It is Never Too Late

I recently went on a backpacking trip with two great friends. We hiked with our packed gear a mile into the wilderness of the Porcupine Mountains. Staying five nights in a yurt above the Little Union River, this trip was far from any glamping exhibition. No electricity, no running water, and the outhouse, our only luxury, was seventy-five feet away.

We arrived on a sunny Wednesday afternoon. After hiking in, we made camp and set up our home-away-from-home. Thursday, we hiked all day and had lunch on the shores of Lake Superior. Friday it rained profusely, so we road tripped to Copper Harbor and took in the sights with a small bit of shopping. Saturday and Sunday were basket weaving classes at the Friends of the Porkies Folk School.

What an amazing instructor Ms. P had been at the folk school.  She made learning how to weave a basket seem easy. Ms. P lured us with the promise that weaving can be done by anyone; I fell for the bait. She guided us all as we wove our way through the steps and after a few hours we all cradled our baskets that our hands had wound.

I have taken a few of Ms. P’s classes in the past and her husband has always accompanied her. Mr. H sits quietly on the seventies upholstered brown and orange couch.  He is quick to help whenever and wherever needed. This year he was more talkative. He sat within the group and bypassed the lonely couch. He talked with the ladies as they all strolled in. On our lunch break he treated us to dessert. He made a chocolate raspberry dump cake which he cooked in a Dutch oven over an open fire. The warm chocolate melted into an earthy raspberry filling. You could taste the smoke from the fire, adding an entirely different element to the flavor.

Then he treated us to a performance.

 Mr. H, in his sixties, recently self-taught himself how to play the fiddle all because of the song Ashokan Farwell, by Jay Ungar. He explained to the class it had been a life-long dream to learn how to play. This song was what made him finally to learn.   He is self-taught, by ear.

Ms. P plays the dulcimer and together they treated us to a beautiful rendition of that same song. Imagine, being inspired by a song so much that one goes and teaches themselves how to play the fiddle after all those years of wanting to learn.

I was so moved by his story; I found the courage to fulfill a dream I have had since I was a little girl.

Growing up, I loved to listen to old cowboy music and the fiddle was my favorite part. I was eleven when Charlie Daniels released The Devil Went Down to Georgia. I would dance around in our basement pretending I was playing the fiddle. In my twenties I fantasized about joining Martie Maguire from the all-girl trio, The Chicks, on stage. Allison Krauss was another favorite of mine. The only song I like by Kansas is Dust in the Wind. If you know the song, then you know why.

Life happens, raise a few kids, have a farm, and so on. When I heard Mr. H tell me his story, I knew the time to act was upon me.

I went out and rented a violin. I am renting for a few months and if I like it, I will buy a violin for my own. I have had it for less than a week and just by ear I taught myself Twinkle-Twinkle Little Star. At least, that is what it sounds like to me.

I know realistically there will be no way in hell my abilities will ever find me on stage at the Grand Ole Opry. No fans watching my fingers fly and my bow sizzle. I am okay with that. Perhaps if I had started twenty years ago my story would end differently. My goal, now, is to be the best fiddle player who dances around the house playing nursery songs and softly serenades her grandchildren to sleep with sweet lullabies.  I would be really okay with that.