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Tall 'n lean 'n lanky,
with a fiddle 'neath his chin....
the days weren't quite so cruel
when he played his violin.
Depression years- the thirties-
hard times all around.
When Palmer played his fiddle,
trouble filtered through the sound
and somehow seemed more bearable-
more apt t' go away;
and listenin' folks were certain-
there would be a kinder day.
With pennies in their pockets
and debits by the score
when Palmer started fiddlin'
none a' them were poor.
Magical it was, the way
cares filtered through the sound;
till folks were certain, down the road
times 'd turn around.
When Palmer played his fiddle
couldn't hear no angels sing...
but in the harshest winter
it felt a bit like Spring.
Bette Wolf Duncan
©November 2005
About the Poem,
Bette writes:
"Palmer Peterson, his sister, Mable, and my mother were three
of a 10 student Montana country school. They went through grade
school together, and remained close friends throughout their lives.
Palmer, besides being a fiddler, ranched in the Pryor Mountain area
of Montana. Palmer's visits were cherished
by a lot of people."
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We all went down to Pueblo Park
to hear Don Johnson play;
He's durn sure the finest fiddler
that has wandered out this way!
But I 'spose you've heard Don fiddle;
if you haven't, well you should.
I name him best in the whole Southwest --
and that is mighty good!
Well,this old gent came ambling by,
said his name was L.B. Wray,
'llowed as how he's from Illinois,
and if he had a fiddle, he'd play.
"Well," said that Johnson feller,
"We'd sure like to hear you play!"
And he handed him his fiddle --
all tuned to a perfect "A".
Well, the old man took Don's fiddle
and adjusted all the strings;
He listened carefully and long
before he played a thing.
For it isn't just perfection
that you're listening to hear
It must fit the heart that's playing,
as well as please the ear.
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And when he'd tightened up the bow,
and rechecked all the strings,
He took that bow in his old right hand,
and he made that fiddle sing!
Oh, it wasn't to the quality
of Johnson's, understand,
But you had to make allowance
for the trembling of the hands,
And the years without a fiddle,
and the mind a-running back
Over waltzes, reels, and hoedowns
that he'd fiddled in the past.
And when he'd finished playing,
there was silence -- then applause,
But you couldn't help but notice
that little bit of pause;
Its the highest form of honor
that an audience imparts
Its a tribute to musicians --
for they know they've touched your hearts.
So I love this sad old picture
of the fiddler L.B. Wray
When he "tuned" that "borried" fiddle,
and he "reckoned" he would play.
Dee Strickland Johnson
© March, 1995
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