I got this email from a friend of mine today that epitomizes the beauty and value of live music::

It's not like I don't have a thousand things to do today. I need to prepare for a big meeting with the VP of Programming at CSS (a local counselling organization) tomorrow morning. My goal is to turn this meeting into work. I'm leaving in a couple hours to go jamming with a friend of mine and his musical buddies. I have laundry to finish from my latest stint at the farm. I have a kitchen to clean and e-mail coming out my ying-yang to read. I need to write my part for the CP exercise and I want to write a piece about my birthday. The list goes on and yet here I sit, listening to a fiddling CD a friend gave me for my birthday and bawling like a baby.

I hear the fiddle and am transported back in time and once again I am a small girl, sitting on the arm of my grandfather's chair, so in love with the white haired man who plays his fiddle for me.

My grandfather plays songs he learned in the old country. He closes his eyes and bow draws out the notes. Sometimes slow and mournful and sometimes fast and spirited. And I sit and listen enraptured.

In a couple years I learn the dances of the country of my decendancy and my grandfather plays those old, up beat tunes while I bouce around his living room; I'm dancing. His eyes wide open now, he watches with a big smile on his face. One, two three. One two three. Toe, heel, knee, kick... In his tiny living room, just my white haired grandfather, the fiddle and the dance and me. It's not a very good dance, I've only just begun to learn. It will take years before I learn the dance well and win many awards for my effort, yet he smiles just the same.

Life was not always kind to my grandfather. He came to Canada alone leaving his wife and first born child behind. It took eight years before he could afford to bring them over to be with him. He lived his life as a poor dirt farmer. Supporting his family off the land. Never having much but I suppose enough.

The war took it's toll on my grandfather too. Although it took many years, eventually both his legs would be amputated at the knee, the result of poisonous gases he breathed while fighting in the war. Losing his limbs was so hard for him. I remember so clearly his determination to walk into my cousins wedding on his own power. It was a long flight of stairs down to the reception hall but he determined, one way or another, he was going to make down those stairs and to his seat by himself. I stood at the bottom of those stairs watching him make his way down. He did it. I was so proud of him. I don't know whose smile was bigger, his or mine.

At my grandfather's funeral I read a poem I had written for him. I don't know what ever happened to that poem. I know I burried it with him and I don't know that I've seen it since. I ended the poem saying "When we meet in heaven, I won't run ahead. Rather, I'll stand and watch you as you run to me instead." I felt so grateful that on the other side, my grandfather could walk once more. That's how much he seemed to miss his legs.

In my heart I know he is with me. He walks with me everyday. But today as I listen to the fiddle and feel myself transported back in time, I weep. I weep tears of mourning. I weep tears of love. The love a wee girl sitting on the arm of her grandfather's chair, enraptured by his music. I weep the tears of grown child, now 29 years old who misses her grandfather and his fiddle so.

My grandfather has been gone for 11 years now. I keep thinking one year I'll get over it. Guess it's not this year either.

Dido, in case you've forgotten, or if you never really knew, I want to tell you, I need to tell you: I love you.

I sure hope there are fiddles in heaven cause when I get there, the first thing I want to do is sit beside you-- I want to sit beside you and look upon you with loving eyes. And once again I will know rapture as you play your fiddle for me.

Barb