we've been talking alot about the idea of home music.
these ballads, these songs, these stories: they truly come from kitchens, from porches. from people who didn't bring them to a stage, but who sang them to their children before bed.
a whole host of questions about what it means to bring them to a stage, today. but short and sweet, i guess we try to do it with honesty, and with the desire that those who listen begin to imagine this music within the web of their own lives, and their own homes.
so, i would like to tell you about a house i had the great pleasure of visiting, a few weeks back.
violet hensley's house in yellville arkansas has big, old table, in the middle of the kitchen. i stayed there for four days and by the end of each day the table was piled high.
pocketknives, little wood carvings. piles of shavings. violet's fiddle. my fiddle. betse's fiddle. a banjo. a guitar. glasses of water, the dishes from dinner. piles of old photographs, marbles, a homemade board game. a little bit of spilled cornmeal.
violet hensley is 95 years old and she plays the fiddle. she is an active spirit, a live wire. her mind, and her hands are always engaged.
the first time i visited her, she asked me if i knew how to use a pocketknife. i replied, that i knew how to whittle the end of a stick so you could use it to roast marshmallows. but that was it. what!? she exclaimed-- it was forceful, disbelieving, and she got up and found me a knife-- right away, and she got me a piece of wood and she told me to make it into a duck.
so, we sat, all day at her kitchen table, talking and whittling and by the time it was over my fingers were cramped and i had a little crude carving of a duck. her eyes not what they once were, she felt the carving with her fingers, gave it a seal of approval.
she told stories, she gave her opinions. and, every once in awhile, she would grab her fiddle and play a tune. then set it down, tell another story. tell another story, then pick up her fiddle. do you know this one? she asked, again and again. get your banjo!
there are so many beautiful moments from that visit-- but, for tonight-- i am deep in remembering the feeling, to be around one whose art is so woven into her life. fiddle is not something she sets time aside for. it's just something she does. the time is there. it is everyday, like breakfast. she tells stories and jokes and fiddle tunes.
-anna
