fiddle
Silently the old and worn violin hangs on the wall near the mantle. A few simple repairs would bring it back to a usable state. It occupies that space as a reminder of the richness of life that includes the past. My first glimpse at the instrument was near an old storage area in our attic. I was near ten years of age and wanted to know more about the origin of this finely shaped, but mouse chewed device. My mother recounted the cold winter evenings around the old fireplace of her youth as her father made the room come alive with the melodic tones he and his fiddle produced so well. I remember the glow in my mother’s eyes as she recalled the joy she had experienced at the gifted hands of her father as his music filled the air. Grandpa Davis had died of pneumonia in the 1920’s, leaving his wife and seven young daughters. The stories of their survival and ultimate thriving could fill a novel. Some repairs to the instrument brought it to a condition that allowed me to take some lessons when I was but a lad. I wondered what it must have sounded like when Grandpa played it near the old fireplace of my mother’s youth. Silently it hangs now as a prompter of memories that bring it alive in the mind of this beholder. Gratitude fills my heart for memories of the past that bring richness in the present. A thankful heart provides the rich soil in which fond memories sprout into the sunshine of today!