Uncle Billy's Fiddle

 

Uncle Billy’s Fiddle

William Oliver Snider

1827 – 1916 

By Peg, his 3 X great-niece by marriage

For 52 Ancestors in 52 Weeks: Family Lore

Exploring my grandparents’ old farmhouse was what we did on rainy Saturdays. On sunny days, of course, we played outside. Oh, the nooks and crannies of that place, with its scary basement and the two upper chambers, but very few closets. Their Sunday best and few weekday duds hung on hooks in their bedrooms. The apron hung in the kitchen, in the rare moments of the day when Gram wasn’t wearing it. Upstairs in the kitchen chamber were two bedrooms, not in much use when I was a girl, unless company came. How I loved to sleep in one of those rooms, under the tin roof. One of them had a closet. On the opposite wall was the flue of the wood stove.

 Tucked in the back of that little-used closet, I found a violin in an old case. It rested against the wall where the flue kept it nice and warm, which wasn’t one bit good for it. Wood needs some humidity. Why had I never seen this violin? I looked it over, tucked it under my chin, and pretended it had strings. After a bit, I wrapped it up in its ancient cloth and put it away. I pondered that violin all afternoon.

 In my lifetime, Dad always drove a big Chevrolet, and I made a beeline for the center of the front seat. Great place to fall asleep on Mum’s lap as we headed from Hill Grove back to Moncton, but this evening, I was wide awake. I remember the exact spot when I felt the time was right to broach the subject of my find – right at the corner of King Street and the Old Post Road in Petitcodiac, by the cheese factory. Where did that violin come from? And could I take violin lessons?

 Uncle Billy’s fiddle, Mum told me. Thus began the story of the fiddle, and more stories about Uncle Billy and Aunt Maggie. He made it, she told me many times, even well into her 90s. That’s what her grandfather told her, and she believed him. I came to love Uncle Billy and Aunt Maggie, who died the same week in 1916. She never met them, but she knew about them, and from the day I tucked Uncle Billy’s fiddle under my chin to this day, I believe her. But, just to be sure, on my last visit to a luthier to check it out, I asked him if it could be true. To the best of his ability, short of taking it apart, he shone a light into the f-holes to see if it was autographed or had a label. Nothing that he could see. What he did tell me is that it was probably handmade, about 150 years old, and the luthier who made it knew what he was doing. It likely wasn’t the first violin he had made. It could be true.

 “After the ceremony, congratulations were extended to the newly married couple [Ormand Jones and Janet Snider], and all repaired to the spacious dining room where the wedding supper was partaken off, and about 10:30 dancing commenced and lasted until the wee sma’ hours. Messrs. W. O. Snider and F. W. Davidson furnished the music.”[1]

To my regret, I no longer play the violin. My daughter has it, safely ensconced in a beautiful case. She took a few lessons, but career and motherhood put them on hold. Maybe later. I still have the case.

I wrote a little poem in 2018. It was, and still is, my promise to Uncle Billy and Aunt Maggie. His other love is Maggie. I share her name, Margaret, which means pearl.

 

The Fifth Peg

Now I lay me down to sleep.

My fiddle weeps. I pray you’ll keep

her safe and loved. Beneath the ground

I’ll listen for her cheerful sound.

She should not rest. She needs to sing,

to feel a bow upon her string. 

I know there’ll be someone in time

whose toe will tap in time with mine.

She’ll take her pen, to write the tale

of my two loves – my fiddle and pearl –

her memorial requiem

to us whose quiet life is done.

 

Peg, 2018

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[1] Progress. Published in Saint John, New Brunswick. Issue of 1894 – 05- 19. Page 7. https://newspapers.lib.unb.ca/serials/155/issues/22777/pages/166348