Fiddlesticks!

I've heard and used the term "fiddlesticks" all my life and it was always used in response to some mild annoyance or as a dismissive term, as in "Oh, fiddlesticks!" I never knew that people used fiddlesticks to make percussive sounds on fiddle strings while a tune was being played by someone else. That is, I didn't know until Saturday.

On Saturday, I attended one of my favorite luncheon meetings of the year, that of the Greene County Historical Society. The society always has an interesting program. This year, Gordon McCann, a folklorist, and Ashley Hull, a fiddler who studied with Bob Holt, the Ozarks fiddler given a National Heritage Award in 1999, presented the program. McCann narrated and "seconded" the fiddle tunes on the guitar while Ashley played her fiddle. The offerings included pieces from the 17th to the 20th centuries - hornpipes, jigs, reels, waltzes, rags, and even a bit of western swing. Toward the end, Gordon took out two wooden sticks, each about a foot long, and struck the fiddle strings on either side of the bow as Ashley played, providing an accompanying rhythm for the tune. Hence, "fiddlesticks."

I conclude with a contemporary poem that certainly portrays one of the ways fiddlers, if we're lucky enough to have one to hear, make a difference in our lives, even in these days of iPods, CD's, and all the other electronic doo-dads.

Angel With A Fiddle

Tall 'n lean 'n lanky,
with a fiddle 'neath his chin....
the days weren't quite so cruel
when he played his violin.
Depression years- the thirties-
hard times all around.
When Palmer played his fiddle,
trouble filtered through the sound
and somehow seemed more bearable-
more apt t' go away;
and listenin' folks were certain-
there would be a kinder day.
With pennies in their pockets
and debits by the score
when Palmer started fiddlin'
none a' them were poor.
Magical it was,
the way cares filtered through the sound;
till folks were certain, down the road
times 'd turn around.
When Palmer played his fiddle
couldn't hear no angels sing...
but in the harshest winter
it felt a bit like Spring.
Bette Wolf Duncan©November 2005