Scatterfield Road and Defiance County

To get to Anderson University from Ann Arbor, you have to drive through Defiance County. You’ll pass about ten signs for different towns in Defiance, and I wonder what it would be like to say you grew up in this place.

“I am from Defiance,” I said in the car because it was just me and I wanted to hear how it sounded. It was fun to say. Coming from someone who apologizes more than she breathes, the statement gave me a bit of a thrill. People who say they’re from Defiance aren’t going to end it in a question. There’s no upspeak in Defiance.

I wonder how long you’d have to live in Defiance and say this is where you’re from before ideas like temerity, brazenness, and rebellion start to creep into your mind and take shape.

While I drove through this county in Ohio with picturesque farms and fall leaves on fire, Bruno Mars’ “Young Wild Girls” came on the radio and I turned the volume up. This is one of the songs I run to, and I think about being chased and being young. I consider Defiance County while I sing along.

I think about trying on words like trying on clothes. I like to see how they fit, and what I look like in them. Defiance feels like a bright orange pair of high heels I own. These shoes are ridiculous and aren’t for walking or teaching so watch me do both.

“All these roads steer me wrong, but I still drive them all night long,” Bruno sings and I try to snap a picture with my phone as I drive. I shouldn’t drive and take a picture. That’s not safe. I should’ve pulled over and done it properly but I needed to be at Anderson at 11:45 and I didn’t want to make anyone upset that I’m late because I took a picture of Defiance. I should’ve left earlier, but I was working on the talk I was giving. I hadn’t had a lot of time to prepare for it. Well, I did – like, a whole year – but things came up and then we moved and there’s this book I’m supposed to be writing and I’m teaching in a really demanding school and words haven’t come easily to me and I’m so tired and I don’t think I can keep working like this anymore. I’m sorry. Something has to give and I don’t want to give it. I want to keep writing but where is the time? I’m sorry. I’m not getting my work done and my writing is lousy and I hate grading papers and writing objectives on the whiteboard.

Anderson University is right off a road called Scatterfield. I laughed at that name but I didn’t say it out loud. I don’t need to try that word on for size. I hate the fit. I hate how I look in it. It doesn’t seem to want to come off of me, though. I really hate the word scatter, but there’s something sad about “field” being attached to it. Reminds me of that verse in the Bible about scattering seeds in the field. You’re not supposed to do that, right? Wasn’t that what Jesus was saying? You need to be more purposeful in your work? Intentional? I can’t remember. I’m sorry. I should read the Bible more. Anyway, scattering work into a field and having no idea if it’s good work or if it’s taking root is quite depressing.

The hotel where I stayed in was off of Scatterfield. I woke up early, got ready, and headed to Starbucks to go over my talk and slowly sip my coffee. I’m really quite creative in the morning. All the good stuff is written in the morning, and I figured my mind would clear and I’d have a few more great things to say about my topic. It was still dark when I got to Starbucks. I had plenty of time.

But I opened my bag and my talk wasn’t in it. I’d left it in the hotel I’d already checked out of. This is how it is on Scatterfield. You loose things. You leave your work in a hotel room and your coffee is hot and fresh and by the time you go back to get your talk it’s cold and stale.

This is where I am, though. In a field of scattered work. I’m trying my best to plant these seeds. I’m working harder than I’ve ever worked and I know I’m not doing something right but I don’t know what that is so I’ll just keep trying until I figure it out.

I brought my coffee to the classroom where I was going to speak.

I wrote down a verse of a poem, and quotations from a story on the chalkboard.

The words were probably more reminders for me than for anyone else: Callie, you’re good at small moments. Write those. Build eternity with those. Callie, take a walk on the page, no matter how risky. Plant some seeds. It’s OK to try and see what happens.

I gave my talk.

I drove home, passing through Defiance County, considering the risky business of planting seeds in the hopes of building something that lasts. You’d have to have a lot of guts and sass, I thought rolling down the windows and breathing some of that Defiance County air hoping some of it would seep into my lungs and settle.