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Weekly Contest #38
The old fiddle had a brassy, sweet sound. That's the way its humancompanion was given to describing it. It had been, in all likelihood, fifteenyears, maybe more, since the bow had glided across its strings. Five years since the man who spent many days and nights perfecting that bowhand had drew a breath. His old buddies from his thirty-some-odd years of employment called him “Booger,” and some called him Red, before the hair went to grey. To me, he was my grandfather, but he was always present. He pretty much raised me, and his music w...
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