when he tried to play Tommy Jarrell’s
fiddle. “You have to mash down,”
fiddle. “You have to mash down,”
said Tommy, who played up into
the 1980’s around
Galax, Virginia. He’d sit on an oak barrel,
say, or on a folding chair in the parking lot, and the sound
Galax, Virginia. He’d sit on an oak barrel,
say, or on a folding chair in the parking lot, and the sound
of his playing wafted far
beyond
his home in Carroll
County. Because he mashed down
his home in Carroll
County. Because he mashed down
with his bowing hand,
pressing out tunes like karo
syrup—that Round Peak sound
pressing out tunes like karo
syrup—that Round Peak sound
the copper kettle of the love I've found
(short of heaven, hearing the harvest rumble),
mashing down,
(short of heaven, hearing the harvest rumble),
mashing down,
trying to bend
Ulysses' bow
not getting the sound,
no matter how hard I mash down.
Ulysses' bow
not getting the sound,
no matter how hard I mash down.
