That Day

THAT DAY for Scott Christianson (1955-2004) All was light in that room, winter's end and how you stared it down, touch of paralysis you apologized for nowhere in the J. S. Bach rippling from your hands to the keys of the Yamaha. Sun welcome on each shoulder, you played past the failed surgery and chemo, the hospice arrangements, out into the tentative Virginia spring and your cabin on the south fork of the Holston, rainbows and browns dimpling the surface on emergence from icy sleep. You played for Christine's unforgettable hair, cardinal's wings in the high-boned sycamore, for these hours inhaled like the first blue hyacinth, clasped so tightly its ink and headiness dispel the heaviest heart. That day we mustered strength and miles, you and the French Suite No. 4 rowing us back to the places we have traveled in our weathered jonboats, ferried from allegro to sudden pianissimo, rapt in our stubborn, earthbound skins. —Linda Parsons Marion Scott R. Christianson was a passionate lover ofmusic, literature, andfly-fishing. A native ofSouth Dakota, he lived in southwest Virginiafor 17 years teaching at Radford University. He published creative and scholarly work in journals, including Appalachian Heritage. Scott died ofcancer on May 1, 2004. He is survived by his wife, Christine Christianson, and stepdaughters, Shanna and Sierra Alley. 108 ...