They swept out the barn, not once, but twice,
Hosed off the floor since it didn’t smell so nice,
Let it dry and spread sawdust here, there, everywhere,
Hung up paper chains and temporary lights so it didn’t look so bare.
Grandpa worried the strings trying to tune just so,
Testing out songs and notes from high to low,
He had been at many a gathering and certainly loved to play,
Even though Grandma didn’t think much of it and thought that he got carried away.
It started with one or two
Who walked up while the sky was still blue.
It carried on until there were twenty-six or twenty-seven
And the music and shouting carried all the way up to heaven.
Halfway into the night he played and called until he was hoarse,
After that they were content for him to just fiddle, of course.
He had to quit when his arms started to quiver and simply gave out,
Even though everyone’s souls were so full of song it made them still want to sing, dance, and shout.
I don’t care if it’s the truth, my mind still feels the lure,
Of his music and the dancing every time I look at this picture.
Grandpa fiddling in the sitting room in the house on the hill,
Keeping time by tapping and playing by will.
By Bob Tyler