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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Once upon a dusty shelf, half-hidden by the rafters, I chanced upon a fine old violin. Quite surprised to find it, I could tell that it was old, and wondered whose device it might have been. “Dad,” I hollered, “come on up here. Look at what I found. A fiddle…and I think it’s pretty old.” Dad came running up the stairs to join me in the attic, and here’s the actual story that he told: “I forgot my father’s violin was even up here. It needs to come back down, where it belongs. Grandpa bought it shortly after he an’ Flo got married. I’ll bet it knows at least a thousand songs. “I remember, as a boy, the hours and hours of screeching, as Dad began to work at what we swore - By the time he’d mastered it - would drive us all insane, or maybe even very much before! “But, with time, the screeching and the squealing disappeared...until, at last… on almost every day… Wafting through our tiny home, the lilting of concertos and minuets would float, as Dad would play.” Learning this would puzzle me, for now - at thirty-five - I’d never known he’d played the violin! I asked my dad the reason. He said, “When your Grandma died, he put it down…and never played again! “She was just about your age when fever took her down, and just a few days later, stole her life. Grandpa serenaded her until she passed away. The playing stopped the day he lost his wife. “You know what…give me that. I’ll see if I can tune it. We’ll take it to the nursing home tonight. I’ll just bet he’ll recognize it. Prob’ly cheer him up. It ought to be a very welcome sight.” And that’s exactly what we did. But when we reached his room, and, all together, sprung the big surprise, The knowing smile that warmed our hearts was very much expected, but when we saw the tears that filled his eyes, We began to wonder if he truly understood…these “people” - who were standing ‘round his bed - Actually were his fam’ly - and it looked as though the ploy would not pan out the way my father’d said. But then - to our amazement - with an even bigger smile - he reached to take the instrument and bow, And promptly - with his fragile hands - began to fill the air with sounds which from but violins can flow. The serenade was wonderful. It thrilled our little group. And as the music drifted down the hall… It was simply beautiful, and, as we watched him play, our tears of pride - and joy - began to fall. All of us were spellbound by his playing, for, you see…his mind had failed him several years ago, And by my father’s eyes I knew -- the tune he’d picked to play -- was one he’d used to…..say, “Goodbye” to Flo!
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