My granddad always had a tale and a laugh, but when he pulled out his fiddle and tucked it near his armpit, something special happened. His fingers danced on the strings as he drew the bow and sent old tunes rising to the ceiling. Those same songs had moved the dancing feet of prairie farmers and ranchers years before.
In his “batchin’” days, my granddad roamed the northern prairies and worked the harvest from Montana to Canada. The harvest’s end meant a celebration. It didn’t take long for news to spread throughout the prairies. If there was going to be a dance, that meant they needed a fiddler. When my granddad got the word, it was nothing for my him to pack his fiddle on the back of his saddle and take a one or two day’s horseback ride to visit with neighbors and play for the dance. The house emptied of furniture became the dance floor. Well into the next morning, the dance continued. As neighhbors returned to their homes, the furniture was taken back in the house and it was business as usual.
My granddad slid into his saddle, bedroll and fiddle tied on the back, with memories stowed away and a few extra dollars tucked in his pocket. He rode off across the prairie with a smile. Another harvest awaited.
How I would have loved to have seen one of those harvest dances!
