UNCLE SACK

The Flatulent Fiddler

Some folks find it hard to be themselves. They want to pretend they are somethin’ they are not. If you look around, you’ll notice that the happy people in this world learn to accept themselves for what they are, warts and all.

Here’s a little story about a fella I once met. It should serve to illustrate my point.

He was a simple man, and lived an honest, hard-workin' life. He was a blacksmith by trade, and a good one. He charged a fair price and his work always held together.

He was a good man, too. He helped his neighbors. He went to church real regular and paid his tithe. A fella who was down on his luck could always count on him for a helpin' hand. In hard times, half the town would end up owin' that kind-hearted blacksmith money ‘cause he'd always shoe a poor farmer's horse even if he knew darn well the fella couldn't pay.

In most respects, he was a common sort. There were only two things unusual about him. The first was that he was a fine fiddler. The other was that he was mighty full of gas.

He had been full of air his whole life and had never thought too much about it. His mama had died when he was young and he was raised by his pappy with two older brothers. Like all young kids, he and his brothers thought it was right funny when someone was to break wind.

But this young boy was exceptionally good at makin' that particular joke. Many a night he kept the whole family entertained with his squeaks and rumbles. At first, his pappy tried to tone him down a bit, but as time went by, the old man decided flatulence was part of his son's true nature. He taught the boy to excuse himself and go outside when in church or at the dinner table but otherwise he let him follow his own path.

The boy’s friends teased him about it a little at school but he was a big strong boy, well able to take care of himself in a schoolyard tussle, so the teasin' never got too hard. Besides, he was a right nice young fella. Once you got to know him, it was easier to accept his peculiarity than to criticize him and make him feel bad.

His pappy taught him to fiddle when he was young. Time went by. The better he got, the more people asked him to play at barn dances. By the time he was sixteen, he could make that fiddle sing like a mockin'bird or howl like a coyote.

To round out his act, he had a wide repertoire of gaseous expulsions which he was prone to usin' for comic relief, from high flute-like squeals to low rumbling barn burners. He even learned to control the sound a bit and could vary his commentary to the situation.

I never heard it myself but they say he could perform a passable Eyes of Texas. As a result of his social success, he became confident and well liked despite his smelly knack.

At any point, he was liable to let one fly. Eyes would widen and the room would clear. He'd throw back his head and laugh with delight. It happened all the time, so by the time he had finished his apprenticeship and opened his blacksmith shop, folks thought little about it. When he come up with a big gusher, they would just chuckle, move upwind, and go on with their conversation.

It went on like this for years until one day, a new fellar came to town. He was a scout for a radio station in Austin. Now in those days, radio was a big deal. It was the depression and times was hard. Folks used to gather almost ever night at the homes of the lucky few with radios, get the news and maybe listen to some bluegrass or swing music.

Well this fellar had heard about the town blacksmith and his fiddlin' and had come to see what the fuss was about.

Now, nobody had thought to mention to the radio man about the fiddler's flatulence. It was so much a part of their lives that they saw no point in it.

That talent scout watched him play the fiddle at a barn dance. He sat in the back and the music was loud so he never noticed the fiddler’s smelly accompaniment. Next thing you know, that ol’ blacksmith was booked on a radio show that was heard all over the State of Texas ever’ Saturday night.

Well let me tell you, that town was excited to have one of their own come into such fame. They didn’t exactly cart him around on their shoulders (for obvious reasons) but they was mighty proud.

Anyway, the day come that he was to play and he had a few butterflies. Up in Austin at the radio station, he sat in the waitin’ room fidgitin’ like a fresh bride on her weddin’ night. He was so nervous, his sphincter kind of froze up and kept him from his normal behavior.

Back at home, the whole town huddled around their radios, talking in hushed voices, waitin’ for their home boy’s set. At last the announcer introduced the “fiddlin’ blacksmith” and the whole town erupted in cheers.

His nerves gave him kind of a rough start, but once he settled into his breakdown, he relaxed and nigh tore that fiddle up. The music just kept gettin’ better and better ‘til folks all over the state were stompin’ and whoopin’ for the joy of it.

At the end of the third song, the blacksmith knew he had the crowd in his hand, and with a flourish, ended his set with one of his patented gushers. It started out low but ended with such a clatter that the folks clappin’ and cheerin’ in the studio stopped dead all of a sudden. The last several seconds of that long poot were heard all over the State of Texas. So was the blacksmith’s triumphant laugh. Then..., sudden silence. The embarrassed announcer stuttered something about a fault in the plumbing, a sad excuse that fooled nobody.

No sooner had they dragged our fiddler out of the control room than the station manager and that talent scout tore into the poor man, givin’ him such a dressin’ down that they had that musclebound blacksmith almost in tears. They said his act was “disgusting and coarse” and “not a fit show for women and children.”

He tried to explain that he made all the women and children in his home town laugh but they would hear none of it. They turned their backs to him in disgust and threw him out into the street.

He left Austin downcast and humiliated. It was supposed to have been his big chance but it had turned out to be the worst day of his life. When he got home, folks tried to congratulate him but he could do nothing but hang his head. The experience brought a sad thing into that simple man’s life...shame.

He decided that his flatulent nature was an evil thing and set out to drive the smelly devils away. He vowed that day that he would not pick up his fiddle again until he had driven the foul tempers from his body.

He swore off beans and cabbage and took to eatin’ plain food. He turned his nose up at spices. He started to clamp down on his natural gales, trying to drive them back into his system. This tended to give him stomach aches and leave him out of sorts. No matter what he tried, the foul tempests still escaped his righteous efforts. His normally sunny disposition became cloudy. His friends and neighbors began to worry as they saw their cheerful friend become ill-tempered and bitter. They would stop by and try to tempt him into picking up the fiddle or releasing one of his old stinking squalls.

He would shake his head and return to his work, barely taking notice as they left shaking their heads. It was a sad thing to see such a joyful man brought to ruin.

Then one day a telegram arrived. It was from that station manager in Austin. It turned out that radio show had been near covered up by letters from folks all over the state who was wantin’ to hear that “fartin’ fiddler” again. He was a hit!

That blacksmith didn’t know what to think. He used the telephone at the general store and called the radio station. The talent scout answered and apologized for bein’ so hard on him. He practically begged the blacksmith to ride up to Austin for the radio show to be broadcast that next Saturday night.

The only thing was, he said, the fiddler would have to control himself. They just couldn’t have any noxious utterances sent out on the airwaves. It was against FCC rules. He told the blacksmith that if he could keep that part of himself hidden, he could count on a regular payin’ gig on the radio show.

Well, you could have knocked that flatulent fiddler over with a straw. He just stood there with his mouth open. The proprietor of the general store overheard the conversation and before long, everbody in the town knew what had happened. They all clapped him on the back and encouraged him to go to the city and seek his fortune.

When Saturday rolled around, the blacksmith rode up to Austin still ponderin’ his fate. He was excited that so many folks liked his fiddlin’ but somethin’ deep down kept rumblin false and he was troubled.

He got to the radio station with an hour to spare. The station manager met him in the foyer with a cigar, a big apology and promises of fame and forture. He said the station had never before received the volumn of mail that had come requestin’ the “fartin’ fiddler.”

On the other hand, he explained, they really could not have another incident such as the one in the last show. Surely the fiddler understood that such emissions were private matters and could not be broadcast over the airwaves. He promised that if the fiddler could keep such comments to himself, he could have a regular job at the station. He named a figure the fiddler would be paid for each show that was more than that blacksmith made in six months.

Before he could catch his breath, they hustled him into the sound booth. He barely had time to get his fiddle out of the case when he heard the announcer’s voice on the studio monitors. “And now...back by popular demand, a fine musician who made quite a stir on our show a while back. We’ve had lots of cards and letters asking us to put him on again...and here he is, the fiddlin’ blacksmith!”

That poor man just stood there, struck dumb by the moment. His hands shook. He couldn’t seem to get the fiddle to fit up under his chin. The seconds ticked off one by one. The station manager began to sweat. After what seemed like forever, the announcer started to ramble on “...well, our boy is almost ready to start...you folks are gonna enjoy th...”

A long, sweet note filled the studio, followed by another. Suddenly the fiddler’s bow seemed to turn into a living thing. Crystal clear notes cascaded up and down the scale like a musical waterfall. The melodies that fiddle sang were unfamiliar, not a common song or backwood’s reel, not a bluegrass ditty or folk ballad. The music was something new, unlike anything anyone had ever heard before.

Years later, folks who were listening to that radio show were still arguin’ about what it sounded like. Some said it was like water from a mountain stream that laughed and gurgled as it ran. Some said the music rose like the rising sun and dove like a striking hawk. Some said they heard their mother’s voice calling them home. Some said it sent them to church that next Sunday.

Everyone in the radio station was standing around with their mouths open when that last, sweet note came to an end. The station manager sat just outside that glass booth and saw a little smile creeping onto the fiddler’s face. His eyes bugged out in horror ‘cause he knew what was coming.

The sound grew like the rumble of distant thunder. It built and built until it reverberated like a stampede of cattle, then faded away like the last strains of a trumpet voluntaire. Before the engineer could get the sound turned off in the booth, the smell had leaked out into the hall and you could hear radio station personnel howling like dogs at the moon.

The blacksmith went home that day with a big smile on his face. He never did make a career as a big-time musician but he died a happy man, loved and respected by the people he cared about the most...the people who accepted him for his true self.

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