My Little Fiddle

If you have read any of my stories you will know "Growing up in Ireland" can be hard, and now my brother the oldest had become Elvis, so he now had something, but I still had not found my place in life. My sister Frances who was the next youngest, was already as tall as me, smarter, better looking, and in my mothers eyes was a saint.
My two little sisters were still fighting for my fathers attention, which he gave them plenty of.
Even thought my name was Margaret I was never called that. I was called Sella why I am not sure, other than my confirmation name was Marcello and my brother pronounced that as Sella, so everyone just called me Sella. I didn’t even have a real name. I felt like I was just the black sheep, even though many days I loved it because I did not have to worry about failing anyone. A black sheep, is a black sheep.

Many time I would get to go spend time with my Grandmother & Grandfather. I loved being with them. I was their “Wee Lass”. Since I was the only child there I got all their attention. I didn't have to contend with my brother and sisters

Somehow one day I found it, something that made me! Where I found it I can not remember. I know I didn’t buy it because there was no money. It was “A Little Fiddle” and it had a clasp on it. I could pin it on my shirt! Since I wore the same shirt over and over I would have it with me every day. Now I was felling pretty good. I could look like a grown up!

My brother had Elvis, my one sister was a saint, my two younger sisters had my father. Now I had something too. My “Little Fiddle" maybe I could be something in life after all!

But then a very sad day came. I put on my shirt, but my little fiddle was gone. I felt so alone, I lost all my inner strength. I did not know how I would go through the day. I had grown to depend on my little fiddle. I looked and looked everywhere but no fiddle. I was alone with my thoughts again.
My brother was still Elvis and my sister Frances was still a Saint and my two little sisters were still fighting to win my father for the day.

I moved on from my little fiddle but had not forgotten it.
Then my sister Frances the saint’s school pictures came home . Can you believe it! There on her cardigan in her school picture was my little fiddle!
Now I was never a fighter at home, but I went after her not sure what I was going to do, but there was my mother with her secret weapon the broom. I ran for my life out of the house and that was the end of my little fiddle.


Many decades have passed since then and my sister has bought me a fiddle made out of gold, and a fiddle with diamonds in it, but there will never be a fiddle that will give me that inner strength that I got from that little fiddle at that time in my life.

So the moral to this story is “A saint can be sinner, and a sinners can be a saint”.

Since life is a story book I would like to give this story to my sister Frances who in my book truly is a saint, and my best friend!
"Live Your Best Life"