That Night

    The only sound in the quiet evening was the lonesome wail of John Winston’s old fiddle weeping ‘Wildwood Flower’.”  The string’s cry echoed back from the dusk enshrouded mountains.  As the last notes became a faded memory, John’s aged hands placed his antique friend back in its case.  The creased, curving fingers gently caressed the smooth wood as memories assailed him.  He sighed and clasped the case.  The rocking chair creaked a protest as he leaned back, allowing his eyes to close and those memories to enfold him like a familiar tattered quilt.
      “Hey, Johnny!  Where’s that fiddle of yourn?”  Hank Rathburn slapped a greeting on John’s back.
      “Where’d ya think it was?”  He proudly produced the brand new instrument for all to see.  “I told ya’ I’d play with ya’ tonight.  Whose gonna play the horn?”
      A blast from the shiny trumpet preceded Freddy Script’s entrance to the legion hall.  “Well, now, this is sure some swell swindig they’ve thrown for us fellas!  Almost makes enlistin’ worth it!”  His jovial tone held just a slight quiver of uncertainty.
      “Speak for yourself!”  Hank slapped him on the back.  “I got a girl I’m none too fonda leavin’.  But ol’ Johnny here, now he don’t have to worry none. He ain’t never had a girl to leave behind.”  The good natured ribbing continued as Hank, Johnny, and Freddy laughed and jostled their way to the makeshift stage at the front.  The drummer, already in place, twirled his sticks impatiently.
    “Bout time you fellas showed up,” was his only comment.  A few taps of the sticks for a count off and the music began.  Half the county filled the dance floor.  Johnny and the others needed no written music; probably couldn’t read it even if they’d had any.  Generations of farmers and coal miners flowed in their veins as did all the natural instincts for playing hillbilly music.
    At first, Johnny gave his full attention to the fiddle and bow, but as song after song played through, he allowed his attention to wander over the faces in the crowd.  Nearly everyone he knew was in that room; most he’d known all his nineteen years.  Grinning at the girls as they twirled past, he saucily winked at several.  Most giggled and waved or just laughed at him as their partners carried them out of sight.  Suddenly, a pair of bright blue eyes met his own.  Without missing a beat of the music, Johnny studied the girl as she swirled past.  She returned his steady gaze as her softly curled chestnut hair seemed to bounce in time to the music.  He’d never seen hair do that before.  It fascinated him as did the eyes.
      By the end of the set, he determined to meet her.“Fellas, I’m takin’ five.  Need something to drink.”  Hank nodded in agreement and announced to the room, “We’ll be back in a few, folks.”  Johnny took the giant step off the platform in a two-footed jump, then, hands in pockets, strolled through the crowd.
    “Hey, Johnny!  We’ll be thinkin’ of ya’ over there!” a voice called out.  Several others echoed similar sentiments.  Johnny just smiled and nodded, intent on his goal.  As if sensing his search for her, the girl with the bouncy hair stepped from behind the post to his left and smiled.
    “I liked the way you played your violin.”  Her voice floated gently to him even amid the noise of the crowd.
    “Thanks, but I play the fiddle.  You ain’t from ‘round here, are ya?” She just smiled and shook her head, setting those curls to bobbing again.  “I didn’t think ya was.  You talk with a weird accent.”
      Her laughter surrounded him, tantalizing his senses.  For the first time in his life, he found a girl worth noticing – and now he didn’t have the time.
    “Want to go for a walk?” he questioned.
    “Yes, I’d like that.”
    The moon spun her silver magic around them as they walked, talked, and – strangely enough – fell in love.  It was a night old John would never forget, the night that gave him courage to face the enemy in battle.  The night that wrapped him in love while he lay cold and wet in a trench.  The night that brought comfort as he received the news that Hank and Freddy were lost in combat.  The night that the girl and the man remembered as they wed.  The night that now, over seventy years later, still made him smile as he reclined in that handmade rocker on the front porch of his farmhouse.
    Slowly the rocking chair ceased it’s motion. The orange striped cat Taffy plopped himself in his master’s lap, eager for his late evening caress.  With his head he nudged the hand that had been so loving for so many years, but there was no response.  He reached up and gently tapped the closed eyelids, but they did not open.  Even his questioning meow did not rouse his master.  Confused, he settled onto John’s lap and waited.  But John would not return.  He was once again playing his fiddle for his beloved whom he had lost for a few years.  The sweet, mournful strains echoed as they sat together once again.