I heard a jig on the radio that reminded me of Dad. I could see him practicing his fiddle downstairs, and I recalled the scent of resin when he used it. 

If I sat quietly, he’d let us watch him. He would always play “Irene Goodnight” for me.  He was self-taught and played many of his original reels and tunes with his band and at family get-togethers. 

During practice, he would stand because he had a back injury, and he’d start over after making a mistake until it was perfect. Everyone said he made the strings sing and never made them screech. 

He was bashful in public and wouldn’t look at the audience. His face showed focus and attention to detail. 

Dad was a quiet, friendly man and a wonderful dad. 

It was a happy thought. Here’s a poem I wrote about it 

Dad’s legacy: A musical note 

Those fiddle notes

With whispers true

Dad’s country shirts 

And shiny shoes 

Hearing the same notes 

That was self-taught

Perfect, engrossed

Brings joyful thoughts 

Scents of resin

Few broken strings

He’d rest his chin

With emotion 

Practice was long

For each mistake 

Restart each song

Though his back ached

Jigs called to all

Both young and old

Moved by the call

Fun would unfold 

Notes of good night

Some if you’re blue

Ever our light

I’m reminded of you 

Each pass across 

Strings sang on key

Grieving our loss

Keeping memories

Written by Irene Doucet