Tuesday, September 18, 2007

Fiddle Diddle Geneology



After our meal I made a cup of tea and asked questions, and one in particular that I'd been meaning to ask for ages.

"How exactly did you find Henry Reed?"

It was 1966 and Alan was in Durham, N.C. doing graduate work. He'd go up into the mountains to meet with old fiddlers, record their music and learn their reportoire, and then return to share whatever he found with the rest of the world. He worked with one old man, Oscar Right, who seemed to have a particular style of tunes under his belt. When Alan asked where Oscar had learned his repertoire, Alan was given Henry Reed's name and then sent over the mountain to meet with him. It was supper time when he showed up, and he was invited in....

And that's how it began, how he found his pot of gold. Now, in the field of folklore, people refer to "the big find," "the thing that makes you," as your "Henry Reed."

Henry reed was 81 when Alan met with him. He was born in 1850-- before the golden pin was driven in the transcontinental railroad, before the official close of the frontier. I continued asking Alan questions. I wanted to know what it was like meeting with Henry, and if he was sent to meet with other fiddlers.

"No, Henry was too old by that time... but he talked about older fiddlers before him. And he sure talked a lot about Quince Dillion."

Quince Dillion (commonly known as Quince Dillon, but his name is really Dillion) was born in 1826! As an older man, Dillion was Henry Reed's main mentor.

That blew my mind.

1826, Quince Dillon. Fought in the Mexican War and Civil War, taught Henry Reed.... who taught Alan.

Such a lovely link


Saturday, September 15, 2007

Alan Plays Fiddle

Alan plays fiddle. He has a concert tomorrow evening and has been practicing for a few days. The sound wafts up the twisted staircase to my corner library/bedroom where I now sit.


I've never known any other music, or any other sound, to have as much power over me as his fiddling. I feel blessed to be here, have him so close, play so frequently, so casually.

He began practicing while I cleaned up after dinner. His bow-pulls came with with the turning of the hot tap, the exact moment I slipped the dish-rag under the water.

The combination of physical warmth and aural pleasure was stunning. I could have cried.

Part of it is the knowledge that he is internationally ranked and world reknowned as a scholar and fiddler.

Part of it is the knowledge that he gave up all of his years and years of classical training to ONLY play traditional Old Time music.

Most of all, though, it's the knowledge that he suffers from a degenerative neurological disease and he is slowly losing his ability to play.

I savor every note.

A convert.

I have arrived. My roots still ramble, though, as I can only call this particular place "home" 'till December... but I have arrived nonetheless! And I have a rocking chair! I am lucky, indeed. It is a delightful Federal-style rocker that I sit in, featuring nicely embelished scrolls on the arm rests and a classic urn-shaped back-panel. It is a joined piece, old-school mortis and tenon style. A genuine oldie.

I like that in a chair.

But enough Antiques Roadshow (fans, give a shout!). As lovely as this chair is, its romance ran out on me about an hour ago. I've been sittin' in this butt-number since this morning, occaisionally rocking, but mostly intensely applying my over-stretched brain to such strenuous texts as "Gunfighter Nation," "Locating American Studies," "Virgin Land," and a handful of books on vernacular architecture. Y'see... I'm in this terribly abusive relationship called Graduate School. I'm like an S and M addict; except I get my spanking from Academia. I like it. Mostly.

In addition to my Academia-lust, I'm a journal-addict, both traditional and digital. Having lurked around friends' blogspots, though, I've been enticed to make the switch.

I've only just begun this whole Adventure that is Grad School, having just moved to a Big Old City. I'll begin working in the Real World, soon, too. With all these new beginnings, I thought it'd be nice to plant another plot in this digital-forest in which I might do some soul gardening.

Life is uncharted territory. It reveals its story one moment at a time.