The old violin was wrapped in plastic and slept in the musty window seat in a Grandmother’s dining room.  When unwrapped it revealed its hard life, covered in a coat of dried mud, pieces missing, brass peg box pitted with corrosion.  Pathetic as it was, it was still a connection to our family’s past.  One hundred to one hundred fifty years ago a forefather sat on a Southern porch and played Turkey in the Straw or Amazing Grace.  Now it was rescued from the dark box it was in.