The Fiddler..., and: The Fiddler Up North..., and: Clint Returns

The Fiddler's TravelsRobert Elkins The Fiddler... Lordy, how that boy could fiddle! He could play the wind, he could match the storms that blew out of the west down Stratton Hollow; he could play the sun rising and setting, the moon and stars yearning for night; the birds hushed and listened and learned, their singing the better for it. He could play with a vigor causing men's blood to boil, conflict rising to the surface; and so sweetly that reserved and bashful men sneaked peeks at sunsets and longed to touch wives and sweethearts. Some of the unbelievers reckoned he must have sprung from old Beelzebub himself, so fierce was his talent, so passionate his playing. But the true believers said that because little had been done for Blane Bottom, the Heavenly Ledger was checked, finding them long overdue on the side of grace. So, the angels dropped young Clint into their midst one cold frosty morning nineteen years ago. 75 The Fiddler Up North... "I hear they need good fiddlers up NorthCincinnati , Columbus-and, man, you gotta go. Blane Bottom. We deserve somethin' and you can help us and yourself too." Poor Clint, bombarded daily by many who wanted to taste life through his eyes and heart, feeling there was no other way, the last chance. He showed signs of weakening, and one day said okay, would give it a try and hoped everybody would be happy now and that Blane Bottom might get mentioned in the newspaper. He packed fiddle and good clothes in an old suitcase, wrapped a belt around it for security. He had three quarters of a mile to walk to the highway and Greyhound bus. Fond farewells were said, he hugged his mother awkwardly, not used to public affection, moved quickly up the dirt road toward fame and fortune. If anyone had noticed his mother, her eyes would have revealed a heart wrenched apart, wanting his happiness yet fearing to lose him to the world. 76 Clint Returns Almost a year to the day, Clint reversed his steps from Greyhound to hearth, haggard and gaunt, unnoticed by folks toiling in field, barn and hillside. Met at the door, "are you home for good?" answered "yes" and he was hugged as can only a mother welcoming home a lost sheep. Holding apron to face, a year's pentup tears flowed, cleansing her soul, removing her pain. Helpless before the power of her emotions, he fled to his room "to put things away." Later: "I didn't want to go. I wanted to stay here and stack the hay, shock the corn, clean the barn, milk the cows, feed chickens and pigs and count the stars I thought were gone forever. I didn't want to play with moneygrubbers , back-stabbers and people who don't care, don't give a damn. I only wanted to play the rocks, the mist and fog rising, the plum blossoms, children playing, and Muddy Creek slithering peacefully through Blane Bottom." 77 ...