Its brown hues reflect the morning light shining through the nearby windows. The scroll holds the pegs ever so gently these days as it serves as holder now strung to the wall. Years in Grandma’s attic left it exposed to several mouse nibbles that give it a rather “weathered” look. I was fourteen when first exposed to this instrument that had with it many tales of nights around the fire during my mother’s childhood. Grandpa Davis had played this melodic violin almost every evening in that old farm house with his wife and seven daughters humming tunes by his side. Now ninety years later this instrument hangs silently on a wall reflecting not melody but warm memories recalled from beside my mother’s knee. Gone are all the voices that hummed the tunes and gone are the hands that pressed the strings and moved the bow. Remaining are the instrument and the memories now being shared. After all these years a small instrument hanging on a wall in an old home is the spark that ignites fond and grateful memories from generations past. Gratitude now fills the vessel of memory as the joy of the past visits with the present. Each day is another opportunity to create fond memories that may inspire others.
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