I

The Fiddle Fandangle: A Saga

By: Germaine R. Longpré

Part I

            Antoine was livid! A string of high-pitched profanities thundered through the house as he stomped blindly about the kitchen. Hands fisted, nostrils flaring, he repeated his litany of unsavoury words − then again.

A frisson of alarm rippled through Flora as she hurried towards the familiar voice. Upon entering the room she observed her husband’s face, a mask of blazing fury.

“Mon Dieu! Qu’est-ce qu’il y a?” Flora placed knobby deformed hands on her husband’s arm, arresting his erratic traipsing. Her tone and fright-filled glare demanded an answer.

“Look at it!” Antoine spat vehemently. Yanking boorishly from her grip, he pointed to the open violin case on the table, “Just look what that son-of-a-bitch did!” His head shook exaggeratingly from side to side, “I knew it! I knew something would happen!” His wild pacing and abhorrent swearing resumed.

Making the sign of the cross to buffer her Christian soul from such blasphemy, Flora scuffled around the table then quizzically peered within.

A hand instantly covered her mouth, muffling a loud gasp. Visibly shocked, her shoulders slumped in empathic despair. It had been borrowed over two weeks ago, she remembered, and had only now been returned.

“Can you fix it?” She pleaded worriedly.

Antoine’s features contorted with pain as he battled to say the words aloud.

“It’s finished.” He whispered. Throat constricted, unable to say more, he quickly turned then left the room

Sighing deeply, Flora closed the lid. After nearly sixty years of marriage, she knew better than to pursue the matter. Leaning heavily on the table, she sat on the adjoining bench in contemplation.

It was 1936. With the lingering Depression threatening the collapse of every home, pain seemed permanently etched on every face, including those of her eight adult children – all married now with families of their own to worry about.

Cancelling the party this Saturday was out of the question. Family, friends and neighbours here in Mechanicsville looked forward to these monthly gatherings to give them solace – reprieve – hope.

While there is comfort in solidarity, a fact Flora learnt well having survived the First World War and the Spanish Influenza Pandemic of 1918, it wouldn’t be the same without music and dance − it was expected somehow − it’s the way it always was.

Antoine had rightfully inherited this Maple-wood fiddle from his Belgian father. Lured by the promise of free land, his elder had crossed the Atlantic during the early 1800’s aboard an over-crowded vessel. Guarding his only possession, amidst appalling conditions, the poor, frazzled and hungry young man endured the long perilous journey. He settled quickly and of the many siblings, only Antoine had taken-up the bow.

It wasn’t a Stradivarius, in fact, the fiddle’s age and maker were unknown but the sounds emitting from its resin-dusted strings were vibrant and true. Antoine cherished it, playing the old Flanders’ tunes with pride.

It seemed fitting Flora thought, that it should end its days this way. It was a source of great torment as to who should inherit this instrument of joy; none of her sons or grandchildren displayed a natural ear or any interest in learning.

Maybe it was a sign − the thrum of life.

Her eyes moistened at the morbid thought.

Flora quickly scolded herself; this line of thinking didn’t solve anything. Resolute, she stood up and approached the telephone contraption hanging on the wall.

Part II

The potluck buffet was a complete success.

Fully contented, the guests assembled in clusters to share the latest gossip. With the crush of people, and children scampering underfoot, it was hard to get around, but somehow, after dessert, the men retired to the living room to smoke while the women tidied up the large kitchen in preparation for the dance.

A few sturdy young men were cajoled into dismantling the table and place the folding chairs and benches along the wainscoting. Once cleared, Flora was seen sprinkling talc on the blue Battleship linoleum floor.

This was the cue everyone waited for.

Leo sauntered in slinging his guitar. Settling for a corner chair, he started the mundane yet necessary tuning process. Aimé, an experienced and by far the most entertaining of prompters, retrieved a couple of soupspoons from the drawer and quickly joined him. Eddy wasn’t far behind, blowing and inhaling a few notes on his harmonica before claiming a spot. They were primed and ready to get things going but respectfully waited for their host to arrive. After all, without a fiddle, there was no band.

Flora noticed their impatience and had no more glanced up at the clock above the sink when a knock was heard at the back door. True to his word, David Lafontaine, an old family friend, entered the kitchen, violin case in hand. Delighted to accept the invitation, he had stressed he couldn’t make it for the meal but had assured her he’d be there in time for the dance.

After a bit of fine-tuning, the ‘kitchen junkets’ began playing in earnest.

With the ‘Ti Blanc, beer and homemade wine continually flowing, the partygoers were soon in a state of euphoria. Jigs, Square Dances interspersed with Waltzes and Polkas made the horde vie for a foot of the dance floor.

Nearing eleven o’clock and with the children herded or carried up to any available bed, the musicians took a well-deserved break while the women prepared a light snack. It was during this short hiatus Flora heard Antoine’s angry bellow emanating from the living room. When an equally forceful voice sounded in answer, she knew an argument had ensued.

Flora calmly made her way through the swarm of nosy bystanders blocking the doorway. Eyeing the situation, she noted the empty violin case on the coffee table; Antoine stood with the damaged fiddle in his hands. Facing him was Theodore, their newly-wed, burly and proud nineteen-year-old grandson.

“I can fix it, son père!” Theodore said defiantly.

“Non!” Antoine snapped back, “Who the hell do you think you are? You don’t even

know how to play it, let alone fix one!”

“You’re right,” Theodore raised his hands defensively, “I don’t know how to play it, but I sure as hell know wood and I tell you I can fix the damn thing!”

The crowd that had gathered, rubbernecking to view the splintered, gaping hole marring the chin-rest area, kept silent. Although Theodore, known for his insatiable thirst for knowledge was well respected by family and his peers, to cockily pit against the head of the clan, cantankerous and stubborn as the old man is, was extremely brave.

Yet no one dared intercede on his behalf.

“Just give me a week, son père, that’s all I ask.” Theodore pleaded.

“Non!” Exacerbated, Antoine placed the broken fiddle back in its case, slammed the lid shut, slipped it under his arm then commandingly marched out of the room.

Every effort was made to revive the party after that, but the conflict had tarnished the evening. Using all manner of polite excuses, the guests began to leave – the party was over.

Part III

Challenged by his grandfather’s demeaning snub, a penniless Theodore swore to win the day. Characteristically rich in patience, fortitude and wit, he mentally conjured up the ultimate coup-de-foudre!

Armed with a simple pocketknife and an old wood-frame bucksaw, he foraged forested areas whenever he could and rummaged through scrap bins in near-by lumberyards every Saturday. Preferring straight fine-grained heartwood (inner core) to sapwood (outer core), every piece collected underwent meticulous scrutiny. 

Of the indigenous coniferous family he amassed Red, Pitch and Jack pine; tamarack; White, Red and Black spruce; Red cedar and the pleasantly fragrant juniper. From the deciduous group and staying far afield of soft poplars, he selected samplings of willows; hickories; Hop-Hornbeam; Blue-Beech; Yellow and White birch; a variety of oaks and elms; Witch-Hazel; Black Cherry; Mountain and Sugar maple; dogwood and finally, ash.

Meandering through the streets on garbage-collection days on his way to work, Theodore’s eyes would habitually scan every pile for discarded wooden objects. It was during these scavenger hunts that he chanced upon a broken mahogany corner table and a few weeks later a sizable slab of ebony atop a trashcan. He couldn’t believe his luck!

Obsessed with the project, Ted spent hours studying violins, taking note of their precise measurements, shape and construction. No area was left to speculation; accurate templates were designed using thick cardboard.

After months of collecting, prepping and drying, portions of the carefully selected stash was ready to be cut, whittled or shaped into small, perfect strips three to four inches long, two inches thick by one half inch wide. Using potent airplane glue, Ted arranged and clamped the multi-coloured pieces together, making two appropriate-sized boards.

He then concentrated on the curvaceous sides. Unlike the usual process of wetting and manipulating the slats of wood into shape using a heat-bending iron, he sculpted each piece, including the counter ribs, to fit.

Due to Theodore’s penchant for perfection, the prodigious project advanced at a snail’s pace, but he didn’t mind. With a plan so well orchestrated, he was content to have his hands mechanically labour on while his wandering mind mulled over the next steps. It was during one of these inspiring sessions that he developed a novel idea on how to make the required accessories.

He travelled to the nearest slaughterhouse and managed to relieve them of a few choice beef thighbones and a foot of gut. Everyday, these skeletal pieces would be boiled or baked until all natural oils were removed; the catgut was repeatedly twisted tight, stretched and left to dry.

Next, selecting a long piece of maple, he masterfully transformed it into a ‘neck’. It was while reaming holes for the tuning pegs that another great idea came to him. Instead of duplicating the usual scroll design gracing the end-piece, he would engrave a figure-eight knot − further exhibiting his astute capabilities.

Working on the body, using a crudely made planer and chisel, the belly and back were dug out; the contours carefully shaved down, sound ‘f’ holes whittled through and all edges purfled with contrasting-coloured wood. Although some sections needed minor adjustments, assembling the close-fitting parts together proved most rewarding.

 The precious Black ebony plank was crafted into a slightly concave fingerboard; the remnants honed into four tapered string-tightening keys and a chin-rest. Through one of the apertures, a small dowel, aptly called ‘angel’, was positioned and wedged between the top and bottom. This small, seemingly insignificant piece, he had been told, was instrumental in the creation of vibration necessary to emit sound.

Then came weeks of sanding, sanding and more sanding!

While his chef-d’oeuvre dried between shellac applications, he filed and shaped the bones, making a ‘nut’, a ‘bridge’ and a ‘tailpiece’. He then measured, cut and attached the gut. Ted contrived a set of used strings from a local merchant and so, by mid March, a fiddle was born.

Part IV

In Mechanicsville, a small hamlet on the northwestern edge of Ottawa, visits among neighbours were commonplace, but holidays were different. For years and for reasons unknown, the entire neighbourhood was drawn to Antoine’s kitchen following the nine o’clock mass. And so it was that Easter Sunday when Theodore entered his grandparent’s crowded kitchen, fiddle in hand.

“Why in hell would anyone paint a violin in stripes like that?” Antoine scoffed, as he inspected the offering, “It looks stupid!”

“It’s not painted, son père!  It’s different types of wood!” Theodore approached and pointed to several of the pieces, “Look, this one is oak and this one is ash.” He looked up into his grandfather’s scowling face.

“And you made this?” Antoine’s skepticism was insultingly blatant.

Knowing it would be questioned Theodore had come prepared.

“Here, come and see.”  He took the violin from his grandfather’s hands, brought it to the kitchen window then reached inside his pocket. He inserted a small dentist-style mirror through an opening. “If you look closely,” he prompted, “you’ll see I inscribed my name and date on the inside of the top.”

Using the sun’s reflection, Theodore manoeuvred the objects enabling his cynical grandfather to observe the irrefutable proof of ownership. Curious onlookers began lining-up for a chance to handle and study the oddity.

Needless to say, it was a great hit!

Basking in the attention, Ted recounted his months of labour and demonstrated the fiddle’s unique properties to all who would listen.

It was nearing lunchtime and the guests made ready to leave, including Theodore. As he stepped onto the porch, his grandfather called him back inside. Waiting for the last stragglers to disappear, Antoine handed over his prized instrument and nodded curtly.

No words were needed; the message was clear.

Scouring the lumberyards once again, Theodore succeeded in matching the Maple-wood’s grain and texture to perfection. Within two weeks of diligent work, he returned the refurbished fiddle to his grandfather.

“This isn’t my fiddle!” Antoine shouted the words in contempt as he examined the chin-rest area, “You switched it!”

“Look inside son père.” Exasperated, Theodore handed him the small mirror, “You’ll see there are two angels now. The new one holds up the bevelled patch.” 

     Indeed, it was different when viewed inside. Antoine moved the mirror back and forth scrutinizing the work by the light of the window. The outline of new wood was very apparent here and, yes, there were now two angels. Inspecting the top again, and much to everyone’s surprise, he admitted he couldn’t tell the difference, one would swear it had never been damaged.

Grabbing the ‘frog’, Antoine removed the bow from its strapping and played a short medley of tunes − to ensure the sound was the same of course. Luckily for Theodore, it did.

Epilogue

Prominently displayed atop the mantelpiece, propped on its side, it would catch and hold any discerning eye. Visitors marvelled at its butcher-block design and in-lay craftsmanship. Guests would often bring friends just to see it and Mom and Dad welcomed them all with shameless exuberance.

Yes, this fiddle was truly a piece of work. 

There were times, nestled halfway up the staircase, colouring book and crayons in hand, when pride would swell my chest to bursting upon hearing such accolades from those who ogled it below.

Young and impressionable, I often imagined it having mystical powers like those of ‘Aladdin’s Lamp’ or the ‘Magic Carpet’. If only I could touch it!

But that would never come to pass.

This showpiece ranked way up there on the ‘do-not-touch’ list along with the tripod lighter and the bottles inside the elegant ‘firewater-place’. The amazing story of its creation, retold (ad infinitum) by my father, held one spellbound. Although I must admit his vivid and passionate rendition of this bygone event was the likely reason everyone listened so intently. 

Viewing it now, having reached adulthood, and a musician, I can’t help but feel a profound sadness….

Such a beautiful and glorious violin, fated to remain tacet forever.