Circling the U.S. Chapter 25: A Fiddle and a Whistle

Wednesday, August 7, 2019

I abhor clutter, but I have a hard time turning down a good deal. Which is why I avoid yard sales unless I have something specific in mind.

Several years ago I went to a large church yard sale in search of colored glass bottles to use in still life paintings. I happened upon a violin for fifty dollars. I opened the case; it looked brand new. A  woman working the sale saw my interest. “That’s just a cheap student violin,” she said. 

Probably a cheap factory-made violin from China. I imagined a parent buying the instrument for their child who lost interest after a couple lessons, realizing that learning how to play the violin involved dedication and work.

I took the bow out of the case, turned the screw to tighten the hair. I took out the violin, tuned it as best I could, and played a few notes on it, then a fiddle tune. It was hard to tell the quality with a crowd of people milling around. “I don’t need another fiddle,” I thought. With both my kids’ fiddles at home - and neither of them played anymore - plus my own, that made three. Three was plenty. 

I put the violin back in its case, thinking, “Surely someone heard me play and will be happy to purchase a violin for $50.”

I bought some colored glass bottles - cheap blue and red vases that the florists use and an exquisite small green vase. But the violin stuck in my mind as I was walking back to my car. “That’s a throwaway fiddle,” I thought. I could take it camping, leave it in a hot car, and not worry about it. If it cracked, it was only fifty dollars and the case alone was worth that. I turned around and went back to the yard sale. The fiddle was still there. I handed over the money, now the proud owner of a cheap violin.

Over the next few years I rarely took out my new instrument because it sounded like a cheap factory-made violin. But I took it busking once on a street corner in Portsmouth and made twenty-five dollars, so I guess a few people liked the sound of it. And it earned half its price.

While planning for this bicycle trip I thought, maybe I’ll bring along my cheap fiddle. I once met a cyclist who took a guitar along so why not a fiddle? It fit easily on the back rack. But I wasn’t sure about the extra weight.

Last August, while still mulling over the fiddle possibility, I attended Maine Fiddle Camp. The first night they always introduce all the instructors who play a tune on the instruments they teach. I’ve never been fond of the tin whistle, but when the whistle instructors came up, I thought, “I could bring a whistle along on our bike trip.” It weighs next to nothing. I borrowed one, went to a few classes, learned “Road to Boston” and the first half of “Maison de Glace,” and bought my own whistle. 

My new instrument fit in my handlebar pack. On a bike ride in Acadia National Park last fall with Rob and some friends visiting from Iowa, I discovered that I can quickly pull it out and play a tune while waiting for slower riding companions. A bystander even told me they enjoyed my playing. 

I had a lightweight solution for bringing music along on our year-long journey. But I still hadn’t let go of the idea of bringing my fiddle. Wouldn’t it be fun to busk in cities and towns along the way, meeting people and making a little extra money? I’d done some busking in Portsmouth over the past couple years and often have thirty dollars in my case after an hour or so. I pictured me playing with our loaded bikes nearby. People would want to find out about our trip and talk to Rob and then somebody would invite us to stay at their house, offer us a free dinner.

I decided that if I could get the violin and case under five pounds and keep my total weight under fifty then I’d bring it. The case was the problem. I had an old one that I took the canvas cover off of, removed almost all the hardware, and the total weight came to just under five pounds.

It's certainly not pretty, but it meets the necessary criteria.

Almost 2500 miles into our trip, I still have both instruments. The whistle has turned out to be a real gem. I call it my patience tool. If I have to wait around for any reason, I pull it out and play a tune. I don’t mind standing on the side of the road at the top of a hill waiting for Rob when I can play music. And Rob likes it because he knows when he hears it that he’s almost there. I’ve taught myself the second half of “Maison de Glace,” a polka that I’ve forgotten the name of, and almost all of “Soldiers Joy.” It’s about time for me to figure out another tune in the key of D to learn.

This is me taking a break with my whistle at Niagara Falls.

My fiddle is another story. Dreams of busking haven’t materialized - not enough people, other music playing in the tourist places, too hot, not enough time. It takes a beating every day. When I open the case I don’t know what kind of shape it will be in. Sometimes the bridge is off. It’s not symmetrical and I can only guess at the right way to put it back on. It takes forever to tune.

But I have had fun playing at campgrounds. One night a couple little kids from the campsite next door came over to listen and dance. When the couple who gave us beer walked by later, the woman said she’d recorded my playing. Occasionally I’ve played  tune or two for folks who have hosted us. One night, I got out my fiddle as a way to break away from an uncomfortable political conversation. It worked, as our hosts came outside to listen and invited their neighbors over. 

But as we approach the Twin Cities I fear I may need to leave my fiddle behind. A week ago when I got it out of the case, the bridge was off. That’s happened before but this time, whenever I got it tuned up, the bridge popped off. I have no clue why. I have a hunch from the rattling inside that the sound post came off, but that happened a while ago.

I’m hoping to connect with a luthier in St. Paul to see what might be done. I have grown fond of my throwaway fiddle. Playing it has improved its sound; or I’m just getting used to it. I have a couple friends on the west coast I've been hoping to play music with. And I brought along the music for some tunes I want to learn this year, not wanting to go so long without keeping my fingers in shape. Because I’m at that age where they say, “Use it or lose it.”

But I've been reminding myself that when I began this journey I knew there was the possibility of leaving my fiddle behind somewhere, hopefully finding it a good home. If that happens, I'll have five less pounds to carry over the Rockies.