Of fiddles, fortunes and festivities

Closing time was near and The Fables, an awesome trad/rock band, were near the end of their set.

The dance floor at O’reilly’s was jumping as the band launched into “The Woman From Wexford.”

A few minutes into the song, the fiddle kicked in.

Wow!

It was the most amazing sound I’d ever heard.

I pried my eyes away from a pint of Guinness and stared at the fiddler, D’arcy Broderick.

Not only was he making musical magic, the look on his face was total contentment, a contentment I had never seen before.

This was years before I got married and had kids, and I was going through a rough patch in my personal life.

A light bulb flickered. Could the fiddle provide a temporary escape or diversion from it all?

“I want that look,” I told myself before taking to the dance floor myself.

I started talking endlessly about the Fables and fiddle music.

I bought their CD, “Tear the House Down,” and listened to “The Old Woman From Wexford” 18 million and three times.

And I became the best air fiddler — yes, air fiddler — in the land.

I’d break out the invisible instrument whenever I thought I was alone — in the car, in my office, in downtown elevators.

I was obsessed.

I wanted a fiddle. I wanted to learn how to play it. I wanted to feel the contentment I had seen that night, to help haul myself out of a rut.

But fiddles and lessons cost cash, money I never had.

After bills, food, and gas, there simply wasn’t enough left to buy a fiddle and pay for monthly lessons.

No matter how many times I did the math, my dream remained unrequited and the need for an escape, for something new, remained.

My parents lived in another city and I visited them for Christmas.

I was there to spend time with them and wasn’t expecting much in the way of gifts.

Then someone handed me a fairsized, wrapped box that was under the tree.

I didn’t have a clue what it was, but as the paper was peeled off, it became apparent my mother had given me a fiddle.

Shocked, thrilled, and literally feeling like a kid again, I ripped the rest of the wrap away and hauled out the instrument.

I couldn’t play a note and my family were surely ready to scream as I tried, but I finally had a fiddle.

Years of lessons followed and the fiddle was, thankfully, even more of a diversion than hoped.

It led to many adventures and numerous stories.

It remains a cherished gift and diversion almost 20 years later (although I don’t play nearly enough these days).

Here’s hoping you’ve made such memories this Christmas, or if you’re in a rough patch, you find something that inspires a way out in 2018.