1 But while he was still a long way off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion for him; he ran to his son, threw his arms around him and kissed him. Luke 15:17 The Blessed Violin A short story by Kirk McLendon at www.theblessedviolin.com Prologue I can still remember how awareness crept slowly back into my thoughts. First there was the sensation of cold, wet earth pressing against my cheek. Next the throbbing in my head. Nausea welling up from deep within. The unmistakable odor of leaf mold. Awareness was accelerating now. My body was horizontal under a blanket of cold, wet leaves. There were others near me. Finally I remembered the bear, the head stone and the other events of the night before. Beginnings The mountains run through my veins. I was born in the mountains. And I grew up in the mountains. My family has lived in the mountains for as long as anyone knows. When I was a child the mountains were my brothers, sisters and friends. As an adult I have roamed the country following this job and that. But I keep returning to the only place that feels like home. When I was a child I used to listen to the mountains’ symphony. Or is it better described as an opera? Whichever, it was epic. And I knew that even then. I would lie on my back in the leaves under the towering oaks with my eyes closed trying not to make a sound. I would pick up the symphony in progress. The rustle of dry leaves, the call of a whippoorwill, the sound of a whitetail deer halting dead still from its silent running to listen, the crack of a breaking branch, the cascading sounds of the branch careening toward ground, followed by unexpected silence. You know some people say that music is as much about the silent spaces between the notes as the notes themselves. A grand conductor orchestrates all the parts and all the players. And if you can spare time to lie there long enough and if you can manage to shut everything else out, you may just barely begin to glimpse the pattern. The mountains perform this never ending symphony to tell a story. It’s the story of everything they have seen since the beginning of their days. And these are not young mountains. They are ancient giants standing watch. And they have seen much: births and deaths, rises and falls, comings and goings. They’ve seen good and they’ve seen bad. They’ve seen love and hate. And they have seen renewal. They have seen circles and cycles. And they sing about it all in a never-ending song. You can hear it any day or night and in any kind of weather. There are no cancellations. The wisdom of those mountains! And their wisdom is a constant thread in the partita of which Bach is a mere quarter note. I was weaned on their wisdom. They were my professors and my mentors. And I their young charge. And now when I leave them I feel out of place. And I always return. Hopefully this time for good!
2 My grandmother used to tell me bedtime stories about the mountains. They ran through her veins too. There was one story in particular that I begged her to tell again and again. Partly because I loved the story and partly because the story haunted me. What haunted me most were my fruitless wonderings as to whether the story might be true. My grandmother said her mother told it to her as if it were true. Nevertheless it is a good story. A story worth telling and worth hearing. My grandmother was a true storyteller. If I closed my eyes I was there. I will try to remember her words as best I can but this will be a pale telling in comparison. Josiah’s Story There was an old mountain man named Josiah. He lived alone on the side of a mountain near a small village. Josiah was a kind but shy man who kept mostly to himself. Although everyone knew of him, no one knew him well. He was a wood worker and a very clever one by all accounts. He made furniture, wagons, wagon wheels, clocks. From time to time when someone needed something they would go to Josiah and he would build it. That way he made just enough money to keep going. He had a small garden near his house and he also did a bit of hunting and fishing. Josiah got along alright even if he was alone. But as he grew older Josiah began to worry that he had wasted his life. That he had not done anything really worthwhile. That he had not used his God-given talents wisely. After all he had no children. He had no wife. Had he really made a difference in anyone’s life? When he passed away would anyone remember him besides the mountains? How would he be judged? Josiah had never been a religious man. Oh he believed. But that was about it. He rarely attended the small stone church in the village. He rarely had much to do with anyone. He did not really matter to anyone and no one really mattered to him. This began to play on Josiah’s mind. He had a lot of time to think. He lay awake at night thinking about it. He thought about it as he worked his garden. He needed some comfort. He found it in his old, dusty Bible. Unread for so many years, but waiting patiently on the shelf. He read the story of the prodigal son. “Surely there is hope for me too”, Josiah thought. The son had wasted his inheritance and his life but his father forgave him gladly and took him in. Jesus said, “If a son asks his father for a loaf of bread, what father would give him a stone?” Josiah’s hope grew with the reading and remembering. He began to pray for the first time since his younger days. He asked forgiveness for a wasted life and for a chance to make amends. Was there something he could do? Anything? “Guide me in my final days Father. Take my hand and show me the way. Help me find a way to use the gifts you have given me to do something in your service”, Josiah prayed. Jesus had said that if you ask your Father for something and believe in your heart that He will give it to you, it will be so. Josiah did not stop praying. He prayed everyday. Days became weeks. Weeks became months. But Josiah had learned patience from the mountains. He did not give up. But he was tired and he felt his time was near. After months of prayer, an Angel of the Lord came to Josiah one night in the room where he slept. The Angel bent over him and whispered in his ear, “Your Father has heard your prayers Josiah. All is forgiven. Your Father loves you deeply. Gather
3 together the things you need and use the gifts He has given you to make a violin”. Josiah felt rested and renewed when he awoke in the morning. He had a vague remembrance of a dream. He saw an angel before him. The angel was speaking yet no words could he hear. He felt the warmth of acceptance and forgiveness. The idea and desire to make a violin was in his head. He did not know why. But it was there and it was strong. Josiah had never made a violin or any other musical instrument. He had an old broken fiddle that had been his father’s. He began studying and drawing plans and collecting the various tools and woods he would need. The greatest of luthiers do not know precisely what makes a violin a great violin. People study and copy violins of the masters. But no one understands exactly how the various curves, arches and thicknesses collaborate to produce the most beautiful tones. Now Josiah was a talented woodworker, but as he laboured, little did he know that every decision and cut he made was precisely what was required to produce the most beautiful tones. He was not working alone. He was apprenticing with the One who invented music. He worked for weeks with very little sleep or food. This was a labour of love. Josiah was so grateful for the forgiveness he could feel. Finally the violin was completed but Josiah did not know what to do with it. He did not know how to play it. Once the violin was complete Josiah was exhausted. His body was spent even if his spirit was strong. He went to be d and during a peaceful summer night his body gave up its struggle and his soul found eternal rest. When some of the towns folk went through Josiah’s belongings they found the violin with a note attached saying it was his wish to give the violin to the little church in town so the parishioners could have music. The church was so small and poor there was no piano or organ or even a preacher. The preacher from a nearby village hiked over a mountain every once in a while to preach in the little church. He would walk through the town ringing a bell to let people know he was there. The other Sundays just a few people would sit in the church and pray together in silence. When the parishioners sang hymns there was no musical accompaniment. So the church accepted the violin. People who saw it said it was not particularly beautiful. There was a young girl who knew how to play but had no violin of her own. She was invited to play. Josiah’s violin may not have been beautiful but what came out of it was miraculous. The music from the violin was like cool, clear spring water on a hot day. The violin sang a song of love and forgiveness that washed away bitterness and remorse. Flowing from the violin the music enveloped each and every person in a golden cocoon of hope and renewal. It is fair to say the attitude of the entire village began to change after that. And people began to talk about the beautiful music. The music bound them together. It revived spirits and restored broken families and friendships. People whispered that the violin was blessed. As people talked, word spread. And something else miraculous began to happen. People from nearby communities began trekking through the mountains to the little stone church to hear the miraculous violin. At times the little church was so packed people would even stand outside to listen. During the time the violin was played at the little stone church, it is said that many souls were saved and many lives restored. Josiah made a difference in the lives of many people through his violin. The good Lord does work in miraculous if mysterious ways.
4 Findings I have never forgotten that story. I have never ceased wondering if it is true. It is a part of my grandmother that is always with me. When I was in college I proposed to find evidence to support the story as part of a project for my Investigative Journalism class. However, I didn’t have enough time or even the resources (a car) so I had to abandon that idea in favor of another just to get the project completed on time. I have never abandoned the mission though. It has always been in the back of my mind. Even though I have a job in sales that pays the bills, my true passion has always been junking. I do a lot of driving with my job and even when on the clock cannot resist the temptation to stop at the frequent roadside antique/junk shops in this part of the country. It was my very first find that has kept me searching all these years. In my early thirties I was on a business trip that took me from Charlotte to Knoxville. Along the way I stopped and browsed at Findlay’s Antiques, an old shack full of dusty memories. Perusing a table full of trinkets, I kicked something hard. I bent down and dragged out an old grey crate with JS Kirkland scrawled on the outside. Inside were various antique tools: knives, saws, chisels, gouges. There were also scraps of wood in various shapes and sizes. Some appearing to have been carved. And several small wood carvings of animal shapes: bear, rabbit, squirrel. I was just beginning to get the idea this collection might represent the belongings of a luthier when I came across some very old, yellowed papers with drawings of violin parts, dimensions and notes. But what really got my attention was this. In the very corner of one of the papers was scrawled this notation: Luke 15: 11 - 32. I could not wait to get to a Bible. Ada Findlay wanted $25 and a little talk. I paid up and was on my way. That night I was on the road in a motel. Thank goodness for Gideon. Luke 15: 11 - 32: The story of the Prodigal son! I recalled the mention of that parable in my grandmother’s story. Hardly proof. But that and the violin making supplies were more than enough to keep my embers burning until I found something more. Fortunately it was a slow burn as it was several years before my next discovery. The question that now sears a hole in my mind is whether I found the clues that led me to the end or whether they found me. July 4, 1979. Overall a bad time for our nation with American hostages held in Iran and a very poor economy at home. Nevertheless a very bright celebration of our independence at the church that year. Hundreds were there on the grounds that bright, sunny Appalachian day. On certain days there is a clarity in the air and sky unique to the mountains. This was one of those days. Family and friends gathered to celebrate freedom and abundance. Once my wife and kids were all settled at a picnic table, I stopped by a table under a giant hickory to speak to my friend Ham from Sunday school. Ham, short for Hamilton, introduced me to his mother, Mrs. Anna Minster, sitting in a wheelchair with a blanket across her lap on what was a very warm day. This encounter was really the beginning of the end my quest. Anna Minster had the kindness of saints and the wisdom of ages sculpted in her face. She was out for the day with her son and his family. Out from the nursing home. We quickly established a geographical link between us. Anna grew up in the same small North Carolina town as my own mother and grandmother. She thought she knew the
5 family name. Then her mind wandered. She was in the past and could not locate her husband Franklin. Ham reassured her. A few tables away a troop of Blue Grass fiddlers was warming up. The cascade of notes seemed to clarify Anna’s thoughts. She was back. “I just love fiddles”, she mused. “My mother used to tell us about a mountain man who made a magic fiddle that changed anyone who heard it.” She had my attention. “Was this just a story Anna or something your mother remembered?” “Oh mama knew the man. She called him Uncle Skeets. A nice man who would give the children little animals he carved out of wood. He gave me a bear. He was a wood worker you see. Franklin! Ham, where’s your father gotten to?” “He’s not here mother. You are with us today. You were telling us about Uncle Skeets.” “Oh yes. How my mind does wander these days! Mama said Uncle Skeets made a fiddle that played such beautiful music that if you heard it it would save your soul.” “Did your mother ever see the fiddle?” “Oh she saw it and she heard it ! At church. Of course she was just a girl then but Mamma remembered a lot. After her baby brother died of pneumonia her daddy took to drinking and would be real mean to her mama sometimes. Her mamma cried a lot. Things were so sad she said. One Sunday in church a young lady played Uncle Skeet’s fiddle. Amazing Grace. Mamma said the music from that fiddle filled the whole church from floor to roof like warm, golden sunlight. It wrapped around her like a blanket she said. I could almost see and feel the music when Mamma talked about it. After that day mamma said things just began to be different. Better. Brighter. Her daddy and mama were happier. Mama said other people in town were saying the same kind of thing. She said lots of people started coming to the church to hear the violin. She said it seemed like a miracle.” Just then the Blue Grass band started up again full throttle. “Franklin!” Anna was in the past again. I tried for a while to bring Anna back, but it was no good. Her mind had wandered and seemed to be gone for good. With Ham’s permission I visited her at the nursing home a few times that year to try and get more information. But it was of no use. She would just repeat what she had already told me. I don’t think there was any more there. Anna passed away not long after our last meeting. Now her remembrance lived in me. A bed time story. An old box of luthier tools with a reference to the story of the prodigal son. An elderly woman with her mother’s recollection of a magic fiddle played in church. You can decide for yourself whether this was beginning to add up to anything. But I couldn’t let go now even if I wanted to.
6 The Last Piece I’m no angel and have done some things in my past I would rather not talk about. And what I’m about to tell you is one of them. I would rather not tell this story but it is the last piece of the puzzle. I have two fishing and camping buddies. Sid Prentiss and Lucky Haskins. Luke was his real name but “Lucky” had stuck to him since childhood. Periodically the three of us schedule a long weekend of hiking, fishing...and drinking. A few years ago we planned a short hiking/camping trip to a nearby spot in the mountains. Unfortunately Sid brought along his friend Jack Daniels. And worse, we imbibed too much of it the first night after a ten mile hike into the mountains. We carried on like a bunch of college freshmen on their first weekend away from home. We got silly and started running through the woods in the dark. Then the rains came. A true gully washer. You couldn’t see the trees in front of you. We had to get back to our camp. Our clothes were drenched. However, our inebriation, the darkness, and the rain all conspired to drive us in the wrong direction. We stumbled blindly through the forest for hours arguing about directions. First succumbing to one’s ill advice and then another’s. We were huddled together under a stand of trees hopelessly lost when the bear made its entrance. It stood a few yards from us just staring. Conventional wisdom says not to run from a bear. But had we been wise, we would not have been in that predicament. So we ran. And ran. Down the mountain. Through the trees. Across raging streams. We fell. Got up and ran some more. Finally we all collapsed in what seemed in the darkness to be a small, leaf-littered clearing. A treeless island in a sea of trees. My foot met an immovable object hidden in the leaf mold that sent me tumbling. As I landed, my head made the acquaintance of another of these objects. It was still raining when I came to with the proverbial dull ache in my forehead and a thick, warm liquid coursing down my face. I could barely make out the silhouettes of my comrades groping, stumbling and cursing as they attempted to right themselves on what felt to be very uneven ground underneath a thick blanket of leaves. As I pulled myself to my knees I was in the same plight. Searching for purchase on what felt to be large, flat stone slabs at various and unpredictable angles. Had the bear chosen to pursue us, it would have been like fishing in a barrel. Time and physical exertion were beginning to clear my muddled mind. Reading the invisible ground like braille my fingers slithered across my flashlight. A few good shakes and its dim light flickered through the darkness and the perpetual mist. I could see Sid and Lucky with arms flailing struggling to stay upright like a couple of surfers riding a wave of leaves. I turned my inadequate light downward to assess the terrain. Under the leaves there were large flat stones that having been toppled over now lay at odd angles as they rested on one another over a wide expanse. As the light from the flashlight danced over the surface of one of the stones I could see markings.
7 Brushing aside the dirt and debris I could make out letters. A name. And dates. Reading half with my eyes and half with my fingers I read “Laura Thackery 1815 - 1866”. We were in an old cemetery! I recall hearing Sid about then beginning to get nervous about moving on lest the bear reappear. But even in my sorry state I was intrigued by my find. I moved to another stone. “Thaddeus McMillan 1822 - 1875”. By now Sid had managed to work Lucky into a near frenzy about the possible return of the bear. They were urging me on with the utmos t urgency now. As I stood and began to take a step I tripped and fell over another of the grave stones. My face broke my fall. Later I remembered thinking as a young man about signs from God and saying “He would have to whack me in the face to get my attention”. And I think he did. When I fell flat on my face on the stone my flashlight landed right next to my head. The beam of light which amazingly did not go out, shone directly across deeply chiseled letters illuminating them so clearly as to be unmistakable. “Josiah ‘Skeets’ Kirkland 1824 - 1889. As my dull mind was processing the import of what I was seeing, the tranquility of the night was pierced by a shrill scream from behind me. “The bear!” I don’t remember getting up. Or running. Just the trees flying past my eyes in the near dark of early dawn. Sid had me by one arm and Lucky by the other. I was flying. It seemed like an eternity. Up and down. I think I blacked out again. The next thing I remember is waking up flat on my back with the sun in my eyes. I could see Sid hunkered down on my right and Lucky on my left. All three of us exhaling warm moist breath into the crisp morning air. A dull ache ran across my face. Opening my eyes hurt. Trying to speak hurt even more. Then the last thing I had seen the night before came rushing back to me. Josiah ‘Skeets’ Kirkland. The two names put together into one person. I know there are those who say it was just a hallucination from my battered cerebellum. But I am sure that it was real. I have tried in the years since to rediscover the lost cemetery to no avail. It wants to stay hidden. It allowed only one brief glimpse and I am grateful for it. Once I was strong enough to get up, the three of us began making our way out of the mountains. Slowly. After a mile or so through the woods we came across a barely discernible, abandoned road. Followed it downward until it crossed a newer road. We followed this road for several hours until it emptied onto a dirt road that appeared to be maintained. We could go no further. We lay there for the rest of the afternoon until early evening. That’s when we heard it. Crunching gravel on the dirt road. Closer and closer it came. A patrol car. The county sheriff to be precise. He approached slowly once he spotted us laying there. What a site we must have been. Three exhausted, filthy, unkempt men laid out on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere. Once the car stopped it seemed an awkwardly long period of time before the door opened. Through the haze of hangover, injury, hunger and pain I could see a uniformed man approaching cautiously. “You boys alright?” He queried through a very suspicious looking countenance. Somebody mustered a weak, “Yes sir”.
8 After a few more questions that must have satisfied him somewhat, the sheriff helped us into the car. Sid and Lucky in the back and me in the front. About all I can remember from the ride into town is that the sheriff kept his window rolled down on what was an unusually brisk evening. I suspected I knew the reason. No word was spoken on the ride. At the station they gave us water, coffee and some stale crackers. Tended to my wounds and allowed us to clean up a bit. We were not charged with anything. Phone calls were made. Our families picked us up. Once home we had a lot of explaining to do. Sid and Lucky went back to our camp site a few days later and retrieved our belongings. I’ve never touched a drop of alcohol since. Some folks believed my story and some did not. That’s the way of things isn’t it? Postlude As I sit on this porch in my old age rocking my days away I can see the mountains. They watched over my coming into this world and they will watch over my going out of it. They also stood witness to all my doings in between. Their awesome strength and endurance give me great comfort. And then I tremble at the thought of the One who made them. Not out of fear but anticipation. My days are few and I am bathed by t he same mercy that washed over Josiah so many years ago. Throughout my latter years I continued to try to find the lost cemetery again. But it has eluded me. I imagine some day it will be found again. I wonder if whoever stumbles across it next will be familiar with the story of Josiah and the blessed violin? The End Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever. Psalms 23:6 Please be sure to read about the Blessed Violin Project at www.theblessedviolin.com.