Every day after the sun has been up for two hours,
Each night after it has gone down for two,
I pull out my father’s fiddle,
And make my hands do what they don’t want to do.
Never mind the pain,
Never mind the stiffness,
Never mind the mind.
I make my hands pull the bow,
I inhale the rosin
That rises from the strings,
That makes the old fiddle come to life,
That makes the old man come to life.
And I practice the three tunes over and over,
Until my hands beg me to stop.
Because right now is the big fiddle contest.
Any person, regardless of age or gender,
Who claims to play this contraption of wood and wire
Can make his or her way onto the big stage.
And play their hoedown, waltz, and tune of choice
That makes them a real, honest to goodness fiddler.
I don’t care if I win anything,
Ribbon, medal, or cold hard cash.
The playing is what I want most,
Just to prove I can still do it.
It’s the hunger inside me, for more than food.
A hunger bigger than San Francisco,
Or the whole state of California.
Oh I’ve been on the stages, big and small,
At all the fiddle contests I’ve been in before.
But now, right now,
As I begin to play my first tune with unwilling bones,
My hands will do what they have done all these ninety years.
And I will finish what I have started,
Followed by mild applause from the fiddle contest audience.
And I will be at ease with myself,
At ease for having a meaningful moment.
At ease for clearing another daily hurdle.
At ease for making wood, wire, rosin, and bones
Come together and be as one.
