Exquisite Unreality

A Week in Solitude at Land’s End

BY ALLISON BASS-RICCIO

My hands trembled and my eyes brimmed with tears as I read the email subject line, “Congratulations!” It was March 2022, and I’d been checking my email multiple times a day to see if my application to the Peaked Hill Trust Writer’s Residency program had been accepted. I couldn’t contain the squeal that escaped from my throat as I read that, from the nearly 50 applicants, I had been selected to spend a week in the dunes of Provincetown, Massachusetts, in the shack named Euphoria.

My heart leapt with excitement at the romanticization of it all: solitude, dunes, the sea, writing, all in the shack owned by the overlooked author Hazel Hawthorne Werner. My stomach lurched as I read the next lines, warning me of the brown-tailed moth caterpillar, ticks, the strenuous hike back to town, and the way to hoist the emergency flag onto the shack if needed. I had dreamed of this day for so long; now I actually had to go and stay by myself, away from civilization, without electricity or running water, in a rundown shack by the ocean.

DECEMBER 2020

It was winter break. I was exhausted. Since March, Cheshire Academy — and the world of education — had been deep in the throes of the infamous pandemic “pivoting:” desks six feet apart, virtual classes with students in different time zones, and ensuring everyone had the proper protective wear. I was on my couch, reading a memoir my partner had bought me for Christmas: Cynthia Huntington’s “The Salt House.” Huntington describes her time on the dunes in the 1980s while staying in Euphoria, generously donated to her by Hawthorne Werner. Embedded in the first chapter was a small account of how Hawthorne Werner obtained the shack in the 1920s. Reading how she dreamed of a place of solitude ignited a fire in me. I had to find out more about Hawthorne Werner. I was most intrigued by her unbridled willingness to be herself, to carve her own life in a time when women really weren’t encouraged to do so. Roughly 100 years later, I struggle to balance the needs and wants of society and others with my own intentional living. How could she have been so brave? When I learned that her shacks (yes! She actually owned two!) were operated by the Peaked Hill Trust and that I could apply for a writer’s residency to stay there, my fingers couldn’t stop from promptly applying.

JUNE 2022

My partner, Doug, and I drove the loaded car to the meeting spot of the Peaked Hill Trust. Truthfully, as excited as I was, I was also terrified. Doug was staying with me for the first two nights; he would hike the hour out back to civilization to leave me utterly alone for five days. The shack would have no electricity, no toilet, no running water. My luxuries were a solar fridge, a two-burner propane stove, and an outhouse about 20 yards away. Would I be able to pump the water from the well myself? What about the mice? Snakes? Spiders? Coyotes? What about the immense dark of the night? Would I be safe? Would I be able to survive mentally and emotionally without human interaction? It didn’t help that my good friend of 25 years said that while he supported me, he expected that I wouldn’t stay once Doug left. He teased, “You know you will leave when he does.” His words rang in my ears; I was afraid it was true. I certainly was scared of this unknown adventure, but Hawthorne Werner’s spirit propelled me forward.

After we transferred our belongings into Peaked Hill’s off-road truck, we rode through the dunes. Our bodies bounced back and forth as the tires slipped in and out of the sand pits. Two miles in, I could see Euphoria standing tall. The truck pulled up and we unloaded our belongings: food, solar lights, emergency water, coffee, Hawthorne Werner’s rare books (on loan from the Provincetown library), sunscreen, bug spray, and my journals. The volunteers ran through the list of upkeep: how to keep mice out, how to pump water from the well, how to filter the water, how to pop the popcorn, how to dump the popcorn down the privy to keep the compost working. They waved goodbye and said “See ya in a week!” We were left alone with nothing but the silence.

The next few days were glorious: beautiful sunsets, majestic oceans, stunning birds. Doug and I learned the lay of the land, and we spent days reading, hiking, writing, and doing chores around the shack. We enjoyed deep conversations about our lives, and when it was time for him to leave, he assured me I was ready for this. I hiked out with him to the trail that led to the road, knowing he would be back in civilization and I would still be in solitude. Hiking back alone, I felt braver with each step I took toward the shack.

As I nested in the shack, I felt my anxiety melt away. Hawthorne Werner’s brave nature surrounded me, and I felt capable and strong. I sat at the top of the dune, looking down at the miles of rosa rugosa before me. Their scent filled the air: faintly sweet and a tad succulent. The colors were so vibrant, it felt surreal. Deep blues, vibrant greens, golden yellows, and wheat-like browns with shades of dull gray and an occasional smattering of a white, fluffy cumulus cloud.

The most remarkable feeling of the shack was the absence of noise. I realized how much noise of the world we tune out each day. At the dunes, I could hear the buzzing of a bee, the rustling of the marram grass swaying, the rhythmic shwoop, shwoop, shwoop of the marsh hawk’s wings as she flew overhead. The light in the dunes is of an ethereal nature, gleaming and bouncing off sand and sea, seemingly engulfing you in golden light. In the evenings, I walked down the path to the beach and as I climbed the last dune to see the vast ocean open before me, I felt a deep connection to the Earth. The seals swimming kept me company as I wrote about love, grief, children, nature, injustice, and womanhood.

As the week went on, I grew in my confidence. Carrying four gallons of water up the dune hill after pumping was no longer a struggle. Building a fire to keep me warm on a stormy day was part of my daily life. Seeing snake and coyote tracks filled me with wonder, not horror. And walking the 20 yards to the loo in the depth of the dark night was a thrill, not a terror. I grew more confident in my writing as well. All these years of feeling inadequate, of working to fulfill the expectations of the world,

of finding my worth in the “doing” were fading to the knowledge that I am brave; I am calm; I am enough. I can value me “being:” a thinker, a writer, an observer, a feeler. I was sad to leave this space of transcendence, but I was armed with Hawthorne Werner’s words from her novel “Three Women:” “No matter what happens I have myself to be with. I have strength for myself.”

OCTOBER 2022

I had continued in my research, but I was at a standstill. Life was busy. Hawthorne Werner had died at the age of 99 over 20 years ago; the few people I had interviewed about her only knew her through distant stories or from their early adolescent years. I finally sat down to write this article. How could I articulate the growth, the emotion, the bravery, the love of Hawthorne Werner?

Taking a break, scrolling through social media, my eyes honed in on a photo of Euphoria from the 1970s. My heart rose to my throat again as I read the comment below the picture, “Many fond memories of my grandmother Hazel’s dune shack!!”

Could it be? I commented on the thread and sent Hawthorne Werner’s granddaughter, Susan, a private message. I couldn’t believe it! After two years of searching, I finally had come across a blood relative of Hawthorne Werner’s! We made plans to meet for lunch the first weekend in October.

Meeting Susan truly was exquisite. I could see her grandmother’s fighting spirit in her as well. When I asked Susan, “What would Hazel most want others to know,” she answered that Hawthorne Werner would want others to not be looking for attention from life, but “looking to learn and share a deep respect for the dunes, for the Earth.” We discussed how her grandmother craved space for her own learning and how she created space for herself and others. Susan said, “She sensed when people’s creativity needed an outlet.”

There in that little coffee shop on The Cape, I realized that Susan was right. Hawthorne Werner did sense when creativity needed an outlet. Indeed, I could feel her creating space for me.

I do not know where this journey will take me next, but I know Hawthorne Werner and her spirit are propelling me forward in confidence and love.

Allison Bass-Riccio serves as chair of the English Department at Cheshire Academy. In November, she, along with English teacher and Theater Director Jennifer Guarino, presented at the Conference on English Leadership, hosted by the National Council of Teachers of English. Bass-Riccio is also a 2022-2023 Visiting Scholar through the Center for Spiritual and Ethical Education.