Bill the Fiddler

Hot lunch hour on Scarth Street and I sat on the same quad of benches as the old  man fiddling. He played the same four tunes again and again. I wondered how long he’d been playing and how he learned. So I asked.

79 years, he’s been playing, since he was 4 years old. Where’s he from? Grand View Manitoba, just over the border from Yorkton. His  mother was born there, grandparents came in 1869. I asked from where, though I could guess the answer from his accent: Kyiv, Ukraine, he said proudly.

His grandfather worked for 12 cents an hour on the railroad. When he’d saved enough, he bought a homestead for 12 dollars: “it was all boosh, that country.”

His grandmother taught him to play, she played in the Symphony Orchestra back in Ukraine. He still has her violin, a Strad, he says, though he doesn’t bring that to Scarth Street of course. He brings the violin he bought at the junk shop, though it’s old, from 1604, he says.

He comes 2 or 3 times a week to Scarth Street, for it’s something to do, he says, since he’s been alone these 39 years and there’s no one to talk to at home but the walls, and they don’t answer.

Finally I asked his name: Bill. Shook his hand and tossed a loonie in his case, it bounced twice before settling into the worn velveteen beside a couple toonies, another loonie, and some scattered small change. It was all I had.

I don’t know if Bill’s tales were true or not, and it doesn’t matter. I hope he keeps on playing there on Scarth Street.

 

 

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To a Wood Mountain Poet

Suknaski –

or can I call you Andy?

Not Andrew, but Andy as they still

call you back in Wood Mountain where

I first heard of you at the Ranch Rodeo Museum

But I could not buy your poetry there –

out of print.

Andy —

You were already a year dead by that time

though I didn’t know that of course,

knew nothing about you at all.

Just a name that I remembered.

It was still some time before I actually read your poems

and found I had known them all along, somehow.

Andy —

You were closer to all this history than I was,

could speak to them at the Trail’s End

where the blue smoke hung heavy and the

stream of bullshit flowed smooth.

But sprinkled in bullshit there is always truth

spoken outright, or to be gleaned.

Andy —

You could speak to Soparlo and Lecaine,

and the Rumanians with the Old Country still

on their tongues, and the Lakota who remembered

Sitting Bull as if they’d starved next to him themselves

that winter in 1879-80, when they had to eat the horses

and still starved anyway.

Suknaski —

 You could tell the stories of people and places

in a way I never can, for it was closer then, more immediate.

Now it recedes, further and further.

Wood Mountain is deader than you remember

though alive still.

I am left only with ghosts, summoned from your stanzas,

their whispers more faint with each passing year.

Your ghost knows I am poor, as I know it.

It takes nothing to forget

It was her birthday yesterday, she would have been 57. It’s hard to imagine that, since she wasn’t yet 40 when she died.

We used to go to the cemetery on her birthday, take flowers, sometimes roses from the farm since this is when they bloom.

But we didn’t this year. Busy with other things and to be honest I forgot until the day was nearly over. A day passes quickly these days.

And that’s just how easy it is to forget. As easy as remembering used to be. It takes something to remember. It takes nothing to forget.