The Fiddle

This is meant to be recited. recitations were a standard back in the day but have gone to the wayside in the modern world of entertainment. My uncle Bill Pendergast recited “The Cremation of Sam McGee” with much fanfare, and my uncle Tom Pendergast was fond of “Albert and the Lion”, mimicking the English working class accent of the famed monologist Stanley Holloway. You have to imagine the sound of the fiddle as a backdrop to the telling of my story of…

The Fiddle

The auctioneer’s voice at the end of the day\ said here’s an old fiddle that someone can play The strings are still tight and sound right when you pluck it\ Though my wife says I can’t carry a tune in a bucket With a chuckle and snorting he started the bidding\ but I saw little interest from where I was sitting There was only one hand in the air at the time \ and the hand that was raised was the hand that was mine

 So the fiddle I acquired with a case and a bow\ I paid at the entrance and off I did go Arrived at my car and holding onto my key\ when a voice from behind me said, “Friend, pardon me” Standing just off with his hat in his hands\ an old-timer spoke from an awkward stance You got a good deal on that fiddle today\ you’ll see what I mean if you would let me play

 I passed him the case which he laid on the ground\ he took out the fiddle and turned it around Yes… it’s the same one”, the words whispered low\ put it under his chin as he picked up the bow And then from inside it a tune sauntered out\ one that had hidden for years without doubt So I stood in the parking lot nodding in time\ as the old-timer played on that fiddle of mine

The waltz that he played had me lost in a trance \ memories of courting, a first wedding dance A christening, the soothing of new babies cries\ family reunions and tearful goodbyes I heard a beginning, a middle, an end/ the shape of a long life with twists turns and bends When the tune was completed, I opened my eyes/ But the stranger no longer stood there in disguise

 So all the way home as I drove past the shore/ I hummed what he’d played me until I was sure That the tune in my head, every note was complete/ and the fiddle was safe in it’s case on the seat So don’t see a fiddle when you look onstage/ just think of a man who lived well to old age For the tune that I play is not one of my own/ but the gift of a spirit whose name is unknown