William Woolfitt
ſ, the Long S
long s, ſometimes croſs-barrd
To hear tell, ſ (the long s) was rogue and anomaly, ne’er-do-well and loose fish and unlucky child. Erratic, the long s was, variant, alternative, single or doubled, handwritten letter or moveable type that serueth in all places, blamed for the scribe’s error, the compositor’s blunder, muddying waters that should have been clear. Sometimes awkward, now extinct: ſ clambered in and out of folios, prayer books, census records, and diaries until the end of the nineteenth century. ſ could droop like a rainheavy flower and smudge the letter next to it, or it might sport a crossbar, or be hooked or thorned at both ends, or look like an upside-down walking stick. Like S, ſ was a sibilant: it could make as S did the hiss of steam valves, the shish of geese, the hizzle of wind. ſ could repeat what S said, but it never had a voice of its own.
long sass, long sweet-’nin’
In 1869, Will Wallace Harney and his sickly wife traveled by wagon through Kentucky. Later, he would write a sketch about the peculiar natives they observed in the mountains, their quaint speech and patient poverty and anatomical irregularities. Said another way, Harney made a loud and ugly song from whatever seemed inferior to him in the mountain people’s words, their lives, their bodies. He met a Tennessee wife, a rotting man who sat on a stool, farmers who read the signs of the moon, who depended on the water-wizard to tell them where to dig wells. Hearing the mountain people say long sass instead of carrots and long sweet-’nin’ instead of syrup could move a person to tears and smiles, Harney suggested. And their long bones, facial angles, saggy ligatures, and harsh features convinced him that the mountain people were not his kind. The keepsake that would remind him of his travels in the poor hills was a pebble his wife found for him—almond-shaped, rough, plain, the beauties of its interior unknowable unless he broke it with a hammer. Harney told his wife about lost continents, deposits of coal, the sparkling crystals they might see inside the pebble. She said she wanted him to crack it open for her.
long silence
My son is five-and-a-half. He no longer has a language delay; he talks a lot at home, sometimes strings together elaborate sentences. At preschool, in public, it’s a different story: he’s noticeably silent, he’s singled out by his classmates when he doesn’t respond, he’s selectively mute. His teacher asked if his mother and I wanted him to participate in the graduation program. He said he wanted to sit on stage with his friends. He said he wasn’t going to speak or sing, because there would be too many grown-ups watching. As we expected, he stopped talking when we entered the auditorium. As far as I know, he was silent until he was with us again. During the program, the other preschoolers went to the microphone and shared their favorite color, favorite food, what they wanted to be when they grew up.
My son saved his answers for the car ride home.
“All the blues and all the reds.”
“Pupusas and a hundred things.”
“Worker man and farmer and road paver.”
Then he ate his mortarboard-shaped cookie, and he wound around his wrist the string tied to his metallic congratulations balloon, keeping his brother or the wind from snatching it away.