Most families have at least one heirloom that has been in their family for years. It might be a piece of furniture, jewelry or an old picture. Whatever the heirloom, it sparks memories of the past, especially if there is a family story involved.

My family is no exception, for I have several heirlooms that have been passed down, plus stories to go with them.

When I was just a lad I remember my grandmother taking a flour sack out of the bottom draw of an old dresser. What was in the sack was an old fiddle that had belonged to Uncle Martin.

I knew I had a great uncle by the name of Marvin but who was Uncle Martin? I was told that Uncle Martin was an older man who had lived and farmed on my grandparent’s farm in the early 1900’s. He wasn’t any kin but, back in the day, uncle or aunt sometimes preceded a good neighbor or friend’s name.

Seems Uncle Martin was born in the 1870’s and had been a farmer or sharecropper for most of his life. When he was young someone taught him how to play a fiddle, and man, how he could play. He was invited to play at dances, corn- shucking and local parties. He would play old fiddle tunes like “The Arkansas Traveler”, “Old Joe Clark”, “Soldier’s Joy”, “Cripple Creek” and “Turkey in the straw” on his borrowed fiddle. He was the type fiddler who played the fiddle on his arm instead of under his chin. Why, he got to playing so good that the owner of the fiddle just gave it to Uncle Martin.

My Granddad said he had known Uncle Martin for many years and he was just a part of the Bolton family.

When my dad and his two brothers were small Uncle Martin would keep them while my grandparents were away. To entertain the young boys, Uncle Martin would play his fiddle and weave his many tales.

One of his tales was about when he almost got robbed by a bunch of gypsies. Seems Uncle Martin was hauling freight with his horse and wagon in lower Richmond Co. and accidently came-up on a whole camp of gypsies.

Uncle Martin said, “Why, them gypsies tried their best to take my horse but I just grabbed my shotgun from under the wagon seat and commenced to shooting right above their heads. Then I took the reins and slapped my horse right on his rear. The horse reared up and took off, busting that gang of gypsies in all directions.” Uncle Martin said that he never saw them gypsies again.

When I was born in 1948, Uncle Martin had long since passed but as a young boy I just loved to hear the stories about Uncle Martin and loved to hold his fiddle. Why, my dad still owned Uncle Martin’s shotgun that he had used to scatter them gypsies.

Right before my granddad died I asked him if I could have Uncle Martin’s old fiddle. He went to the dresser and pulled the old flour sack out of the bottom drawer.

Granddad laid the sack on his bed and opened it. My mouth flew wide open as he pulled the old fiddle from the floor sack. Instead of a finely tuned fiddle that I had remembered, all I saw was pieces of a

fiddle. The heat and cold in the room had caused the fiddle to come unglued. The strings were broken, as was the bridge.

I just knew I had to get Uncle Martin’s fiddle repaired even though I couldn’t play a lick on it.

I was lucky that I knew Mr. John Hancock, who back then, ran a music and repair shop in the little town of Norman.

I carried the sack full of fiddle parts to Mr. Hancock and asked if he thought he could fix it. To my delight he said he thought he could but it would take several weeks.

I went back to the music shop in about a month and found a completely restored fiddle including new strings and a new bridge.

Mr. Hancock said that such a fine fiddle needed a bow and he had just traded for an antique wooden fiddle case that the fiddle fit in just perfect.

Needless to say I bought the bow and case along with paying for the repairs Mr. Hancock made to Uncle Martin’s fiddle.

Even today, I can only strike a few cords on the old fiddle but I wouldn’t even think about selling it. Just holding the fiddle brings back memories of a man I never met but have always admired. I hope to hand it down to one of my granddaughters who is taking violin lessons and becoming a good musician. But before I give it to her, I’ll be sure and tell her all about the man who once owned it and played such sweet tunes that they say seem to just float in the air.

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J.A. Bolton

Storyteller