Editor’s Note: This is an ongoing series which runs each Thursday morning titled the Richland Chronicles by author Paul Lintern. It is set in 1831 and tells the story of Richland County through the eyes of a young girl.
“Amelia, child, play something for us on your fiddle,” said Uncle Jacob.
“It’s a violin,” Amelia replied.
She kept her voice respectful, even though he had insisted on calling it a fiddle, no matter how many times she corrected him. She didn’t know if he knew how that irritated her.
“Then play some fiddle music on that veeo-lin,” one of the guests called out. “Let’s hear a little ‘Skip to my Lou.’”
Amelia felt embarrassed, her face flush from such rough talk. This Oakland Inn held nothing that reminded her of the violin recitals she had played in the parlor of her parents’ home in Boston. Her home had smooth wooden floors, flowering wallpaper and lace curtains over large airy windows.
Amelia would play tunes by such great European composers as Vivaldi and Mozart. The audience, wearing beautiful suits and dresses, would sit politely, then gently applaud. Amelia would curtsey at the end of each song.
Here, the inn was dark, with only two small windows, a dirt floor and log walls. The tables were as plain as could be, no engraving, just flat boards nailed to straight legs. The chairs were a mismatched set of straightback designs, all competing to be least like the others. Some plates were wooden, some were ceramic.
The silverware looked like it had been trampled on by the last buffalo leaving Ohio for the west. There were several candle holders, each homemade and unique in its design.
While Amelia felt welcomed by the family, she felt out of place with the surroundings. Despite her best effort to accept it as it was, it still reminded Amelia of a jail, just without bars on the windows.
The candle gave just enough light to see the music. She didn’t need to see it to play, but she stared at it anyway, to avoid looking at the audience, which included about a dozen men and three women. Some were travelers while others were locals who came to dine on Peggy’s cuisine.
Amelia already sensed that Peggy fed the guests, and Jacob entertained them. Of course, Elizabeth was in the kitchen helping, and apparently Katherine helped at times, too, when needed.
Amelia had met Katherine’s 12-year-old son, Isaac, tonight. He and Autumn tended to the guests’ animals during the meal. She would eat with the children later, outside. Charles had just left yesterday morning, so he was still in Ohio, probably boarding a ship in Sandusky, but she already felt deep pangs of longing for Boston. She kept telling herself, it’s only three months. Everyone had been friendly, but they were always busy with the Inn.
She was used to being around adults when she was in Boston, but these adults were so different, so talkative and always working at something. Thank goodness for Autumn. They seemed just right for each other. Amelia wanted Autumn to know everything about the finer ways of Boston, but did not want to offend her by it. She also hoped that Autumn would teach her Ohio things that 10-year-olds here should know, without making fun of her in the process.
And now, here in this dark room, full of smelly travelers who probably didn’t know a piano from a penny whistle, Uncle Jacob wants me to be his trained monkey, performing in-between serving plates of beef and chicken, she thought. With a deep sigh, longing for something familiar, Amelia lifted her bow and began her song, a beautiful Mozart concerto. Amelia had loved that song ever since she first heard grandmother play it, before Amelia ever picked up a bow.
As Amelia played, the room changed. The dark log walls and small windows became bright and cheery, just like her home in Boston. The log benches became beautifully embroidered chairs, and the bearded men became elegant, clean-shaven, white-hosen, gold-knobbed cane-carrying gentlemen, seated over a beautiful wooden floor, on a flowerprinted European rug.
As Amelia played, with eyes closed, she could see the tall masted ships of Boston Harbor outside her windows, and she even noticed the old stone church that once held two lanterns in the steeple, warning Paul Revere that the British were coming.
Her melodies removed the strange smells, the funny clothes, the dark surroundings. She was back home. In fact, she did not even hear her notes duplicated on another violin, the same melody coming from behind her. Suddenly, she was aware of it. As she opened her eyes, she saw Uncle Jacob, playing his violin, his fiddle. She stopped for a moment, surprised, but he kept the melody going until she joined back in and quickly caught up. The two instruments played as one, and Mozart was heard from the harbor of Boston to the hills of Ohio.
When they finished, the small tavern erupted with applause — not the polite clapping of white-gloved hands, but the boisterous celebration of a grateful crowd, complete with shouts of “Huzzah” and “Bravo.” Amelia looked at the crowd, stunned, then laughed for joy. She looked at Uncle Jacob, who was applauding her.
“Well done, child,” Uncle Jacob said. He seemed to anticipate her question. “Your grandmother taught me to play, too,” he said, smiling. “And that was my favorite song of all.”
Suddenly, Amelia saw Ohio a little differently. Perhaps, it would not be such a long summer after all. As the crowd called for more, Uncle Jacob said, “Now, let’s give them a little ‘Skip to my Lou.’ Get ready with your violin.”
“It’s a fiddle, Uncle Jacob,” Amelia said. “For this song, it’s a fiddle.”
