Dewey Balfa, Cajun fiddling master Evo Bluestein photo These poems, stories, songs, quote, and art have been gathered from all over the world, partly via FIDDLE-L, an online list for fiddlers and those who love fiddle music. dhebert@crocker.com

Unk's Fiddle - Steve Burt Unk played the violin - called it a fiddle - but never played when anyone was around. Except Eleanor. He'd play for her. They'd been friends seventy years. Neither married. Eleanor was Perryville's old maid. Unk, everybody jokingly called him Perryville's most eligible bachelor, ironic because Unk was short, with liver spots on his dome, one eye dried up from a metal shaving he caught as a teenager, face pock-marked. His knee had been crushed when logs brook loose off a railroad flatcar he was unloading, leaving him with a draggy limp. Eleanor ran the general store after her folks died, but sold when it got to be too much. She taught Sunday school children for years, then an adult Bible class. That's when Unk, who mysteriously dropped out of church at ten, started attending. She sang in choir, served at suppers, sewed for the Ladies Aid. It was rumored she played harmonica, but not in public. Church seemed the extent of her social life, except for Unk coming by Saturday nights with his fiddle. Unk lived with Grampa and Grandma most of his life, working the farm. When they died and left him the place, he surprised everyone by selling it and moving in with us. We fixed him a room in the shed attached to our house, so Unk's room shared a common wall with my bedroom. Despite the wall's thickness, once in bed I could hear Unk play that fiddle - every night except Saturday when he was at Eleanor's. The music was faint, but on a good night it would work its way through the wall, sweet and mournful. When not in use, Unk's fiddle and bow hung on the wall over his bed. I never saw them there, because I was never in his room, but figured it out in later years when he got the tremors. I'd hear the fiddle k-k-klunking against our common wall as his hand shook putting it back in place. When I was eleven, Unk and I fished Thatcher Pond. As I fumbled to get a worm on my hook, Unk mumbled, "Eleanor baits a hook faster'n that." At first I thought he was jibing me, but then I realized he hadn't said it to put me down - in fact, he wasn't talking to me at all, he was talking to himself, simply stating an observation: Eleanor, the old maid who played a harmonica when nobody was around, a woman nobody ever saw fish, could bait a hook fast. Unk knew. Later, as we packed up, Unk put his arm around my shoulder and told me selling the farm was the best thing he ever did, because it gave him time to do the things he loved. He didn't tell me what it was he loved, but if he could have mouthed the words, I expect they'd have ushered forth in a holy whisper fishing, fiddling, and Eleanor. I tried to imagine Unk and Eleanor after Saturday dinner, sitting in her parlor, tapping their toes and conversing through fiddle and harmonica. One afternoon I was pulling carrots, handing them to Unk. I asked why he only played his fiddle in private. He said, "When I was ten, I was learning Dad's fiddle. He played barn dances. I mentioned to Reverend Hotchkiss, who's dead now, that I hoped to be good enough to play in church some day. He shook his head no, told me a fiddle ain't suitable for Church and giving glory to God." When I looked up, Unk's face was like granite. I guessed that was the year Unk stopped going to church. Unk was seventy-nine when Eleanor died, she seventy-eight. She simply didn't wake up one Tuesday morning, just as Unk, ten years later, would fail to wake up. Her viewing hours were Friday night. Mom, Dad, and I went. Unk refused. He stayed in his room, preferring to remember her the way he'd last seen her. I thought she looked fine, in a pretty black dress with pink and purple flowers. Her hands were folded on her stomach as if praying, and her knuckles didn't look gnarly or arthritic. I tried to imagine those fingers baiting a hook. Next day Church was full for the funeral. Unk didn't come along when we left the house by car. He said he'd catch up, but I doubted he'd show. After all, he hadn't been able to face visiting hours. The pews filled as Mrs. King played familiar hymns. Eleanor's two elderly cousins sat in the front pew. The choir sang In the Garden and Abide with Me, two of Eleanor's favorites. Reverend Winters read scripture, offered a eulogy, and invited folks to share memories and thanksgiving about Eleanor. Roberta Gerrity spoke for the choir, saying, "Eleanor was a faithful and committed choir member." A man spoke of the inspiring Sunday school teacher Eleanor. A long silence followed. I wanted to fill the void myself, but I didn't know what to say and my body felt heavy as a stone. That's when Unk limped down the aisle, fiddle in his left hand, bow in his right. He was dripping sweat from the mile hike. He walked slowly, reverently, toward the pulpit. His head was bent and he trudged, like a man climbing a gallows. When he reached the golden oak communion table, he looked out over the congregation. He wanted to speak, but his lips only trembled. Tears mixed with streams of sweat. The saltiness stung his eyes and he blinked and blinked. I wanted to run up and comfort him. Unk raised the fiddle to his shoulder, cradled it under his chin, and drew the bow across the strings. He began with Amazing Grace, slipped seamlessly into Greensleeves, then wove strains from both into a sound more mournful and sweeter than any I've ever heard. We cried, the whole church and I, to watch and hear Unk honor and weep for Eleanor through his fiddle. When he stopped, we sat stunned. Unk walked out, fiddle and bow in hand, and trudged home. No music seeped through my wall for months. Then one morning Unk came down to breakfast, smiled, and said, "Want to fish Thatcher's?" By mid-morning we had a beautiful brown trout. That night I lay in bed, thinking about the trout, the warm sun, how good it felt to have Unk back. Then I heard it - Unk's fiddle, singing. He played in his room every night after that, until his dying day. And many a night, I swear I don't know how, Unk made that fiddle wail and cry, just like a harmonica. "Unk's Fiddle" Copyright 1994 by Steven E. Burt, reprinted here with author's permission. The story can be found in "Chicken Soup for the Single's Soul" (p. 292) and is part of the Dr. Burt's paperback, "Unk's Fiddle: Stories to Touch the Heart," available in bookstores or from him toll-free at 866-693-6936 or at: www.BurtCreations.com