Sophfronia Scott - Loves Long Line

LOVES LONG LINE

21ST CENTURY ESSAYS

David Lazar and Patrick Madden, Series Editors

LOVES LONG LINE

Sophfronia Scott

MAD CREEK BOOKS, AN IMPRINT OF

THE OHIO STATE UNIVERSITY PRESS

COLUMBUS

Copyright 2018 by The Ohio State University.

All rights reserved.

Mad Creek Books, an imprint of The Ohio State University Press.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Scott, Sophfronia, author.

Title: Loves long line / Sophfronia Scott.

Other titles: st century essays.

Description: Columbus : Mad Creek Books, an imprint of The Ohio State University Press, [ 2018 ] | Series: st century essays | Includes bibliographical references.

Identifiers: LCCN 2017043667 | ISBN 9780814254639 (pbk. ; alk. paper) | ISBN 0814254632 (pbk. ; alk. paper)

Subjects: LCSH: Scott, Sophfronia. | Grief. | Faith. | Motherhood. | Forgiveness. | Families.

Classification: LCC PS 3619 .C Z 2018 | DDC /. [B]dc

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/ 2017043667

Cover design by Nathan Putens

Text design by Juliet Williams

Type set in Adobe Sabon and ITC Franklin Gothic

For Darryl

... you reel out loves long line alone, stripped like a live wire loosing its sparks to a cloud, like a live wire loosed in space to longing and grief everlasting.

Annie Dillard, Holy the Firm

CONTENTS

A Boys Grief appeared in Hotel Amerika.

Why I Didnt Go to the Firehouse appeared in The Timberline Review.

For Roxane Gay: Notes from a Forgiving Heart appeared in the Ruminate Magazine blog.

Calling Me By My Name appeared in Killens Review of Arts & Letters.

White Shirts appeared in Numro Cinq.

Tain in the Rain appeared in The Newtowner.

The Payoff Letter appeared in Sleet Magazine.

Why I Must Dance Like Tony Manero appeared in Ruminate Magazine.

Spiritual Journey Mile Marker: Rob Bell, NYC appeared in the Ruminate Magazine blog.

Opening to Love appeared in the Ruminate Magazine blog as The Definition of an Open Heart.

Of Flesh and Spirit appeared in Awst Press.

A Faith of Pure Imagination appeared in Sleet Magazine.

Honoring Autumn: A Dervish Essay appeared in Barnstorm Literary Journal.

In my previous writing life I worked as a newsmagazine journalist, and what I learned at those fine publications was all I knew about nonfiction. So when I entered the Vermont College of Fine Arts (VCFA) to study fiction and my friend the writer Robert Vivian suggested I learn creative nonfiction as well, I had a good and hearty laugh. What is creative nonfiction? It sounded like something that would have gotten me fired at my old job! But our conversations on the subject helped me to see myself not as a fiction writer or an essay writer or a poet but as a writer, period. And the more avenues I have of transforming what I want to say into the written word, the better. I embarked on the journey of creative nonfiction and the result, so far, is this book. None of these essays would exist if my friend had not nudged me to write in this genre. He also inspired me, with his mastery of dervish essays, to experiment with the form and write Honoring Autumn. I thank him with an abundance of appreciation.

I am deeply grateful for Tain, who has never flinched at having a Mama who sometimes writes about him. He is a patient and loving subject.

I also send huge thanks and a bounty of gratitude to:

David Lazar and Patrick Madden for teaching me about the centuries-old banquet that is essay writing, and showing me I have a seat at the table.

Kristen Elias Rowley and the fantastic team at The Ohio State University Press and Mad Creek Books for creating a beautiful book and giving it a home.

My VCFA advisors Lawrence Sutin, Patrick Madden, and Bret Lott, whose guidance has been invaluable.

The glorious cloud of writers who have read and supported my essay writing: Richard Bausch, Charles Baxter, Liz Blood, Mathieu Cailler, Breena Clarke, Dede Cummings, Renee DAoust, Matthew Dickman, Douglas Glover, Christina Haag, Sonya Huber, Richard Jackson, Richard Jarrette, Peter Orner, William Pierce, Donald Quist, Martha Southgate, Michelle Webster-Hein, and Peter Wright.

Brianna Van Dyke and Renee Long for providing a space at Ruminate where I can explore ideas.

Paul Matthew Carr for designing my author website, where I can explore even more.

The WheelersDavid, Fran, Nate, Ben, and Matty with much love.

My mother and my siblings because I know I write of hard things.

David Hicks for being the best writing buddy in the world.

Carl Nagin, who told me many, many years ago that I could be a writer. He unknowingly changed my life.

Brettne Bloom, my agent, and Heather Jackson, my first book editor, for putting me on the path.

My writing life is blessed because it is filled with so many caring and loving people. I hope that love radiates from these pages.

X

SPARKS AND LIVE WIRES

_____________

I n the weeks following the shootings at my sons school, the children of Sandy Hook Elementary did not play outside. That January they started classes in an old middle school building the next town over. Mothballed, officials had called it, forsaken for a new facility, constructed next door, several years earlier. To accommodate the Sandy Hook children the old building needed to be brought up to code. And, since it had been a school for older students, it had no playground. The work on a new playground began despite the cold. Tain, then eight and a third grader, was excited by the prospect of a fresh slide and untouched swings. He would come home and report on the progress he viewed in glimpses from the school bus or classroom windows. But I got the sense that no one was in a hurry to have the children outside. Police officers stood vigilant at the schools entrance and also at the driveway near the road. The prying eyes of the media, so hot in the days after the shootings they threatened to melt every ounce of patience and resolve the town had left, still roamed. As for the childrenmany were sensitive to loud noises, and some were afraid to go upstairs in their own homes.

After a few weeks Tain grew tired of the indoor recesses, and one day at home he told me he wanted to play outside. I was surprisedhe didnt ask me or his father to go out with him, and I knew he didnt particularly like playing outside alone in the cold. But I was glad he wanted to go. I helped him bundle up in his coat and boots. I pulled a knit cap down over his thick black curls and drew a stick of balm over his pink lips. Then he went out into the yard. I took my laptop into the family room where I could keep an eye on him through the windows while I worked. At first he walked around in the yard, stomping lightly as though he were testing the frozen ground beneath his feet. He went over to the swing set and slid down the slide and sat on one of the blue plastic swings. I focused on my computer screen and wrote a few lines. When I looked up again Tain was in the woods, climbing the stony slope behind our house. I knew where he was goingto the plateau where a huge fallen tree served as both bridge and fort. In the summer the leaves of the trees close off this space from the view of the house and it becomes a giant, adventure-ready playroom. I usually sit on the deck and monitor Tain and his friends by listening. On that cold day I moved my laptop to the kitchen table and cracked open the sliding glass doors off the deck just enough so I could hear him. After awhile Tains voice did come floating through the screen door. He was kind of singing, kind of talking, and I smiled, thinking he was talking to himself. He seemed to be telling a story from the Club Penguin game he often played on our kitchen computer. But who was he telling it to? Then I realizedmaybe he wasnt really alone.