c\/i\u003eOprah.com, HelloGiggles, \u003ci\u003eParade, Fodor’s Travel, Sioux City Journal\u003c\/i\u003e, Read it Forward, Medium.com, and NPR’s \u003ci\u003eAll Things Considered.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\"A thunderclap of originality, here is a fresh voice and fresh take on one of the oldest stories we tell about ourselves as Americans and Westerners. It's riveting in all the right ways -- a damn good read that stayed with me long after closing the covers.\" - Timothy Egan, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThe Worst Hard Time \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e From a blazing new voice in fiction, a gritty and lyrical American epic about a young woman who disguises herself as a boy and heads west\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e In the spring of 1885, seventeen-year-old Jessilyn Harney finds herself orphaned and alone on her family's homestead. Desperate to fend off starvation and predatory neighbors, she cuts off her hair, binds her chest, saddles her beloved mare, and sets off across the mountains to find her outlaw brother Noah and bring him home. A talented sharpshooter herself, Jess's quest lands her in the employ of the territory's violent, capricious Governor, whose militia is also hunting Noah--dead or alive. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Wrestling with her brother's outlaw identity, and haunted by questions about her own, Jess must outmaneuver those who underestimate her, ultimately rising to become a hero in her own right.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Told in Jess's wholly original and unforgettable voice, \u003ci\u003eWhiskey When We're Dry\u003c\/i\u003e is a stunning achievement, an epic as expansive as America itself--and a reckoning with the myths that are entwined with our history.\u003cb\u003e\u003cu\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eWhiskey When We’re Dry\u003c\/i\u003e:\u003c\/u\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Mulan meets Deadwood in a Wild West novel narrated by its straight-shooting heroine.” \u003cb\u003e–\u003ci\u003eO \u003c\/i\u003eMagazine\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e“\u003c\/b\u003eA smooth yet bracing Western yarn that both celebrates and subverts the romance of the Old West through more complex contemporary perspectives on gender and race…. As in Charles Portis’ classic “True Grit,” much of the appeal of the telling hangs upon the distinct voice of its narrator, and Jesse’s narration combines folksy vernacular with an easy loping gait.” —\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eSeattle Times\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “A tale of the Old West with a fresh perspective.”—\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eNew York Post\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Larison’s neo-Western, about a young woman who heads West while disguised as a boy, is already generating plenty of buzz: film and TV rights have already been acquired by the team behind the \u003ci\u003ePlanet of the Apes \u003c\/i\u003ereboot.” —\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eEntertainment Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Larison writes with unrelenting momentum and thoughtfully explores questions of gender identity, power, and violence.” —\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eOutside Magazine\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “[A] sweeping saga… John Larison’s new book plunges readers into the American West while simultaneously reimagining the mythic frontier. It examines issues of gender and race through the story of 17-year-old Jesse Harney and begins in the spring of 1885, when she dresses in men’s clothes, mounts her horse, and sets out west in search of her big brother, an outlaw on the frontier.”—\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eSouthern Living\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  “Larison has developed a pitch-perfect voice for his intrepid heroine.”—\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Larison gifts Jess with a strong voice to narrate her own story…. his western epic has wide appeal” —\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eBooklist \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Told in -Jessilyn’s hard-hitting voice, [WHISKEY WHEN WE’RE DRY] has the resonance of a high lonesome ballad.” —\u003cb\u003eLibrary Journal\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Like Philipp Meyer’s \u003ci\u003eThe Son\u003c\/i\u003e or Robert Olmstead’s \u003ci\u003eSavage Country\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eWhiskey When We’re Dry\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e draws on Larison’s own experiences with the “cowboy arts” to paint a vivid portrait of the American West as witnessed by an unforgettable character.”—\u003cb\u003eBookPage \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e“\u003c\/b\u003eAn evocative portrait of the old west with all its grittiness and all its openness.”\u003cb\u003e – The Roundtable \u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"An orphan girl straight out of a Gillian Welch song, betrayed in every way imaginable by the brutality that 'won the West,' is left no way to hew a family or honor but to become a virtuoso cross-dressed killer of Manifest Destiny's men. As Jessilyn Harney takes on the great lies and liars with lyrical violence, her voice takes flight, becoming a sustained, forlornly beautiful, mind-bending aria for our age.\" \u003cb\u003e —David James Duncan, author of \u003ci\u003eThe River Why\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\"Whiskey When We're Dry is the story of a surprising heroine. In her search for home and family, orphaned Jessilyn Harney rides out on a lonely quest, and invents herself anew. Narrated in a voice cobbled out of slang and sagebrush, Larison's novel is a vivid and fast-paced frontier saga.\"  —\u003cb\u003eKate Manning, author of \u003ci\u003eMy Notorious Life\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eJohn Larison spent much of his childhood in remote regions of Australia, the Caribbean, Canada, the South Pacific, Alaska, and the American West before graduating from high school in Ithaca, New York. He studied philosophy and literature at the University of Oregon, and became a renowned fly-fishing guide ahead of earning an MFA from Oregon State University, where he stayed to teach while writing \u003ci\u003eWhiskey When We’re Dry\u003c\/i\u003e. He lives with his family in rural Oregon.I heard it said God      moves on the water. Well, I have looked for Him there. My thirst      grows with his flood.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Our kin homesteaded where desert met lake. The hills in the near      distance wore blankets of pine. Patterns of aspen marked the      water. Beyond them the mountains stood blue on clear days and      devoured the sun long before it left this world. From the home Pa      built us we couldn't see the lake but we could see the willows      along its edge and we could hear the wingbeats of doves. Bison      calves still wandered in with the heifers and arrowheads clung to      their shafts. This autumn air delivers me there still.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e They arrived in 1864 by the deed I once held in my hand. Pa was      fresh from the war and on a horse he took off a Johnny Reb. Pa      told us he was a Yankee sharpshooter through the first two years      of that war. He come home after to his family and found his own      father's grave and his mother under the watch of a new man and his      kid brother dying of infection. He stayed until the brother passed      and then rode west.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Pa killed many men. I know that for certain. But he wasn't the      kind to talk of it. The stories he told of that war was his      histories. If Pa ran the schools pupils would memorize the names      of each man killed on both sides.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Ma was dark skinned and Spanish speaking. Her kin was at some      point subjects of Spain, France, Mexico, and the United States by      the time they was forced from their home by Sam Houston and Santa      Anna and the thousands of American settlers coming for what had      been theirs. They fled the only direction without guns and come to      settle in Kansas, peaceful land-rich Kansas. By the time Ma was of      marrying age the war was kicking and the raiders come from      Missouri and John Brown come from within and soon it was bloody      torn-to-bits Kansas. Her intended was shot one night for no good      reason at all and her brother who had joined the fighting returned      ill of mind. Kansas wasn't Kansas no more. They rode on.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She was twenty-two and walking with a load on her shoulders      somewhere in the plains when she heard a horse gaining and turned      to see Pa slowing on her. Course he wasn't Pa yet. He was a      stranger who introduced himself as Milt Harney. She said folks      called her Rosa, her mother's name. I don't know what she thought      of him but I know he memorized her details. There was sweat      through her dress and flies so thick from the oxen she give up      waving them off. A rare sight, a shapely girl without child or      man. To hear Pa tell it there wasn't no west after he saw her,      just the direction she was walking.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He took up with the uncle and the leader of the clan. Traveling      poor as they done was slow work. No riding for those with legs.      Folks now talk like everybody rode west but not many could afford      a riding horse. So it was footwork and loads and dust so thick it      turn your lungs to chalk. Pa had that horse and her uncle must've      been looking to slip out from under his burden. A week on they was      married by the book of a revivalist in a circle of wagons as a      church.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e After crossing the divide they broke off on their own for the      valley that would become our home. \"A barrel of sugar by autumn,\"      he promised her. Pa would be a cattleman and to him that      occupation promised wealth and maybe a mountain to name as his      own.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e To start he got homestead acres and unspoken grazing access to the      nearby Indian lands. There was a lake and the valley held its      green long after the hills went to brown.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e When they arrived she was already growing with child. Ma wept when      she saw the valley. Cranes danced at sunrise and wildflowers shone      like embers in the grass. Here no view reminded her of someone she      had lost. Noah come along that autumn.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Noah. My brother's name.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Even now I turn and expect to see him riding hard for supper. How      many times did I push back the cowhide flap and see him leading a      string of dust down the valley? Never late for grub and never one      to show up on a dry horse, that brother of mine.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e You knew him best but you didn't know him then, before. Sure      you've heard the stories folks tell. They make him a killer and      hellion. Little children hear his name, Noah Harney, and they see      men falling from stagecoaches and smoke rising from a barrel and      they think a man is made real by the violence he wields.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Noah was a killer, that is certain. I ain't never been sure if he      was right.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Ma didnÕt live past my entrance to this world on account I wasnÕt      no good at getting born. I set Ma to bleeding.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Pa knew right off there was trouble. She was twenty-seven and her      color was slipping and her lips was going purple-her life was      draining from her and there wasn't nothing Pa knew to do. He      wanted to ride for help but she held him back. She asked him to      build up the fire. He did as she asked. Under the rest Pa was a      good soul, full of respect for the women in his life, which might      be the straightest measure of a man.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Ma pulled little Noah close. He was five then. He put his head on      her shoulder and touched his fingers to my dewy head. \"Ma, how      come you so cold?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She pulled up the quilt around them, us. \"Don't worry, my child.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Milt?\" she asked of Pa. These was her final words on this earth:      \"Play me our song.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e As Pa put bow to string, Ma put her nipple to my lips. She gave me      my mother. Some things in this world you don't never forget even      if you ain't got no memories of them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The one time he spoke of her passing, Pa talked most of the storm      that night and how the snow climbed the door. It blew in through      the slats and flakes drifted toward the fire and turned to rain      halfway. The water and her blood turned the dirt floor to mud.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e After a time with her gone I got to shivering. It was my brother      who wrapped me in a blanket and sat with me before the fire and      gave his finger to my gums so I might stop crying for her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I asked Pa what he done with her remains.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e What choice did he have but to put her to rest in the snow outside      until spring might allow a shovel to crack the earth. He must've      carried her there. I imagine he took a final moment together. Come      inside and stood a piece looking on us. A cattleman alone now with      a too young boy and a baby girl.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I suspect he looked on me a long time trying to feel something      different. I never did know what Pa felt, not even when I knew him      best. When he come inside from leaving his young wife in the snow      and saw the thing that put her there, what did he feel? How could      it have been love?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Pa hired a wet nurse whoÕd been a whore over in Clayville. She had      her own baby boy. Pa wasnÕt in no state to judge character. I      donÕt remember her none, she was with us just one season, till she      located his savings and rode off with it. After that it was just      us. He grew me on chewed venison, bone marrow, and pulped tubers,      as was the method in them days.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Pa did right considering. Most men would've turned to stone and      been a mountain between the table and stove. Nothing to do but      overcome a father like that. No, Pa was tender for us. His hands      was leather and his eyes was gray and he might've been short on      words but he wasn't short on feeling. Music turned him to butter.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He must've sought a new woman. He must've considered putting us to      another family. The Mormons down the valley already had a couple      of their own. Handing us off would've been easy enough, and      expected in that time.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But he kept us and did right by us, right as he could. He had      nearly two hundred head that spring. Most he'd ever have. Tending      to us kids was the reason.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Most what I know about Ma come from Noah. He was five when she      passed but might as well have spent a lifetime in her lee from all      the stories he told. They come from him with no more thought than      a belch. It was my brother too who taught me to dress, to squat      over the night pot, to grow my hair long and braid it before      sleep. These things he learned from watching her be a woman.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I ain't got no recollections of her voice but I'd know the sound.      As a child I went about my chores in silence so as not to miss her      when she come. I was certain she would come. Each time I think of      our family place I feel her. She is the water brought inside by      the camas, you don't see her none but without her there ain't no      flower.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I did the woman work while Pa and Noah labored the spread. I      longed to be with them, in truth. I dreaded my lonely washings and      stewings and mendings and tendings. But need better breed      enthusiasm or you in for a tough go in this life. By six I was      doing a half-decent show of laundry. By eight I could skin down a      buck so long as there was a stool I could stand on for reaching.      Little me had to hang on the hide to get it to peel. My cooking      wasnÕt much seeing as I learned from Pa but it was hot and it      kept. He only complained if I skimped on the meat, and in that age      the hills was still flush with meat.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I kept on Ma's pattern of things. Mondays was churning, Tuesdays      baking, Wednesdays canning, Thursdays jerking, Fridays mending,      Saturdays baths and laundry, Sundays cleaning. Most times when      alone I pretended I was Ma. She wouldn't stand for a misplaced      stitch or a stain left to dry. In every task my burden was the      perfection she would've delivered had I not took her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I slept under the near-finished birth quilt on my side of the bed      Noah and me shared. This is how we'd slept since the beginning and      so we kept on sleeping like a mother and child, me curled into him      and his warm breath in my hair all those cold desert nights. In my      slumber I dreamed her with us and understand those breaths to be      hers and so lived what never was.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e If Pa and Noah was working a long way off and I missed her painful      I might pull out her things. Pa kept them in a trunk under the      bed. There was a dress, a calico. There was shoes polished black.      The left one had a scrape that cut into the leather near the toe.      I never put them on or let them touch the floor. They was hers and      I had taken enough. But I did allow myself to touch them. That's      how I come to find a chain and a locket made of silver folded      inside that calico. The locket held the image of a young girl. I      assumed for years the girl was Ma. That girl is still the mother I      see. But the picture wasn't Ma at all. Pa told me years on that it      might've been her younger sister who died of fever, but it wasn't      Ma.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e In the bottom corner of the trunk was her Good Book. She knew how      to read and she taught Pa. Pa told me, \"A woman's best chance in      this world is to know the Good Book better than the men in her      life.\" He said as much but he wasn't spending no time teaching me      to read.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Under the bed beside the trunk was a box long as an arm. Pa's      fiddle. He drew it out only on Ma's birthday, in April, when the      camas pushed up from the green meadows. He would set it upon the      bed and then sit back from it and put his fist to thigh as he was      wont to do when he thought of her. One year he caught me staring      on him, and he drew me between him and that box, maybe so I      couldn't see his wet eyes. His fingers passed over the wood.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Pa?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Your mother couldn't get her fill of music. She wanted me to play      any chance. She kept time with her heel. She never forgot the      time.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Inside was a vivid red cloth. It was an age when men and women in      town wore browns and olives and dusty white. Colors belonged to      the hills in autumn, to the sunset and wildflowers and trout that      rolled in the lake, the Indian paint we saw less and less of. I      felt Pa quit his breathing at the sight of that red.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He had learned during the war and brought the fiddle west. It was      his music that won Ma over those nights among the wagons. Noah      remembered him playing. Noah said in them days every dark was      warded off by Pa's song.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The lament he played on Ma's birthday I never heard outside our      family. I do believe he made it up. Or maybe he and Ma together      made it up. Either way it was theirs. The song leaned on mournful      drawn-out notes and two steep climbs into high emotion. It was in      no hurry to conclude, and neither was its audience. I am haunted      by that song.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I remember staring up at his great shape with the fiddle to his      chin and the bow cutting back and forth and his song slicing me      open. I can't forget the word \"Rowhine\" burned into the body of      that fiddle. It was branded like a beast, and so I come to think      of the instrument as its own animal and Pa as its handler.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e For all his tenderness Pa was quick to anger and it was the little      things that set him loose. Regular enough I caught the back of his      hand. Noah took whuppings too. I think thatÕs how he got so quick      with the stories. He knew his best luck was in talking Pa cool. He      bent the manÕs mind. Pa wasnÕt slow but I donÕt reckon he was ever      as keen as his boy.","brand":"Penguin Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304656359653,"sku":"NP9780735220454","price":17.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780735220454.jpg?v=1767744110","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/whiskey-when-were-dry-isbn-9780735220454","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}